Flea: A poem

For years I walked with disgust,
My eyes oozed the pus of the dead
ants that died when I closed them the last night
Now the relatives of the dead still crawling
My ears itched inside where my nails did't reach
Tiny drones flapping the wings and retching

I saw shining skins walking
Then saw mine with volcanic cracks
No bugs flew out when they smiled
Their tongues were no homes for worms
The tidy humans knew the end
I was yet to get acquainted with the start
Visibly disappeared, I, envied
The flea-ridden hearts.

Magnetic paper with eight digits on it
For a flea of my brain, sir.
Got chased from door to door
Snaps and selfies and signatures
Oh lord! What did I stir?

I hear droning inside my ears, I shouted
Better than Mozart, sir!
I see ants in my vision.
Could've been Da Vinci's trick, sir!
Oh, I'm beaten, bleary! Wish, I could die...
Oh, so poetic, sir!

Here's your shining skin...
Polished smile...
Why couldn't I see it so clear?
Heart-ridden not flea-ridden hearts
Tidy humans are fleas for an unknown cart.

Thank you for reading my poem. It speaks of pain, the ignorant world that spins around us, and the perpetual fight that goes on inside all of us.