They bite my toes. Those damn mosquitoes. Siphoned out. As if from a spout. Irritating my capillaries. As if feasting on berries. I don't know anyone who likes mosquitoes. Even the pastors and priests hate those. I really wish they could be eradicated. Or at least get us vaccinated. When I hear them I know, without biting, they won't go. That annoying buzzing sound. Creating anxiety all around. Those finicky suckers have a preference. So please don't give them my reference. Because somehow, just somehow, I seem to be the one they pick. Even in a large group, Like a buffet feast of blood soup. They still end up picking me. And land those proboscis on my body. Maybe my blood is just too sweet. Or maybe it's bitter, and that's what they like to eat. Apparently, they are attracted to pheromones, My distinct body scent to their fraternity is…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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