The Unmet

I’m full of fears I’ve never met

nameless guests who appear in my home

 in my world 

without invitation

without welcome

soul squatters

my spine crawls with cringing anticipation waiting for the terror tentacles to seize

to wrap around me as I am tossed 

 adrift in this tiny frail boat on a too-large sea

my dark is alive with hissings and scratchings

 and my closet doors are not armored against the monsters seeking entrance

I’m filled with smothered cries that

turn my vocal cords into wet wool 

I’m full of fears

and dream of a madness so vast you can vanish into it

but what may lurk at the bottom

silent slithering beasts?

hungry ones?

I am filled with things

 with things 

with things

I cannot name

will not name

and have never wanted to meet


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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