Draft 2...meta poem

The prompt for this draft was to write what your poem is like. I was not loving poetry at this time...

My poem, a dung beetle,
prefers warmth and shit.
It wanders, lead by smell,
finding and rolling dung 
into a ball. Trailing behind in brood
balls of shit, my larvae poem buries
further and further.

One day it followed me home,
surprising because, my larvae poem
should prefer herbivores. I am not.
Climbing into bed with me.
Snuggling in the crook of my elbow,
the 92 degrees in 65 degrees.

Go away! I shout and fall
off the bed, it stares
uncomprehending. Since they
don't have ears. And wouldn't listen
if it could. My scarab prefers itself.

In the morning I fastened a net
of rope and paperclips, held together
by chewed DoubleMint. Stringing
it along the mattress, waiting 
for it to climb down.

Yet, to this day,
I still curl into a brood ball
on the itchy-carpeted floor.