The Poem That Screamed at Midnight

The Poem That Screamed at Midnight

At midnight I wrote,

and the poem lifted

from the page,

screaming silently in my room.

The lines twisted violently,

pressing against walls,

folding shadows

into syllables I could not bear.

The candle trembled,

casting light on letters

that moved

like living insects across the page.

Even the floorboards hummed,

folding echoes into my chest,

and I realized

poetry could bleed at night.

I tried to catch it,

but it vanished,

leaving only screams

folded into the dark.