Copout of the Day

Because I’m bored…
Because I read way too much Stephen King…
Because I don’t know what to put here…
Because I somehow take sick pleasure in sleeping late…
Here’s some weird stuff. In poetry form, even.

Sorry if I’ve shown some of you this before.

Last Night, At Three

For some reason

There are eyes

peering at me out of the curve

of a bit of staple wire.

And things

blinking in and out of view

between the coils of a spiral notebook.

And things

lurking inside the drawers and vents

watching.

And things

flickering through the lights

the computer screens

and the patterns in the marble.

And things

boring into the erasers

swimming in the paint.

And things

crouching behind the seats and desks

hiding on the shelves

behind the books.

And things

shimmering and floating

glaring from the pristine surfaces

of the mirrors.

And something

something

calling out to me

from behind and beyond the walls

of this dark, damned office.

It resonates in the speakers

In the white noise of static

In the wind and the windows

In the clock’s tick-tock.

And I am only afraid

that something may shatter, or open, or break

and let them through.

For there are things

somewhere in the dark

somewhere past what we can see.

Things that grabble and mumble and reach.
Things that want to get in.

Moral: Don’t sleep too late too often. It makes you see… stuff.