A thorn in my side
Come hither, mother
Won't you care to see?
The flailing spectacle that has become of me
And once may be lies
twice must be surmised,
But a third time, misfortune,
That I wake up oft, and now yet again
With a tinge of something ominous lurking around my neck,
Or was it my throat?
I couldn't discern,
I fought and struggled and writhed against it,
Yet it only grew as the hours bided,
Growing into a jostling, and then by and by,
Into a vengeful rascal trying to beat down my door,
And spy as hard as I may,
I couldn't detect who tightened the feral noose that sliced into my neck,
Wretched and frantic, I incised
Like blades of grass on my skin,
In a bid to stifle the wild throbbing
or pry it out from within,
Failing that, I called upon,
mother dearest with my turmoil,
She brushed it off but was more distraught at the horrid marks on me,
How could I, she asked wide eyed,
Make a spectacle so grotesque?
"Do you even care?" she demanded to know,
"Do you even care for all years of our lives we burnt on you to be raised?
To have the perfect grades and the perfect smile, all the things we've kept well framed?"
She waited a few moments then,
And retort I could naught,
For the silence of her pause
Was in keeping with her white hot rage meant to clobber me
Afore she further badgered me,
And by this time, my head feeling split asunder,
I cried and choked, to no reprieve still,
I smashed my window to smithereens, and jumped out,
Landing amongst a most dismal crowd,
Walking the dismal street, along the dismal buildings, into the dismal fog,
I met red people, and then yellow ones, then some blue,
Can you tell me, pray?
What plagues me in such hideous ways?
I cried and yelled till they all took note,
Thus came the reds, and yellows and the blues,
"Gross", they shrieked, to my dismay,
Clicked their tongues,shook their heads and turned away.
"It's the worm", declared a handsome man,
Coloured curiously black,
"And you must rid it off you."
And he sat me at the dismal bank of a dismal river overlooking a dismal horizon,
Offering me a pen and paper, he said to me,
"You must write down what you know of your colour, only then will you find your worm gone."
"But I don't know!", it dawned on me then,
I'd forgotten which one of the shades I was,
In all this "hue" and cry,
I could not find a suitable shade to match,
As much as I tried,
He laughed rather unkindly,
And put a hand on me,
"Go home", he said,
"Go home and find what colour you were made to be,
Unless you can find your own, none of us can see",
Still laughing the same raucous laugh, dissolving in the dismal fog, spiralling into nothing,
Along with everyone around me,
I made my way back home in haste,
And looked into the mirror,
Prying out with my eyes every snippet of colour I could find,
Come hither mother, can you see?
all but an empty grey carcass,
Bereft of skin,
Bits of grey flesh and sinew
hanging by the grey bones
and the worm,
Slithering out, slithering away from me,
Come hither, mother can you see?
The eldritch smile so oft you wear,
now hanging by its lips.