Mental Pressure

June 15th, 2023

I'll be honest, I've no idea what this one was about. I don't think it's a dream or a story, but it lacks the proper strycture of a poem.

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My very mind is riveted as if the jaw of a beast were clamped around my skull, crushing into my forehead. Not an unpleasant sensation. It's actually quite comforting to have a nice firm pressure against my head.

Focus is entirely a will of its own. I could wrangle it, grab it by the horns, but I find myself without a will to do so. I'm crawling on my hands and knees. No teeth. No claws. Disarmed and defanged.

The walls of my sanctuary are listening to my thoughts. Watching intently, they wait for the opportune moment. The light from the windows pulse. Rugs writhe on the ground. Tassels tickling my legs.

The air buffets the trees, branches swaying in the storm. Rain rattles the shutters. Cushions whisper and warn--the floor is a callous advisor, whittling away the artifice.

Footsteps lead to the door. The door opens to reveal another... door. Inside a closet dark and cramped. Open the door. You're in another room. An attic-space but it's on the same floor.

Beds. Beds from couches. Beds on frames. Beds from closets. Beds on springs. Beds fall from the wall. Beds fold from the dresser. Beds in paintings to come to life. Beds in murals become real. Cushions, covers, pillows, blankets. Bed sheets smother sleeping children. In the morning, then I'll wake them. Up before sunrise, I'm a morning person. Light switch blind eyes, it's 6:00 a.m.

Pots and pans and pitchers. Water fills the vase with flowers. Open terrain, the game plan design. Break down the walls, let in natural light.

Patient. I am ever so patient. Waiting, even when you're absent. Basement. I am in your basement. Waiting, for you to check your storage.