They said I just imagine things—
I told them that’s what dreaming brings.
The hunger only comes at night,
It loves my brain just cooked just right.
The doctors call it “episodes,”
I call it dinner with my ghosts.
They speak of balance, pills, and rest,
I say I’m feeling my undead best.
I hear a hum behind my eyes,
One just wiggled—no surprise.
It tells me where the flavor hides,
And soon I taste my better sides.
It laughs when I pretend to pray,
It purrs, “We’ll feast the night away.”
I whisper, “Stop, you’re just a dream.”
It grins, “Then why do mortals scream?”
Sometimes I wake with crimson hands,
But that’s just paint from dreamland sands.
Her work, not mine, I always say—
She visits while I drift away.
They find the stains; I play it neat,
I smile, “Spaghetti can’t be beat.”
My kitchen smells of copper wine—
I call it *therapy, homemade design.*
She says, “You taste divine, my dear.”
I ask her when these dreams will clear.
She bites her lip and softly moans,
“You’ll wake up once you’re skin and bones.”
I try to laugh, conceal my dread,
But bodies keep misplacing heads.
She whispers, “Artists paint with red.”
I giggle till the jokes feel dead.
My doctor nods, her pen does dance,
She writes of guilt and sweet mischance.
But she can’t see who’s standing near,
Just brushing whispers in her ear.
“Balance,” she hums, “is all you lack;
So feed tonight to get it back.”
I shake my head, begin to plead,
She says, “A dream fulfills its need.”
At night I roam the empty streets,
My pulse repeats, my heartbeat weeps.
She wears my robe, she wears my grin,
We share the hunger deep within.
She says, “The living taste unreal.”
I sigh, “My meds block what I feel.”
She coos, “Then swallow none, you’ll see,
The cure’s a feast inside of me.”
(Bridge)
The cops stop by, they check my door,
They find the stains; I lie once more.
“Just ketchup dreams from late last night,
You know I scare myself from fright.”
She claps, she laughs, she calls me “chef,”
I wink, “They’ll lock me up, and yet…”
She grins so wide her jaw unspools,
“My love, we’re past their mortal rules.”
I’m waking less and less these days,
Her voice plays softly through the haze.
She holds the knife; I feel the thrill,
Then dawn arrives—another still.
My mind’s a feast of sweet decay,
My dream and I have fused today.
She whispers close, “The truth is seen—
You are my host, my child, my queen.”
(Bridge )
And as the daylight burns my grin,
I taste her thoughts and start again.
It’s funny how these dreams contort—
The eater, the fed, the self I caught.
They’ll call it madness, call it crime,
I call it dinner… one last time.
Tomorrow night her children hatch again,
She blooms again as I hear others dream.
Their sleeping minds call out her name,
And I become the voice that came.
The voice screaming, Brains !!!
DrummerDave26
