by Branson Neuman
What is that? A sort of creeping… It's a haunting, Somber, Feeling. It's a creeping, crawling, Teething, closely down my spinal chord. I keep feeling nauseous feelings. Like I've left the oven heating. Paranoia. Look behind you! There is no one there beside you. Fighting just to stay alive you Walk from prison wall to wall. Looking up in space I'm pacing Trying to run from ever facing, All my crimes Await with baited breath they shake with hesitation. Blatant anticipation. Anxious Huffing on your neck. Puffing Breathing getting labored. What could that be in the sable?! Mangy fur God painted pitch! Praying that this case is just an isolated incident. I think I've made it! Fooled em. Freedom!!! But I still, I STILL feel teething at my spinal chord the breathing, Of a fiend I called my friend. I thought I beat the case?! Authorities report his pleadings. They tell me of his cries. They preach to me his innocence. But I was there, we did the crime. So how is he found ignorant? A passerby. A witness. So how is he so innocent?! Now I must do the time. Worry not, The only thing I fear is
that constant teething! There it is! That constant gnawing! Constant chewing on my mind. Constant chewing on my brain stem Til the fluid rushes out! Tears are spewing! God in Heaven! If by chance, you are always listening?! Send a distant glistening glint, For in the pitch it's fur is bristling.
In the cell, Fur matted black. Turn on the lights, So I may see him! Piercing through the April evening, Seems my enemy's a