I have this fear,
That a man lives under my bed,
Or in my room.
Whenever I turn away from a corner,
I feel something watching me,
As if I'm presenting something to a crowd.
Every time I close my eyes,
I feel as if a hand is going to touch me,
And that I'm surely going to die.
He hides in the darkest corners of my room,
Waiting until I'm no longer all there,
To take his chance and strike.
Does he leave my room?
Does he know my secrets?
Will he hurt my friends?
Will he hurt my family?
Will he hurt me?
Will I hurt him?
I mustn't,
but I feel like he knows it all and he is going to tell,
Going to tell them all who I really am.
I don't know what he'll do but it scares me,
The childhood fear of "the monster under the bed" hasn't left me,
And I know he's there.
I'll wait until he comes out at night,
I'll stay awake and worry about,
How he knows all the things I've never even said out loud.
The man is deadly,
The man is dangerous,
He's going to hurt me and all my friends.
So I must stop him,
Before I know,
That I am the man and the man is me too.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
