The Dictator

His furrows grow more distinct.
Each line etched on his forehead has a different complaint.
They all begin with too.
Too loud. Too cramped. Too hot. Too cold. Too expensive.

This day is his day, just like all the rest.
He will act accordingly. Accordingly to his wants.
Do not protest. He will win.

His voice is deep.
After years of inhaling toxins, he has learned to shout over the rest.
He must be heard.

He is right. All others are unaware of their ignorance.
This displeases him.
How could they not know? How could they ask such ludicrous questions?

He holds his place with a never ending scowl.
Why smile when things aren't going his way?
Insufferable? No. They just can't learn.

He sits, humming to himself.
He has survived for so long on his own he forgot those around him.
He has chosen to ignore, to dismiss what all others desire.
Keep what he likes, toss the rest.

This is the king. He has lived. He has won.

When You Toss

Laying awake isn't easy.
The stillness of Night soothes bones.
Only like this can the orchestra begin.
Listen to the music!
The snores begin the movement.
This opening allegro mocks weary eyes. Travellers into the sleep realm are disconcerted.
Then comes the freeway. From a distance, you hear

cars filled with early risers, the working class bustling to begin their long day.

Now the minuet. Such a temptation to move the feet during the social hour of the bedsheets.
Woodwind. Percussion. String. 
Each family has united to bring forth a lullaby.
There is chaos, though. Their desire to continue has been dragged on. They are begging their conductor to sleep.
The orchestra begs to end but alas, how can one sleep with such noise?

 

 

 

Fright

I sit on these hands.
Every night when I can start feeling it take over, I need to sit on these hands.
I trim these nails.
Every week I will be reminded why I keep them short. Length is dangerous.
I cover this skin.
Every day, "Long sleeves to keep them asleep."

Tedious.
I'm not cold.
I'm not energetic.
I'm not worried about appearances of minor digits.

At night it comes to change me.
I am transformed.
I become that rabid dog hoping that every scratch with tear off the mites underneath.
I become the vermin you see squirm around sewers and waste.
I become the lion, prepared to pounce on its prey.
I am tormented by what I cannot see, what lies deeper within the skin, what reminds me of each lie I told to live in my sins.
I am tormented by an itch that cannot be contained by some medicine or any ointment.
I am tormented by an insatiable desire to keep scratching until I see it.

Crimson, small, minor.
A burn. A droplet. A sting.
That which reminds me that no matter if it is in my head, it still inflicts corporeal pain.

I sit on these hands until it goes away.
I trim these nails until I cannot scratch.
I cover this skin until the pull releases.

I do this until my mind returns from Fright.