Tell me,
is it just a dream
made up of tears?
Because I always feared
somebody’s watching me.
I’m just an average man,
working an average
nine to five.
When I come home
at dead of night,
I bolt the door real tight.
Dark figures,
crawling beneath my skin.
A million eyes burning,
lurking in the long,
black void of midnight.
Walls clawed
like sharp knives
by hungry hands.
A horror scene
of the Truman Show,
rotting in my own home.
I always feel like
somebody’s watching me.
Not friends.
Not neighbors.
Not the mailman,
the IRS or the law.
But fifteen missing bodies
I take time to bury.
Faces flicker in static,
the TV hiss—
Their names bleed
all over news channels.
Behind mildew walls
decorated in the
smell of decay.
Floorboards
creaking like bones.
Beneath me,
there are deep secrets
twisting and turning.
Lost voices whisper,
and colorless eyes
of the uncanny,
staring, following,
stretching unnaturally
at dead of night.
Hell, I’ve paid the price—
Everybody’s watching me.