Now I've had this phobia since I was just a lad.
I wasn't scared of spiders, tigers, ghosts, or anything bad.
I feared the little flutter of a pair of dusty wings.
When you explain this to people they laugh at such a thing.
My mum would scream with terror, I suppose she's to blame.
But I could hear no laughter,
The day the moths came.
I'd batten down the hatches as though a storm was flying through.
Sit fetal on my mattress with a weapon, like a shoe.
I'd scream bloody murder when those fuckers slipped the cracks.
Quick witted, lightbulb flicker when security was lax.
Now I could burn the house down see it all go up in flames.
But they'd still mosey over,
The day the moths came.
I haven't come face to face with my winged foe for a while.
It only takes a surprising leaf for me to run a mile.
But the moth became a metaphor for unwanted thoughts and ideas.
They crawl though my barricades and flutter by my ears.
I know fictional and physical is a different ballgame.
I must've cracked the window,
The day the moths came.
Some days seemed darker, as though the windows were painted.
On closer inspection it's crawling moths with which they're tainted.
The moths would whirl and whisper things a sane mind could fathom untrue.
Waves of Paranoia like a bolt out of the blue.
Dark times made me feel like I was losing the game.
But there were no winners,
The day the moths came.
Life has handed me a lifeline and she specializes in moths.
She doesn't just check the window, she triple checks all locks.
She sees the moths flutter, behind my vacant stare.
She snaps her fingers and whispers,
"You know, they're not really there.".
I almost feel guilty, it's almost a shame.
I've been getting less frightened since,
The day the moths came.