When I dream

and the white flash

of lightning

transforms it

into a nightmare,

I’m not bombarded

by creatures with

eight hairy legs

tickling my skin

or falling off

an endless cliff

or even the infamous

black-shrouded reaper.


Instead, hovering over

my shoulder

is my own personal vampire.

One that sinks its teeth,

not into my flesh,

but into my praise,

insatiably feeding

off compliments

and high scores

and clawing my chest

at every second place ribbon

and bloodred A minus.


I want to know how

the white-whiskered

wise men do it.

The ones meditating

peacefully under the Bo trees

with nothing over their shoulders

but the clean breeze

of security.


I’m done with it—

tired of living my life

to feed this monster.

I need my wooden stake.


3 thoughts on “Stake

  1. This is so sick! It's well written, and intensely descriptive. I keep reading it over, and over, and over. My favorite of yours thus far. :)Not to be the grammar police, but in the second stanza, when you say "insatiably feedingof compliments" should it be "off?" Or am I losing it?

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