The Monster Under My Bed

The monster under my bed

Seems very punctilious

Never forgets to hop in my mind

And knock me down in the times of darkness.

His horrendous features fear me sometimes

And sometimes don't,

He adores me with his unkempt nails

And smother me through his recitation,

A minute reflection of horrendous society;

Indecisive I thought him once,

But I smashed to the ground

Scarred and proved wrong.

He narrates the stories of

Disparities, vices, diseases,

Inequalities, riots, jealousies and hatred.

I feel my ears dripping blood

And feel like cutting them from listening to the future stories.

The glass-windows, covered with the blurred smoke

Of malicious macabres that freeze my body down.

I fear to turn into a stone one day,

When my inability will write indelible stories of crime.

I fear to collect more sins from the world

And fear that I can't handle its toxicity like shree krishna

Once accomplished swallowing all the venoms of yamuna.

My sunken body searches for drops of sap,

Drops of renouncing love and drops of my solace.

The monster under my bed

Don't hear me the words of bedtime stories,

Hoax fairy tales and soothing lullabies,

It whispers the chills of underestimated souls,

The souls which never been approved as humans,

Yet with their half-human bodies like creature they died like a proud human,

Preaching the treachery and tyranny of this world.

And then he says, he was one of them,

Died out of a scarcity of love, an abundance of inhumanity.

Brutishness swelled us up, purring the words of aggression and war,

And he died, choosing to be one monster, turning down the offer of an angel.

My eyes know no bound, wailing for all the sins I've done and then he pacifies me,

appeasing my inner anxiety.

My depression wasn't the reason to prove me a failure,

As he says I pet a slave named pain.

Pain of unwanted reminiscences.

My scribblings are long for he blesses me with his magic wand,

A wand of hijacking all the thoughts down to my feet

And I write, write and write.

Having a feel like I don't write rants,

As rants write me through the words they lend me them to decorate.

The monster under my bed

Promises to remain the same forever,

To poke me from time to time

Skipping all his heart beats while processing for a storytelling.

A tinge of his love satiates my inner peace

And I keep on going far, loving the way I appear,

Appreciating the fear that keeps me sanely insane.