The dead of night, haunting whispers screaming my name.
From the darkness there is a rustle.
Perhaps a creature scuttling across the floor?
Trembling fingers longing for the light yet are too frightened to emerge from the sheets.
Eyes closed tightly, heart throwing itself against a bone cage.
Is there a monster in my bedroom, or is it in the bed?
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryPoems I've written when the mood has struck or when I don't want to cry so I write or when I want to procrastinate other writing or because I just felt like it. Here you go.
