Feral mood swings give the elastic momentum to soar from the dark dredges,
As it was previously unthinkable.
From the glorious misanthropic lows, to a euphoric revelry or youth.

These golden days are replete with vicious change,
The growth plates of potential prosperity ease close with a snide unforgiving sentiment.
The bright orifices of the sky plunge into obscurity,
Only the imprints leave us dazzled, thinking the dream still holds an office.

But the endless chapters are truncated,
until the only thing left is the devil's ****, or his charity.
Bubbling youth to grim compliance.

Growing up
we were all frightened
with "monsters" &
goblins that kept our energy
heightened
fear of the dark
& of things unseen
but what lay ahead
was far more obscene
bodies intertwined with
meaningless ***
fear of love
and commitment
was the apex
seductive hellos
& deceitful goodbyes
stuck in the middle
of ***** sheets
with all the pain & lies
fears are compromised

She creeps over my pillow like a
Black cat over a field mouse.

She steals my breathe as if she
Were a masked theif.

She makes me scream like a
Mother in labor.

She sends me night terrors as if she
Is a shattered mirror in my mind.

She pulls at my droopy eyes like a
Hand of terror in the darkness.

She frightens me as if she
Is certain the painful nights will never end.

She flees when the light arises like a
Prisoner escaping their cell.

She is a horrible dream that keeps
Occurring.

Its eyes were red with rage.
Water dripped from the cage.
Locked inside with nowhere to hide.
The monster was centre stage.

Its claws as sharp as razors.
captors were armed with tazers
Then came the silence followed by violence.
This monster was quicker than lasers.

Those who were left stood frozen with fright as the monster ran off into the night.

My words flowed from my mouth like a perfectly tuned faucet, as the bright spot light, shinned down on my off-set. The audience didn't object, to the imagery I painted. My stanza's killing to the page for dear life, waiting to be read right; from my eager lips -- sheets shifting, pages crumbling, stomaching rumbling, the audience attention's shifts - and my nightmare always ends like this.

A day dream, about me sharing my gift. The ability to uplift -- then finding my self in deep ****. In the middle of reciting it. I keep relieving, and re-sighting it. All this doubt in my mind, I keep inviting it. That's why I instead of becoming a spoken word, I'll just keep writing it., because stage fright, is some frightening ****.

Count the seconds until my screams
drown the hysterical slashes
at the padlocked door;
until my ringing mind
confronts the blackened fear
hovering above my head.

A pair of eyes
piece my neck.
Yours.

Nobody is going to save me.

In my head the noises that wear so many guises torments me.
I hope that they might sway, indeed just go away and leave me be.
The messages they scream each night as I do dream cause me such grief.
They tell me of such dread about those who walk un-dead, defies belief.

They act in such deprave as they walk free of their grave, Inside my head.
I see it in a way that they walk past me where I lay, in my own bed.
Almost like a feature, a silver screen cast creature lurks around.
Though silent in its play in so many shades of grey it makes a sound.

I cannot scream into the night, through fear and through fright, I lie awake.
No volume do I speak as floorboards start to creak, I start to shake.
The darkness in the room is heavy, full of gloom and I am warm.
And through my open door will entities and more decide to swarm.

The sweat will run its course, my sanity divorce before nights end.
As the footsteps come my way, with tears as I pray my mind does bend.
My mouth opens to howl as I witness of the growl and I stay still.
Does it know I'm there and does it know just where and will it ****.

With blood racing around from heart to where it's bound, I cannot breathe.
My throat is dry and rough I cannot cry enough and I believe.
My end is coming nigh and I feel that I will die, no more of life.
And as it comes so close I realise it is no ghost, it's just the wife.

Rain fell in commotions—
The birds would have none of it,
The moon bellowed in ghostly white,
Faced in the sprite, ringing indifference
Of low fading stars, trees in posted dark
Scratched the grasslands of the fallen
Firmaments and the small creatures
That are holed up in days, scurried
With the creep of night and moan
Of oceans slide, mangled clouds
Clutched the murky burn of sky
And smallish eyes everywhen
Shuddered in the frosts
Of a shuttering rose.