Scream Holler Whoop from Pixabay

Slippery Slide Into Oblivion

Greg Prince
3 min readMar 9, 2019


A short tale of fright.


Delicate guarded secrets
Terrible shrieking indifference
See you scowling at the sun
Unseen eyes tell you to flee
Creeping voices send you warning
Shaken pealed and unsheathed
Disturbing delights return to peace
Arrest a problem
World blackens and flees.

Eating my brain, a caterpillar nipping away. The incessant feeding and chomping driving me insane. But, I want more.

Who is this knocking at my door?

Why should I answer?

Dripping from my blade, the crimson drops of my regret. The pounding and demanding, when will it stop? Standing there requiring my attention. Loathing is too light a term to express my distaste and agitation.

How does it select me? Am I some delicious target both weak and credulous? Oh, it drives me wild in rage and contempt! Seething and creeping anger flush blistering rashes of pimpled red splotches covering me.

Another damn solicitation. Wasting my time! Can’t they take a hint — leave me alone.

It’s just wrong. Invading my space. There is no privacy. The world is closing in. Where is the sanctity and recognition of individual? Is it lost?

I’m a roly-poly, a potato bug and I eat my own shit. Answering the door brings me out of my shell. Being a crustacean close to being shrimp or crayfish I prefer to scamper away.

The fresh meat stinks rotting inside my foyer. What will I do with this carcass? Bigger than me and leaking its life on my floor, an annoying embarrassment.

No time to deal with this mess. Wracking my thoughts on spending another moment inside puzzles concerning cleaning up after my rage. Have to find a way out.

Frittering away pauses and waiting for illumination.
Wildly imagining being caught.
Seconds pouring out like stinging vinegar in open cuts.
Seeing the gore revulses me yet I find sinister delight in its disgust.
I’m sick.
I’m flying.
I’m hurt destroyed.
It’s getting me off.
It’s burying me in my own contempt.
Loving the hurt.

The garage door is opening. They’re home too early. They’ll see. Oh no!
My mistake covering me in shame.
A blanket of…



Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.