Part of the art of writing poetry is the ability to put yourself in the position of others or to create a believable fantasy world. Poetry is sometimes the purest form of expression of the inner mind. Sleep well.
The shadows hide things.
Malevolences who loom at the edges of my sleep.
As I start to sink into the marshmallow quicksand of my bed
they huddle, a gaggle of threats in the corners of the room, plotting.
They know me. They know the real me.
The me that runs away from trouble.
The me that’s scared of everything.
Overspending me, lying me, cheating, crying me.
I am deafened as they bang the drum of my heartbeat,
a roaring, storming crashing sea of a pulse in my ears,
beating, beating, beating, beating.
The night terrors whirl slowly in from
the menacing giant squid-ink black abyss
of my bed-time sight. Their voices whisper
to me; “bereft, bereaved, bequeathed: the pain”.
They creep their fingers into my mind
and squeeze out the happy thoughts;
“make way, make way for the doubts,
clear out, clear out for the fears”.
I shake my head, desparation shake,
writhe to loosen their grip on me.
Swhirling spirits, they gather themselves
together, form into something dirty, something from
the precipice pit come to feed on the sap of my soul;
“we will riddle you, we will rack you”
the zepherous whisper as I burn in their hell.
“Money, money, money”, there’s the taunt.
I’m forcing myself to think of beaches
and sunshine, deep breaths, deep breaths, but
they’re pulling at my tortured twitching legs again;
“we have you”, the pain, the pain, the pain.