I never really believed in miracles and the power of karma.
I get weak when told that bodies don't need to heal.
I've got it all figured out.
In an effort to get them off my back, I run.
I'm a cryptid with a troubled past and a string of insecure teeth
who throws massive hands up in the air at the first hint of a sound in the woods.
Well, I want you to look in my dark eyes when I say, to you,
“Let me tell you 'bout
poets with big feet
and saints with big feet
and saviors with big feet.
The hunters want my life.
I've escaped them all.
The gurgles of Death suffuse the background.”
I'm a cryptid with a troubled past and a string of insecure teeth
who throws massive hands up in the air at the first hint of a sound in the woods.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
Jason Preu 
😅👏 glad to see new preu poetry
LikeLiked by 1 person
🙏happy thanksgiving
LikeLiked by 1 person
you too 🙏😊
LikeLike
I love this whole poem, especially the two lines you repeat at the end. They say so much and make me think of Frankenstein, terrifying to look at yet a lost, frightened entity underneath, afraid of every little sound. The “insecure teeth” bit makes me think of no roots or family (as teeth symbolise family in dreams, I don’t know if you were alluding to that).
What about poets with small feet and small hands? Do you run from them too? 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ha! I don’t run from any poet! 😉 But this poem’s Bigfoot might hightail it from anyone wielding a pen and a penchant for breaking lines in unexpected ways.
LikeLiked by 1 person