This is Just a Poem

This, is just a poem.
It is not the thing that keeps you up at night.
It is not the sounds you hear when you turn off the light.
It is not the bumps on the floor
Or the knocks on your door
That startles you and make you sweat in fright.

No, this, is just a poem.
It is not the one causing those footsteps you hear
Even though you’re home alone.
It is not the silhouette in your bathroom
That floats carelessly out of sight.
Appearing and vanishing faster than you can look from left to right.
It is not the intense feeling of someone standing behind you.
Hearing and feeling someone breathing on your neck,
You shake the feeling off by keeping your thoughts in check,
But that feeling of anxiety is bubbling up your gut.
Dread and curiosity makes you want to turn around but,
What if something is there to make your fears come true?

See, this, is just a poem.
It is not the shadow that you could see from the corner of your eye,
Reaching out and getting closer as the seconds pass by,
While this piece invades the screen of your phone.
It is not the whispers that fall into your ear
As you hide under the covers and cower in fear,
Wishing that the man standing at the edge of your bed
Looked alive and healthy, not pale and dead.
It is not the woman who has made a home of your ceiling.
The woman with hollow eyesockets and is always weeping,
Who sometimes charges at you while frantically screaming.

It is not the terror that makes you huff and puff.
The terror that makes your legs ache from the tough
Motion of putting one foot in front of the other,
As you run away from your bloodthirsty pursuer.
It is not the goosebumps that you get,
After getting struck with the feeling
That something from somewhere is staring
At you and I bet,
You’re feeling it now, as your pores begin to sweat.

But don’t worry because this is just a poem.
It is not the countless eyes that are now popping out the walls.
It is not the shrieks you just heard from the empty halls
And it is most certainly not the banging
That is coming from your closet.
It is not the sound of tapping
From your window as the hands try to open it.
It is definitely not the one standing next to you in the mirror.
The blood-stained face that will visit your dreams,
Turning it into a nightmare filled with darkness and horror,
As it wraps you in its arms, relishing in your screams.

But after you’re done with this, you’d probably be relieved.
Saying “none of this true” that’s what you’d probably believe.
So you’d probably invite the dark, instead of leaving the lights on
And then you’d instantly wonder “Am I truly here alone?”
You’re probably right, it’s just you and your white phone.
You don’t have to worry about me, for this is just a poem.

Happy Halloween


It was Halloween that night,
The season of scares and fright.
It was also the season for candies.
Candies for these cute little kiddies.

It was around 10 in the evening,
When I heard someone knocking.
Three soft knocks followed by a sound,
“Trick or treat! Is anybody around?”

“Oh goody!” I thought to myself.
Another child I could offer some candy.
“Just wait a while, let me grab some candies on the shelf.
Here you go, now off to your home young lady.”

She wore a big smile and she was filled with delight.
I too, was ecstatic at the sight.
All those kids, not knowing that they might
Not wake up in the morning, with all those cyanides.

A Father’s Parting Gift


My dad was a puppeteer
And he loved his job so much.
He was very successful with his career,
Until death gave him the final touch.

He was struck with cancer
And his end was very near.
He gave to me his puppet,
Which he named Mikael Zitser.
I didn’t know what to do with it,
So in the basement it lived.

When dad passed away, everyone was in grief.
Everyone was shocked, for his life has been so brief.
Out of the blue, we heard a sound from underneath.
It was coming from the basement, buried deep beneath.

We opened the door and at the bottom of the stairs,
There was the puppet, sitting idly on a chair.
Chills ran down in each of our spine.
We knew we had to get rid of it, we knew it was time.

The next morning, we sold it to a shop.
We didn’t get much in return, but it was worth the shot.
At least we didn’t have to see that creepy toy anymore.
It was gone now, or at least that’s what we thought.

I woke up at 12 in the midnight,
The room was so cold and yet the windows were shut tight.
I heard a sound on the desk and I quickly turned on the lights.
The puppet was on the desk, smiling and sitting upright.

How could this be? How is this possible?
Then, it spoke with a wicked voice that was so horrible.
“You and I are one, your father passed me on.
I am now yours and with you, I now belong.”

Realistic Video Games


Video games aren’t real,
They don’t come to life.
But why do I feel
A sense of dread and strife?

I’ve been playing this horror game
Which I forgot the name.
It’s funny because after I beat it,
It no longer seemed to exist.

But I have proof that it’s real
Because it’s coming after me.
The ghost of the game has reached this realm
And it’s only a matter of time before it gets me.

So, I’m writing this as a warning
For everyone who is reading and listening.
Video games are real and true.
Some even visits this world to come after you.



Do you like to look at the night sky?
Be honest now, don’t tell a lie.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
It’s like a slice of heaven, just a tiny bit.

The stars and the moon are displayed before your eyes.
They twinkle and shine in the night sky.
The cold breeze in the air compliments the mood.
The mood of the night that is oh so good.

As you’re lying down and looking up above.
You see something flying, is that a dove?
It appears to be getting closer.
You stand up, hoping to see it better.

With a cackle and a laugh, you’re petrified with fear,
Because what’s coming for you is closing in near.
You understand what it is and you try to get out of here.
But the Witch caught you and you’re its victim this year.



It was like a dream.
I was surrounded by people.
No, they were more like shadows
Than actual persons.

I was lying in bed and couldn’t move.
They were sitting in chairs
And they looked at me.
They just gave me an inexplicable stare.

It was like they pitied me
And the kind of state I was in.
They said that they were gloomy
Because I was trapped in my skin.

They said I’ll be free someday,
One day I will fly.
That’s when I woke up, surrounded by chairs
And I had tears streaming down my eyes.

Cellular Memory


A man had a heart transplant.
His donor was tagged as anonymous.
The surgery was successful, as he was diagnosed.
He had a second chance at life.

As the weeks pass by, he noticed something different.
He would crave for something abhorrent.
Like the feeling of wanting to drink blood.
Or the feeling of wanting to kill someone is really odd.

He thought of it as nothing.
He shrugged it off.
But, as the months passed by, he was now something.
Something terrible and frightening.

He was now killing people for his cravings.
He was now satisfying the things
That he despised.
He left everyone traumatized.

He killed and ate people
Just for fun.
The bodies that were found in his house piled up and no one
Seemed to care.
They passed his house with the smell of death in the air.

The man went to an insane asylum.
His family checked the records of the donor.
The donor died from apparent suicide in a sanitorium.
He was a serial killer dubbed “The Heart of Horror.”