What it Feels Like

I have killed my mother
and hidden her body under the stairs;
I write poetry.
I write it for hours.

I suck slime from snails;
I walk naked under my clothes;
I write poetry
and read it for hours.

I frighten new-born babies;
I eat bogies till I'm sick.
I write poetry -
sometimes very quick.

I knock children off their bikes;
I make bangles with pubic hair.
I write poetry
and read it for hours.

I cut up old ladies;
I steal eye-balls and keep them in jars.
I write poetry
for hours and hours.

Helena Nelson

If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear from you.