Perhaps it's a horror story
Perhaps it's because of all the horror stories,
That my mind would keep doing this to itself:
Why, whenever things are happy,
When things are perfectly calm,
Shadows start to grow, scarily extending its arms
And take hold and possess my heart.
It is the sudden appearance of storm clouds,
And the slow settling of paranoia, taking root,
Making me believe in dark and cruel things.
It is the desire to pull away, to shrink up
At the sight of frightening apparitions,
Making the withdrawal into the dark shell alluring.
It is the selfish trick of loneliness wanting a friend,
Conjuring up images and gossip,
Making its arms ever so inviting.
It is a form of insanity, self-enveloping,
The writhing and crying of a phantom pain,
Begging hallucinations to stop,
But once you start the descent,
How do you climb back up?
How do you completely weed out the dark?
