A poem I wrote for a Survivor game I’m playing. I had to write a “macabre” poem in 30 minutes or less.


The mosquito burrowed deep in me, replacing blood with bile;
I woke up, irritated, and it flew off with a smile.
The itch came quickly, though I tried to sleep, my arm did ache;
Sleeping pills and rum took flight, I couldn’t stay awake.

When morning came, my itch was worse. I hacked, I coughed, I spat.
Dehydration sapped my strength and kept me where I sat.
Mr. Griggs – my kindly mailman – knocked upon my door;
I fought to make it over, and I fell upon the floor.

“Stephen!” Griggs called out to me, “You need to see a nurse!”
“It’s terrible,” I said, “I more than likely need a hearse.”
He brought his hand down to my head to ease and calm my fright;
I saw blood pumping through his veins and dared to take a bite.

Griggs called out. I muffled him and drank my sanguine treat.
I snapped his neck and tore him up, while sure to save the meat.
The blood gave me the strength to face the day and get outside;
I showered, shaved, put on my tie, and waited for my ride.

“Hop in!” yelled Peggy Sue to me, “I think we’re running late!”
“Kept you waiting – sorry – must have been something I ate.”
I pulled in to work ten minutes later, driving Peggy’s car,
I’d made the whole trip safely, but Peggy hadn’t gotten far.

I wiped the blood from off my lips and calmly stepped on in.
Mosquito thirst consumed me; I felt happy in this skin.
From receptionist to CEO I slayed, I drank, I fed;
At ten o’clock I punched the time card (everyone was dead).

My aimless wandering took me to a sad and empty park.
I sat out by the river with my kind until the dark.
Mosquitoes wouldn’t bother me; they smiled at me instead.
I let the calm surround me, soothing music in my head.

I woke up face to face with yet more company – a man.
I said, “Hello, I’m Stephen,” and he said “Good day. I’m Stan.”
I sniffed him. This was danger. He was not the usual kind.
I looked into his eyes. He looked right past me – he was blind.

I shot up to my feet and ran – he caught me – dropped me flat.
The last words that I heard were “Yes, mosquito, I’m a bat.”
And as he drank my blood, I figured hey, this isn’t wrong.
The average male mosquito simply doesn’t live that long.