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.

This poem is about: 


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