The Watcher

As I’m crying, he’s laughing.
As I’m dieing, he’s living.
As I’m bleeding, he watches.
As I’m in grief, he’s in peace.
My pain is his joy.
My life is his toy.
This is what he enjoys.


As I run, he blocks me.
As I stumble, he pushes me.
As I’m on the ground he hurts me.
No one can help.
He feeds on my fright,
and lives on my nightmares.
I’m wounded and the watcher watches.



I survive in my own fears.
but all I hear are my own screams.
His identity is a mystery,
but so is mine.
He calls me fun,
as if he is playing with me.
Why am I the toy?
Why is he my owner?



Where am I?
What do I see?
I see him,
and he sees me.
A few more times,
he plays with me.
I yell, “Please stop it!”
He doesn’t reply,
and the watcher watches.










His angels are my demons,
He wears horns,
but thinks that he is an angel himself.
I’m crying,
but he ignores it and sees me laughing.
He wears my concerns as if they were his cloths,
and fits into them like a warm pair of shoes.
Is this his game?
Do I lose?


As I hate, he loves.
As I hide, he seeks.
I stay awake at night and wonder why.
My life a horror flick and I’m about to die.
He gets inside, and pushes until my fears peel out my pores of my skin.
Finally I ask:
“Why do you do this?”
He replies:
“I need some joy.”
I weep, and the watcher watches.