OCD, it isn’t me: a poem

Whisper, whisper, you little streams

of Conscience inside my dreams

Am I alive or is this nothingness?

A dread of life to plague the mess

Of futile thoughts, of racing games

The mind is clever, Queen of shames

Guilt me this, guilt me that,

Beguile the whispers of fruitful crap

OCD, you are not me, yet knotted beneath

I feel your disease, unhelpful heap-

Lost minutes, hours, streams of tears

A broken mind rots hearts with spears

Dagger me this, dagger me that,

Clinging to the droppings of the rat,
Fat and full, gnawing more,

OCD, the whore, champion of gore,

Violent thoughts, intrusive floods

Do you this, do you that? Shoulds and shoulds!

Riddle me this, riddle me that,

Inside my head there’s a big ‘ole crack

Monsters peer when silence peaks

Sniffing the air for our Innocence reeks

A sweet smell to OCD’s lure- Enough!

I’ve had it with your talk, your tough

Read me this, read me now!

I study, I learn, I’m better than Thou,

I untangle the maddening piece by piece

Into the dust, my timid beast,

In the shadows you sit and wait…

But I am ready, you shall abate


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