boogeyman.

the boogeyman is a lyricist that lives under my bed.
when i zone out, he throws knives in my head.
all the words he pumps in me like a stomach pumped with valium.
when i wake up sweating bullets, he raises them and rattles them.
eyes as vacant as the whole at the center of the universe,
and the things he sometimes does would be said to be perverse.
when he pulls the sheets, i can hear his labored breaths.
then he stops and claws the floor and shoots his meth.
he's got a swastika on his head like charlie manson,
and he loves when i leave music on because it keeps him dancing.
he enters the wounds if you leave them open,
and he sits in them like peroxide soaking.
all the mad-dog foam that is forming at his jaws,
hits the floors and burns like acid and he licks at his paws.
the boogeyman's waiting under my bed,
with a corkscrew to bore a shrill hole in my head.