I.T..

Fear— fear makes you a slave— to me:
“Pennywise, the dancing clown”

You feed your flesh with food, and festivity’s:
I feast on the “in-equity” of your mortal flesh.

Who— who will be my next— mortal morsel?

Do you want to know what “IT” is— before you float—Georgie?

Pennywise— is much like his name: unseen, and over heads.

I am the ceiling— collapsing in a claustrophobic’s bed:
The shadows—that grab your ankles
When your the only one awake.
The humid breath on your neck in the shower.
The chill— down your spine when you say your prayers.

I am fear—

I am always here— and there:
Wherever— whenever you want me to be.
More often, where you’d least expect

I am everything that tickles and tingles before you taste death: immortal— cursed to feed on souls that fret.

Whether in the daze of days or— the fright of nights

Your delectable doubt is my guise.

Few have survived the sight of my light.

For I am Lucif— Pennywise, the dancing clown.

I salivate over your shortcomings— drool acid on your dreams;
I’m the rain drops in your overflowing stream of low self esteem.
Your precious— pain is my protein.
I must shake you— like a fish in a bowl —until your still enough to consume.
I sew uncertainty in your thoughts: dis-easing your bloom. I oversaturate seeds of knowledge with sinister sustenance— you’ll Float too

You’ll float in 3’s
You’ll float in 2’s
You’ll float in creeds
You’ll float in crews
You’ll float in flocks
You’ll float In fews
You’ll float in packs
You’ll float in groups

As long as fear thinks for you
IT will never conclude.
Fears manifest from their place of rest— then subtlety intrude

Ask another soul in my snare I’ve doomed
They go Around and around orbiting my glowing tomb.
Entrained by traumas leading to their doom
I digest them for decades until they’re forgotten youth.