It happens every night, as the clock chimes the witching hour, the same sinister ritual unfolds. The world around you, inside your bedroom plunges into an abyss, the darkness so complete it seems to swallow sound itself. You lie in bed, a prisoner within your own flesh as the familiar pressure builds upon your chest. It’s oppressive force, growing heavier with each passing second, squeezing the breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air that just wont come.

The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer, as if the very space you occupy is being compressed by the unseen hands. And there, at the edge of your bed, the sleep paralysis demon looms. Its smiling is a crescent moon cut into the night, a beacon of malice that watches you struggle with glee.

You try to cry out, to call for help from your roommate down the hall, but your voice is a prisoner too, locked away behind the bars of your silence screaming gilded cage. The demon’s white eyes glint with hellish light, and it leans forward, crawling onto your bed. You can feel the mattress dip, dip, dip, dip with each of it’s limbs climbing on. It grins widening as if it feeds on your fears, grow stronger with your desperation.

This is your nightly torment, a cycle of terror that repeats with the inevitability of a cursed lullaby. But what does it want? Why does it visits you night after night, stealing your peace, your breath, your sanity?

Perhaps it’s a manifestation of your deepest fears, a creature born from the anxiety that lurk in the recesses of your mind. Or maybe it’s something more, a sentinel of night, a guardian of the threshold between wakefulness and dreams.

Whatever it is, it’s real to you. As real as the sweat that beads on your forehead, as the panic that claws at your chest, as the silence prayers that spill from your lips in the hope that dawn will come sooner than later.

And when morning finally breaks, the demon vanishes like smoke in the light, leaving you to wonder if it was there at all. But the memory lingers, A haunting reminder that tonight, as you close your eyes and surrender to sleep, the smiling demon will return. It always does.

i am dreaming of
the furthest room down the hall,
the slight fall of the chest as someone sighs deeply

the watery gaze that sees nothing
save dull and diffused light

of reasons that have the stink of rationalization on them

of slight couched in invitation
to yesterday's cancelled reservation
for the chance to revisit the ultimatum
where live words held in the mouth
words now sentenced to life
for murders never said

of the memory of tiny actions
for the sake of their intended

of small bright wings painted with the faces of children laughing
that flutter in what appears to be aimless flight yet always alighting with precision on the nectarless flowers
in their artificial meadow
of sleep without dreams or waking

Overthinking
Isn’t that what we all do?
Pretending
We’re okay but we don’t think so

Minds getting hazy
A little bit crazy
Should we ask maybes
Or should we just stop talking?

Funny
I’ve been having a lot of arguments
In my head
I don’t know whose currently winning

It’s lame
A big joke that we make
We act we’re okay
But inside our soul is dead

How?
Do we really heal or do we conceal?
Does time really heal or we get better at faking?
Are we really here or were just asleep dreaming?