am i the only one who finds this poem a bit creepy?
*****

Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today
I wish that man would go away.

Hugh Means (1875 – 1965)

it
*****

the slumbering mass
shows no sign of life
and the people continue on
content in their ignorance

but this ageless demon
finds no rest in its sleep
and its name being invoked
it awakens with a rage

its appetite for destruction
seemingly insatiable
it tears down everything in its path
and tears down a part of himself

so full of hate is it
it eventually wears himself out
until it collapses once again
into the helpless mass it was before

and the people rebuild
and eventually they forget
and they continue on
content in their ignorance

the scab
*****

the scab sits patiently
knowing it will be picked
what else are scabs for
but to be picked

pick, pick, pick
until finally
the wound reveals itself
once more

it is as red
and as raw
as it was
when it first marked your body

you poke and prod
and squeeze
to get that
pleasureful pain

drip, drip, drip
and you focus on the pain
you relish it
it becomes all you know

you lose yourself
in a sea of ecstasy
and agony
until you can take no more

in tears
you finally leave it be
so another scab can form
ready to be picked again