Denver McCoy was always at war
With the books and the junk on his shelf
The furniture, the clothing, the food, everything
He was always at war with himself.
Some nights he would scream
As if stuck in a dream
While he endlessly cleaned off his hands
Despite how he tried, he could not pull aside
Giving in to his body’s demands.
Again and again, he’d open the door
And, time after time, he would find
He never had gone and he cursed it all on
His obsessive compulsive design.
A contest entry
- Give Me Anything (PW Allowed) by swimmeroks.
900 points, ended January 6, 108 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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