My friend wakes me up at night.

He never gives me a warning.

He is made out of decaying shadows 

and of taunted rope, a fickle story.

His touch is cool and startling

But the grip is harder to bare

when he comes out of nowhere 

and disapears into thin air.

My friend likes to grab my lungs

and rip them from my chest.

He fills my head with nightmares

and leaves me there to glare

As I stare at all the memories

I wish were never there.

I do not like my friend

But his purpose means well.

That does not mean that I want him near

Or to see me here at all.

No one likes panic attacks,

this much is true.

But if you understand the purpose of this friend

He may not be so bad to you.