Young Spiders

I, the prey, lie helplessly on the plastic bed,
Through weary eyes, tinted a shade of red,
Watching over my chest as it rises and falls,
Watching spiders sneaking slowly on the walls,
Creeping, creepy eyes with violating inspections,
Keep me breathing and calm with grating injections.
Cold venom coursing along my veins,
Paralyzing, holding me in chains,
I shriek,
I shout,
But not a sound sneaks out.

The hollow webs of spiders corrupt the room and pierce my form.
I’m hearing clicking, buzzing, whizzing, like a storm.
Blinking, flashing lights surround my room,
Caging me, keeping me entombed,
Forced to suffer silently, weakened and in pain.
The spiders working tirelessly; I can’t be in vain.
I suffer quietly on the sterile, plastic bed,
With by-the-second ticking I’ve come to dread.
We’re born,
We die,
The spiders are torn on why.

The room blurs with action, as if there’s stakes.
I’m living and I’m breathing, but it’s fake.
There’s wrinkles on my face of smile and scorn,
But every single smile of mine’s been worn.
I lie here sickly, but I’m not dying, I’ve already gone,
But I find it hard to sleep with all of these lights on.
The way the spiders prick and bite’s invasive,
And finally to rest seems quite persuasive.
I wait
To die,
But the young are great and shy.