I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin,
But it feels better than being in my mind.
I dread the hour when I must find
rest and idleness, the genesis of sin.
For, I know that once my eyes close,
I have no hope of sweet repose.
When my subconscious takes over, I am lost.
Maybe I’m a mermaid or a fairy,
But more often I’m something scary.
A renegade, a monster, even personified frost,
But sometimes it’s worse, because all I truly fear,
Is that helpless desolate creature in the mirror.
They say that you can be anything you want
in your dreams, but I am always something else.
So when I wake, I take the only weapon that fells
the wicked demons that my insecurities flaunt.
I write about the heroes who slay them one and all,
Until even the most daunting of them do fall.