They think they see me all these
people, in this desperate town,
that write about me every day
on gray paper that melts away
when it gets rained on.

I bit open a deer skull
on a bike path and the crunch
rang out so loud
it made some people scream
while at their picnic table
all the flies around stuck
sickly to their food.

I don’t help people anymore,
not after that last kid I carried back
got picked up by the feds
the moment he told his friends
how he really got home.

The fans have never bothered me,
I like them, and the passion in their search.
It makes me sad sometimes,
when I’m watching them
since I know they’ll never find me
because inside me there’s a monster
they are dying for.

I don’t know when they’ll be ready or
if they’ll ever be, but when I let them see
I’m sure they’ll try to hunt me down
for questions at the very least,
and it’s been so long since I’ve said anything,
I get so worried I’ll look stupid for the cameras.

One thought on “Bigfoot

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