I was eleven when we met
He, a demonic dog with a top hat invading my thoughts by unicycle
Me, an innocent visionary lacking the ability to filter my imagination
Some nights I was fed blood-curdling hallucinations while other times weren't so far-fetched
His raspy voice issued commands I wished never happened
A pinching bite from a werewolf
A tightening squeeze from an octopus
A frightening stampede from red-eyed monkeys
That manipulative lunatic did everything in his power to deceive me, trap me, deteriorate me
All hell broke loose inside these shaky chambers
Even the fresh glimmer of daylight couldn't pacify my impulse to look over my shoulder, or squint harder into shadows on the walls to make sure they were merely reflections from ordinary objects
This fashioned a recurring pattern during childhood which haunted me for years
Until, of course, it didn't
Although I was spooked, the bombardment of mayhem became so much it made me wonder how he was sane enough to orchestrate it
I shouldn't be one to judge subconscious concoctions, because that's ridiculous, but also because this scheming devil isn't relatable to any real person
Lies, so many lies!
The second he showed up I had unknowingly tapped into a deeper part of myself
This novel storyteller, only eleven, spoke words polished with the richest shade of darkness, all rigid and freakishly true
And thus it turns out that you can be the sweetest, most smile-bearing daisy and still succumb to a darker tone
That lonely jester showed me
For two creatures living in completely separate worlds, we shared a twisted sense of madness that only unveiled itself when no one else was around
Since then, he was a glittering jewel to my curious eyes since everything about him was strangely intriguing
He wasn't human
And yet somehow he was
So to conclude my anecdote on six grade dreamscapes, he is the reason my mind is twisted
That unorthodox face of fame gave me a lifetime of material only a wildly passionate artist would know what to do with
