A poem about chickens

Is this a chicken conspiracy?
Sleeping soundly sounds impossibly
preposterous, sending me sliding steeply into lunacy.

Like pawns placed perfectly
around the perimeter perniciously
forming a feather flapping filibuster
preventing me from dreamily freely floating far from reality

Tossing my torso to and fro
'til the tumultuous throaty torture tips me too far
flipping, flying, frustrated
further towards the floor in a furious fixated fervor
fearing finally my mind to me must meticulously muster energy to main my enemy
maliciously.

But honestly, can it really be
that the enemy with a brain like a pea has it in for me?
Or is it me and my conspiracy theory convincing me subconsciously
of an imaginary chicken wake-up spree.

I hate chickens.