The Thing

It is, and it isn't,
this thing that hangs above my bed,
this thing that feels guilt-ridden,
that thingifies and edifies,
it slowly sustains the thing it calls to mind.

The thing is the fact of the matter.
The thing is what it is and always is,
and that's how it makes a sound,
like water hitting tin hitting things,

a thud, heavy and leaking.

It is, and inserts itself into others word,
like that or it, like this or stuff, 
an object that casts no shadow, that, slow-moving,
runs itself along my thoughts, evading.
It likes to think of itself, it likes to refer to itself
It likes and it takes, until enough of it
Rakes across my brain.

It is what it is, shapeshifting organic matter,
that hugs meaning and does nothing to it,
it, the thing, feels stronger than me, more real than me,
like it supplants the need for me.