Monsters
They’re scary
Some are in the closet
Some are under the bed
But you want to know a secret?
The scariest monsters
Are in our heads

The little child afraid of ghosts, ghouls and things that go bump in the night,
could never fathom being haunted by someone that is still alive.               The kid who hid behind his mother’s arm,
now stays awake at night dreaming of being in another’s arms.
The toddler who used to laugh all day,
searches online for reasons to stay alive .
The infant with the starry eyes and dreamy smile,
has forgotten what a laugh feels like.
The teenager who loved haunted houses and scary movies nights,
now cries herself to bed over lover boy.
How odd it is to be haunted by someone that is still alive.

*** with the stranger
In a dark night
You feel
the unknown hand
the coldness of an unknown bed

Warm body
Heavy breaths
Dry lips
Approaching
To be held
To be kissed
To be felt

Trembling with joy of love
Yet the fear of unknown

Lips felt
Breaths synched
Warmth shared

Bodies celebrated
Clutched in comfort of
*** with the stranger

Eyes locked
Bodies wrapped
Hands held
Sereneness took over fear
Trembling body became calm
Unknown became known
*** became love

The night has the power
The energy to absorb, its dark
The absence of light makes it dark
To liberate and put off the fears
The light has the power, switch it on
Tuned to light, the vision in the dark, at loss
So the dark has the power over the light
It takes away all, makes things invisible
Don’t be afraid
It is the light within that guides, the vision
To switch off or switch on
Discretion lies with the mind

✨✨

There's an age old story. A tale as old as time.
A feeling I can't quite muster, a voice that's not quite mine.

I've grown a lot this year, felt a lot this year, slept a lot this year, ****** a lot this year. Needless to say....it's been one hell of a 365 days.

This poem is a  stray from tradition, it lacks rhythm, flow, but ******* it it's written of my own volition.

I've earned that right, finally making my voice heard, learning how to fight. I've lost a battle or two, don't get me wrong.

But I still raise my head, every round for the gong. I get back up, throwing punches until I see stars.

Fighting with mad love and ambition, even if it kills my heart.

What's more important? A sane mind or a sense of place? What's scarier? Losing yourself or fighting demons you can't face?

There's a lack of attention that consumes my thoughts. There's feelings of self hatred, despite finally being on top.

That's the funny thing about thinking you've made it. The only person you have to best is yourself. The only person you have to let down, is every single person you've every helped.

That's the fear for me. Never finding happiness. Enough never really being enough.

Time being an illusion that slips away and before I know it, my legacy is just a disillusion.

I've had this dream on repeat. I'm lying in a casket, looking ghastly in defeat. Death and I have become one, finally giving that ever so cherished encore to a dance we've swung too many times before.

It's lonely here in the dark. Colder than I thought. Sweeter than I imagined.

Peaceful....yeah, peaceful.

Fear comes a walking,
Not clothed in black, or in plain clothes
but in style...passionate and powerful.
it is in the ordinary disguise that our
senses are thrown and we are caught off-guard
taking it's delicious offers to heart, ceaselessly.
It is easy to spot, but difficult to discern
And if left, will amass a great wealth of its own.

Stretching an arm to his bedside table,
he clasps an object with his hand.
He raises it up, and with a click of a button
a source of light forces his pupils to constrict.
The light in the form of his cellphone screen read:

                        4:17 A.M.
                   Friday, May 13

On the bottom half of the screen was nothing (0 new text messages) but a picture of three smiling figures in a foreign land.
And in one swift motion he flicks his wrist—
the phone makes a thud, ten feet away.
There was no use for it
when hundreds of his texts and calls were answered by the wind.

It may or may not have been four days since the incident that caused water from a faucet to seep through his eyes. His face now pressed against a blanket,
a scream pierces through the four corners of the bedroom.

The faucet water now found its way to his lungs
as he huffed and puffed. And huffed. And puffed.
As to what happened to his parents, he neither knew nor hoped to know.

4:19 A.M. It’s once again time to try counting sheep.