Bad Poetry: ‘Fear’

Fear isn’t always from the things lurking beneath or behind us. Unseen atrocities waiting to pounce or abduct, murder or mutilate. Sometimes, it’s all in our head.

Sons of Carman at Midnight

Winstead Oakley

Restless.
Sleep evades me.
Cold air blows
directly into my face
but my body runs hot.
Too scared of demons,
and monsters,
and ghosts,
to uncover myself from my burrow beneath the blankets. 
What is on my mind?
Memories.
Regret. 
Replayed scenes from a movie I’ve lived, 
recut
so the heroine gets out
before the bad stuff happens. 
I daydream at night
of good things:
Abundance.
Love.
Peace. 
Only for my thoughts to be hijacked 
and terrorized 
into tales
of Dub,
and Dother,
and Dain.
Things that feel real to me 

in the moment,

even if they aren’t.
Shadows scare me
outside of my window
…thinking…
What is looking in on me?
When the fear is really
is in my mind
and I can’t escape it,

but I’m used to it,

because it’s been there my whole life.
Anxiety tells me bad things are coming.
My ego tells me I’m not good enough.
Echoes scream I’m the problem.
Never ending cycles brought on by 
a moment
a thought 
a feeling that reminds me of a time

when I had no control

in whatever fashion.
But, 

thankfully,
they aren’t often, 

anymore. 
Just when the moon is full,
or new.
Contrasting shades of dark and light
mirror my emotions 
and exhaust me, 

periodically. 
For now, I wait for sleep
until I’m heavy with fatigue
and hope my dreams are blank
Tonight.

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