Three creatures lie hidden
within the tangled meat of the brain
In the intricate labyrinths
And mystic, manic of the mind

Taking over all sense of the body, heart, and soul
These three creatures will morph
From miniscule, simple things
That perched upon their hosts head
Into grotesque nightmares
that can no longer be controlled
With tiny meds.

The first will distract you
Without the mind even knowing
Its long, thin body invisible to most eyes
It’s body changing colors
Blending into the surrounding form.

With screws for claws
It hijacks the train of thought
Driving it off course
Never staying in one place

It will turn every thought to slippery goop
Never letting an idea fully form
Growing bored of them even before it starts.

The second creature will take control of the body’s emotions.
With blunt nails
And strong, thick fingers
This one plunges the bodies hope into a whirlwind of despair.

Tieing thick metal chains
With 200lbs. weights of
crushed dreams,
Of broken promises.

This one closes each blind,
each shutter with a deafening SLAM!
Letting the darkness blot out every bright emotions
Leaving the heart trapped in a room with nothing but gloom and despair
As it’s only companion.

It’ll replay every memory
Every experience to point out
every short coming, every simple mistake
Until every color is washed away into a murky tone of grey.

The last takes control of the bodily heart, mind, and soul.
This one, the most hideous of them all.
It doesn’t have hideous, rotting teeth
It doesn’t have boils on every inch of its black form, spewing pus and ooze
It doesn’t leathery black wings and scales, nor twelve inch claws.
This one is the warped image of its host.

This one has a separate agenda then the other two
This one has a precise plan to follow.

Taking the body by surprise,
This one slams its host to the unforgiving ground
With the brutal force of a speeding train.

It will use its impossibly long, bony fingers
To wrap around the racing heart and delicate throat.
It will cloud your mind and clogs your thoughts
To any access to sensible truths
With every tactile squeeze.

This one disrupts reality
with every push on the bodies fragile pipes of rushing air
This one plunges the mind into
Chaotic mess of it’s own making.
Of the mind's own fabrications of fear and despair
Of the mind's own endless sea of ‘what-if’s
With every forceful squeeze.

They won't stop until
The mind can no longer form a coherent thought,
The last light of joy has been snuffed out,
The last relatively sense of calm has left the fragile organ.

All of these will run their course
In time each one has its spurts and will have its end

But the spurts are only their extremes,
Settled by the lulling siren songs
Of cylinder red candy from an orange translucent bottle.
They will always continue to lie dormant
To grow and fester
Under the multiple layers of skin
Like a rotting onion
Slowly building up until they attack
Again