The Worm

I have a worm, wriggling inside,
It is gray and cold,
Angry and old,
It doesn’t hurt, not really,
Actually it’s kind of numb,
Tingling and dumb.
It gnaws on my soul each day,
Bartering passion for safe dying,
Comfort and buying.
It whispers ugly things behind me,
Twists me in slithery knots,
Connecting invisible dots.
It smells, like old decay,
Somewhat like moldy bread,
I think I might be dead.
It throbs and pulses, dully,
I think it feels like pain,
I ignore it again.