I am the moon monster.
I hide under the bags in your eyes,
Holding them at gunpoint,
Threatening them
To close.

The pillow and bed like food and water,
I deny and deprive
You of your daily intake.

A paper on the film industry under communism
Steals an hour
For every
Word
Counted.

Crave sleep with your soul,
Smell the decadent cool
Crisp
Comforting
Cocky in their perfect folding,
Sheets.

I watch them mock you,
And in their creases,
I hide a smile.

Drooping faces
Wishing you were sinking into
A bed
Rather than
Into a frown.

The clock ticks like the cogs
Working in your cranium
Late night carnivores
Mouth watering
Like melting Neptune’s blue hue.
Stripping your need
Bone-licking naked.

I hear an audio recording of my mother,
“What are you doing up so late?”
Her response echoing
In the craters of the moon.

How many late-night papers
Will I feed the beast?
One for every late night
Rogue,
Feasting on the starlight,
Making wings from the feathers
Of their pillows.

Dip your cookies into the milky way,
Sweet temptation,
You cannot get enough.

For every stressor,
We find a rebel.

Who finds a friend
In the void,
Calling
Every night
To make sure
He is ok.

Gluing their wings together with
The power of supernovas
And plasma,
“Icarus, the stars cannot hurt you here.”

I am not the moon monster to them,
I am the feathered friend.
That turns into an alarm clock
The next day.

Because for every pleasure there is pain.
And for the night there is a price.

You must make strangers with the day,
Suffering through sleepy temptations
That Mr. Smith refuses to acknowledge.

You can hear drunk wavelengths
Calling on you to answer
What the ***** of x=3 is,
Your answer
Remains undefined.

Slip stuttering conversations
To friends at lunch
Under the door
And you will be allowed to sleep
No longer.

Your grades will suffer,
Your parents,
As scornful as the sun.

But Icarus,
Do not fly near it.

Wait till I come.
Your moon monster
Will feather you, friend.
And you will be free,
Once again.