I miss the monster under my bed,
My confidant, my best friend.
I miss the loud tapping on the floor,
The banging doors in an empty home.

I miss the peaceful sleep,
In the haunted home,
Where curtains moved,
Without the help of the wind.

I miss the fear of senseless things,
The haunting beats that made me sing.
I miss the irrational fears and frights,
The ghosts in sheets that I seek to find.

For now my fears don't go away,
With just the cover of the sheets.
The beasts are real and hauntingly so,
They dare to even call you on the phone.

They live on mails and in machines,
Manifesting into unrealistic realities.
In timelines and deadlines and charts of sorts,
The monsters sometimes take human forms.

They sympathise and empathise,
And sometimes even shed a tear.
They tell you how to live your life,
And **** you with every word.

I miss the monster under my bed,
My confidant, my best friend.

he looked at her
with distant eyes
his past flame
iridescent and loving
him just dying for her heat
still,
if she only knew
for monkeys fall now
on his life
swinging on his sorrow
those sneaks
his eyes stare at the moon
and his lips murmur why
to all the men out there
laughing, why?
for whispers heard now
for
she plays the fiddle
lone bed groans same song and dance
soloist's  bow squeaks
how swell life turns
on bated axis
he finds a wall
and knocks his head into it
it hurts
not at her independence
and playing to her own beat
no ...
for all the men out there
facing, facing
closed doors

Logan Robertson
7/20/17