Can You Hear Them In the Walls?

Their scratchy, crawly hands?
The one whose dirty fingernails grow so long,
Clawing all along the baseboard to ceiling,
Screeching, then stopping, then louder still?

I just simply cannot take it anymore,
There is an ugliness that stinks in the wall,
Breathing, hissing, puffing snorts, 
All told, a monstrous hell in there!

Ripping, gouging, relentless whacking,
Wheezing, sneezing, grunting, 
Acrid moans, burnt cinder breath,
Yellow slime by the bucketfull.

Staining the perfect wallpaper here, now,
First on one side, then the other,
Sinking a cocooned poison deep, 
Deep as red skies on the way to burning hell.

My bulldozer cometh and smashes it down,
It winds up in a rotten ball of exhaust,
Taking with it all it’s nasty embellishments,
It is a filthy, sleazy, worthless loser who dies.

Can you hear them in the walls?
There are many more of them you know?
You may kill one now and then,
Just remember, they grow.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.