Erratic static fills my attic,
echoes bounce off the ceramic,
a panoramic of panic
puts me in a manic state.
Chills tumble down my spine,
the hair on my arms have become alive,
suddenly the sound subsides,
but inept footsteps arise.
A voice as light as paper
says, "its time to meet your maker",
as I feel hands wrap around my navel,
unable to budge.
As my retinas go into fission,
it cleared all suspicions,
my cognition must've gone on an astral expedition,
for It was only the television.
—
7/20/24
11:49 AM
YOU ARE READING
The Words I've Never Said
PoetryA place where I put my soul on display for the world to see. Here's a closer look at the ups and downs of my consciousness. If I could use two words to describe my writing they would be an emotional rollercoaster. My goal is to heal those reading...
