My Poetry. The Nights Terror.

Cold beads of sweat are running down my brow,
Tossing and turning fiercely through the night.
It's impossible to awaken from this coma-like state,
Suffering the cruel terrors of pure, visceral fright.

What dark force makes our brain conjure these things?
Experiences you would certainly never face for real.
Perhaps you were an actor in some previous, lost life,
Because every painful emotion here you can truly feel.

People you can picture clearly, some even have names,
While others simply come and go within the scene.
It's always the ones you could never possibly imagine—
Faces that have inexplicably been in your everyday life.

These images are carried on a memory, like a taped account,
Only allowed to surface when you are fully asleep.
If you were awake, you might possibly control them,
And hold back the truly horrible things you wish you could keep.

Perhaps it’s something you desperately dealt with that day?
Or a memory from a time you felt at your very worst?
Bad things suddenly brought on by old, unpleasant memories—
Right now, you only feel completely, utterly cursed.

When you finally awake in the cold, clear morning, you often find
The blankets are tangled like a bombarded, ruined shelter,
And while you struggle fiercely to recall the dream's core,
Your frantic brain is racing on a fast, dizzying helter-skelter.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025