Posts Tagged ‘scary’

Ah,

so you’ve entered my dreams again,

not quite uninvited,

but you are not still-

yet- you are not vibrant.

You nod twinkling blue eyes toward me

and I feel my stomach squirm,

and am reduced to a pale worm

under those bright cauldrons.

You are a ghost

of the most high caliber

to invade such a space

where I would normally be well rested.

But when I wake, you’ll be gone,

light that filters red through my curtains

will reveal that. But of course

I’ll revel in you, because

that’s what you’d like me to do,

isn’t it?

You devil.

In this whiteness there is desolation.

Ferocity abounds while ice plummets

to where a birdwatcher would make his or her observation.

But now the snow plunges into summits,

hiding landscape from humans at their windows.

All one can see are tiny white comets,

and in this instant, that is all one can know.

By the light of the full moon

something in me twists

and surges from bottom of feet

to skull,

pounding for release.

By pale light of day

I am shut in this blue-walled cage,

isolated.

And something pounds, claws,

beats tiny, scaly fists

against my forehead; and

something drooling and yellow-eyed

thrums and growls within my chest.

 

There are people who swallow

colonies of liquid in bottles,

who breathe in ash

and press their eyelids against

their pus-colored rotting fingertips,

but not me. These people take in new monsters.

I already have enough monsters in me.

I don’t need this world to put more in.

Why do I feel like a villain,

for intruding upon the monotony of your life,

for being put in a haze by rush of blood to my skull,

for overexamining my life as one might pour over a road map

because the future extends in so many directions

and it frightens me.

I am a child

thrown into a new world,

a new experience,

unprepared.

Now I’m scared

because you learned my secrets, and you can divulge them;

because I opened myself to you, and you,

while you blame me for overreacting

for holding on even though you do the same

and it’s tearing me apart

because you’re so hypocritical,

and I’m pulling my hair out

and I don’t want to be afraid,

but I don’t know how not to be.

Militant drums beat steady and coarse.

Families take shelter.

Men in uniform with sword, gun, horse,

are all blown helter-skelter.

Though flames grow, and sky fills with lightning,

these terrors are not the real kind;

for nothing is more frightening

than the war within one’s mind.

In the dead of night I wake

and go to the mirror.

All is black except

for the yellow light between my reflection

and the real me.

What I see in the mirror is

two halves.

I am flesh on one side,

phantom on the other.

Oh, but this is frightening!

None could understand it,

for even barely do.

My right half is frail and frightened,

brown dots and blemishes rising

from pale skin to pronounce

this look of fear.

But the phantom on the left side of me

smirks. It is more solid than my right half,

it is iron!

No matter how warm and wistful my right side:

unfolding one palm upward, like a flower,

an offering to a warm and delicate, feminine hand;

my left side sneers revealing its serrated teeth,

the marks of its ferocious appetite

with white drool streaming from inside its maw,

but all the while an innocent lily-like glow

in its eye.

What is this apparition?

A manifestation of internal struggle?

Hallucination? Nightmare?

Or is it merely what I’ve written it to be?

Only in moments such as this,

when static speaks

more clearly to me than any words

or mellifluous sounds,

when tear tracks sting

from cold winter air,

sadness generates a volcano in my chest,

and each limb is distinct and separate-

every nerve hot cold, numb or electric,

do my cares not pass

and I feel a part

of something greater and infinite,

as if I am only partially in this world.

And only in those moments

do I feel unafraid, while closer

to the End.

I sit behind a stale white square,

there are white walls before me,

whispers behind me.

Scorching yellow bee-buzz

forms sweat on my brow-

they are talking about me,

they are talking about me!

What are they saying?

Do they know where the marks on my pencil are from?

Do they know where the scar on my back is from?

My pulse ticks in half the time of the second-hand.

It is growing louder!

They sense I am thinking about them!

Stop thinking! Stop thinking!

They know! They know!

I am held to my seat as if there was an anchor on my lap.

The buzz has me stuck like stone.

Black night cracks its whip at its end,

daylight purges the sky

of the trickery of stars, the morose shadow

blooming over clouds and over the moon,

a false, wilting rose.

Sounds take root and rise as dawn washes a mauve wave

over hilltops and baselines of trees.

 

Persistent footsteps at the base of my skull

vanish. Knockings from outside disappear.

Gone are the thieves,

who misted into my house, under my door.

Gone are their twisted knives,

caked with old, brown dried blood–

black clothes spattered with old business.

Gone is the trance

night puts me under. It suggests I’m not alone

in my own home. I’m blind so

I cannot disagree.

Gone are the tricks

I fall for each night.

I once believed there were monsters,

I now think there are thieves.

 

Under flashes of sun

we see what is real.

When night falls,

we cannot even trust what we feel.

Evening Drive

Posted: November 15, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Out of mind,

God, tell me what it means!

This bullet is speeding me

down a silver path

to a land of neon streams.

Bright, shining reds

perforate my vision

and streak by as burning rivers.

This path stretches and narrows,

it doubles back and widens;

it continues, seemingly infinite,

in either direction.

I sit sweating,

hearing crackles and bumps

and the engine’s monotone catharsis

riddling me to a point

where I lose myself in the lights

that flare and feather quickly

before being replaced.

All as the harrowed sun drops.