Squirrels in my Brains! D:

This is an old poem by a friend.
She HATES it. HATES it.
So enjoy!!!
I found this on my PC today. I left a note that this was, apparently, all about God.
I can hardly remember writing it. Clearly, I was going through some sort of spiritual crisis. Or a Sylvia Plath phase. I don't know. I stopped writing poetry a long time ago. This is probably from ... 2003 I think? I'm frigging terrified.

---

The squirrel looks at me,

Beady red eyes flicker, plastic and emotionless

Wood veneer finish as perfect as any inhuman angel,

Sculpted by a man's hand, smooth, unyielding.

Or perhaps a woman, or some starving pot bellied child, who can tell,

Or the godlike hand of machine.

Oh sweet rodent!

Oh what a dubious pleasure is this,

To sit and converse with something perverse,

Something as dead as this.

The gaping maw of funereal ebony resides behind him and his little nose,

And his little nose, his little nose.

A bleeding white spot dissolves,

And for a moment, he seems to twitch and writhe,

As I ponder my existence, something that has come to this.

He is not real,

I reason to myself, and my thoughts echo about in my lofty head.

To be alone, a concept so unlike the others I consider,

As I drag my heavy, burdened carcass up the stairs of life.

The squirrel is not there for me, he does not care.

He may as well be carved from the flesh of the horde who do not notice me,

And the effect would be no different.

Untidy soul, in disarray, scraping at the floor with clotted fingernails,

Holding ground, but never moving forward, and always knowing that I'll slip.

Chatter, chatter, chatter, they will make a noise like the squirrel (If he were real,)

They poke my gray body, so cold, slab like, laid out on a table,

like they would display a buffet, trembling before mass consumption,

How very pretty, how very vulgar.

And he does not care, he does not even observe, as they slip me into my cocoon,

And they pull up the zip.

Do not pray, do not pray,

Just understand, and know, know him well.

The squirrel is only concerned with sorting his acorns for the long winter,

How they ripened and fell from grace, so far from his tree, is of little consequence.

If he were real, he still would not pay heed.

After all, when a tree falls, there's always more seed.

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