Monsters Were Real

Monsters Were Real

When I was a boy, everything in the world seemed so much bigger,

And this terrified me in so many colorful and terrifying ways.

Expansive trees stretched upwards, towards heaven.

Rocks were boulders; hills were vast, and mountainous.

The house—small though it was—felt like a dark,


and vast estate.

With strong vines,

deep bushes

and bugs as big as my fist.

I inadvertently believed in a specific,

self-enforced supernatural rule:

all unobserved space was fair game,

for horrors to manifest, and thrive.

If I swam in my pool,

but I could not see underneath the deep end,

than those depths were filled with flesh-starved sharks,

actively hunting me,  

waiting to drag me down kicking

and screaming.

If I visited my basement, it was totally silent,

but could somehow function as a crypt,

Where undead mummies laid in wait,

in a sarcophagus only within the unseen spaces.

If I lie warm within my sheets, I’d wakingly dream,

of pig faced robbers, under orders to kidnap me. 

Only the light, the televised presence of Thundercats,

and the like, could keep them right at bay.

My parents listened,

but they did not feel the visceral grip;

The almost palpable sense of urgency.

And this, in itself, frightened me.

But as I grew, my metaphysical passions faded,

and the fears they fueled

gradually died away with them.

And yet,

even to this day,

when I go swimming,

the first thing I do is check the deep end.