Couch Potato

A weird poem

The voices said;

“Write an ode to glorify your lover,

The one who won’t let you see another.

Speak his tales like the ones told at moonlight,

Or like the exposition of an art work at a museum.

Refuse to say his name though, for they would judge you and your choice.

Your choice of a lover is not the best after all.”

Continuing, like they spat thorns as saliva on my face, they said;

“We see he taught you well.

To love the couch like you’d love your life.

To see no difference between yourself and a sloth.

Rather, to boast in your previous deeds and keep your head held high.

High in your past glories.”

I cannot stand the voices in my head.

They hunt me even when I haven’t hurt anyone.

They thrust spikes of truth in me, unprovoked.

They repeat the same things every time I lay on my couch to rest.

“Get up you couch potato, there’s still a lot ahead.”

The shame I feel to say just this one thing.

To tell who my lover is or what his name is,

Hounds me now and e’ermore.

I guess if I say it now, the relief would come rushing down.

I won’t be the Couch Potato anymore, maybe.

My lover’s name is Laziness.

The one who can’t see me go out to catch a prey.

Whose eyes can’t watch me love like normal people do.

Whose consistency has done its subtle doom on my vision.

Whose words I cannot get out of my head.