Criticism

Naked I stand on a cold gray cement slab,
feeling the irritation
from the cracks of paint,
under my two feet.

Like drinking soured milk,
the curdled clumps
just wont go down my throat,
gagging as they pass my tongue.

My stomach churns and tightens
forcing the bile upwards.
Hairs stand erect on my neck,
feeling each one against my tight collard shirt.

Veins swell and pulse
from my temple on the side of my head.
With tunnel vision I stare
at the black, blank TV screen.

Copyright © 2007 Ronald J. Edwards