The Cockroach Poet

I saw him wandering through this place I call ‘my’ home.

I asked him, ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

I told him, ‘you are ugly, filthy, filled with disease.’

He challenged me with his questioning, while scurrying

About, inside and out of the dishes in my sink,

The leftover food, the grime, and the stink.

‘Excuse me, I don’t mean to intrude,’ he said, ‘I am just like you,

trying to find happiness inside here too,

this mess you call “your” home,

Where else would I roam?’

He asked, scurrying away from the might of my hand

And my incessant demands, making his stand,

While darting in and out, scampering about,

Tiny antennas quivering, little legs scrambling

For safety as he fled, ‘asking, what is beauty?

What is ugly, and who is to be the judge?

Of this grudge between me and you?

Forgive me for being such a little fool.’

I crushed him with the might of my hand,

Snuffing the little life right out of him,

The juice of his tiny body staining me,

That ugly filthy bug, torturing me,

Causing me to wonder, ‘what is the meaning of life?’

‘And how am I to survive?’

‘While killing this place I call home.’

I am not perfect I hope you know.

If you don’t then I ask for your forgiveness.

I am merely seeking a way out of this mess

That I find myself in, losing myself,

finding myself, just to lose myself again.

It is this attempt to find harmony which is the essence

Within the existence of this poetry,

Flowing inside and outside of me.  

And I don’t have the answer, except to accept

Myself for being such a fool.

I just hope that you can accept me too.


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ailil
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