The Ghost of an Echo: A Mad Collection of Mad Poet Poetry

The Ballad of The Monster (Under Your Bed)

We are the creak of the floorboards,

The it's probably nothing.

We are the whisper of thoughts you cannot afford.

In the darkness, the hiding king.

Shriek and whine, cower beneath your covers;

Know that good light answers to no one's call.

Thinking you can push me away like a cheating lover,

Stupid little child. We rise in the shadows and will never fall.

Never find the evidence we exist,

To prove to dubious brother––like a forgotten crumb from a swift exit.

I find this all tedious. I find your screams hilarious.

You think I starve for them. You think I am never satisfied,

When really, it is you who hides inside.

When really, you must ask yourself:

Are you afraid of the dark? The day after the twelfth?

Or are you afraid of what cannot be said aloud.

That every shriek at every creak,

Every bawl at every creepy-crawl,

Is not the beast that hides beneath the bed,

With its sharp claws and horned head (however dashing I can be).

For I am all of that.

Oh, I have wicked teeth and split eyes,

From evil I never shy.

I have talon-tipped wings that part the night,

A little military of reviled sights.

I think I have come to love you.

I caress you as you sleep.

And when you wake, I vanish into the gloom.

And you are left with a terrible fear over to weep.

But you are wrong there.

For I do not hide beneath your clothes in the closet,

I do not wait patiently in the tree that knocks against your window.

I do not creep and craft out of those traitorous floorboards spooky sonnets.

I do not slither around your toes like slimy minnows.

I hide in the crevices of your mind.
I hide in the secrets of your devise.

And years later, when you believe you have left me far behind.

Know that I do not mind coming back twice...