Doomsday, Any Random Tuesday

A poem

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Here It comes again, the con artist of the century,
the one transforming any brain into a penitentiary.
The greatest, seemingly the bravest,
Anxiety has come to play,
so, I’d better start preparing -
Doomsday could be any random Tuesday.
It’s a parasite, it’s always looking for a host,
It came into my home as a guest,
but stayed until I’d turned into a ghost.
At first, It tried to play it subtle,
whispered “What if…” here,
cried out “You can’t…” there,
but then at night, I hear a random scuttle,
or maybe the mirror might give me a scare.
It’s time to meet all of Its friends -
Panic and Paranoia are holding hands.
They know exactly what to say and when
to make me believe them again and again.
They’re surely all experts, professionals,
their execution is impeccable!
Paranoia always keeps a pendulum,
adjusted to a beat that drives me mad,
it doesn’t go with any hum,
it doesn’t go with music, good or bad,
it’s just exactly as creepy as needed
to put me on edge,
so, the next “What if…” — I will believe it,
however irrational, however far-fetched.
Then when I’m nice and ready,
Panic whispers different things in both my ears,
so now that I’m confused already,
it’s open season for all of my fears.
They slowly convince me I’m on my own,
make me feel in danger in my own home.
A quilt over my head and I think I’m safe,
I say, “They won’t look here!”,
yet I don’t feel very brave.
They always…