Oh,
staple of stable households.
Your stuffed foam insides
are like squid-infested skies.
Every adjustment taken
is a reset on the timer
of your absolute comfort.
Oh,
couch.
When I’m not sitting on you
I turn into a grouch.
A pit of pestilence.
A beautifully tattooed flesh pouch.
And when I'm on you,
I never want to leave,
to the point where,
my demons start to grieve.
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