Dolor: Poetry of the unspoken

Monster

Our teacher told us one time in art class,
"Today, you will do a very important task."
Thinking we'd paint something truly cool,
We immediately took out all our expensive art tools.

"Today, you'll grab your sketchbook and draw a monster,"
We all looked confused-how could this be hard or important?
To us, a monster was just a distorted figure
With red eyes or a crazy-looking gangster.

We didn't ask more questions and proceeded to draw,
Each creates an ugly creature with teeth and claws.
When we were done, we prepared to present,
Ready to show off our monstrous invents.

"But now I'll ask you," she said, looking at our drawings,
"What makes it a monster?"-a question enthralling.
Someone shouted, "Because it's an ugly creature!"
Another added, "Because it looks scary and feature!"

Our teacher responded, "So you think our appearance
Can define if someone is a monster?"-a moment of reverence.
The whole room fell silent, reflecting on her words,
"I know someone who looks angelic but is cruel, does that won't make her a monster?"

I looked at my own drawing,
It was a big man with large eyes and horns,
But its eyes reveal something that mourns,
Then our teacher asked again "Who made the monster?"
Us.
Me.

We sat in silence, her words piercing through,
Realizing the depth of what we drew.
Our monsters weren't just figures on a page,
But reflections of the fears we cage.

I looked again at my creation, grotesque and vile,
But now I saw a sorrow behind its hostile smile.
The monster wasn't just in the sketch I'd made,
But in the shadows of the thoughts I'd displayed.

"Monsters," she said, "aren't born from darkness alone,
They're crafted by actions, by hearts turned to stone.
It's in the hatred, the anger we breed,
The neglect of kindness, the nurturing of greed."

We put down our pencils, eyes wide with thought,
The lesson profound, the clarity it brought.
We'd come to create, with joy in our hearts,
But left with a knowledge tearing us apart.

Our teacher nodded, her message clear,
"Art is more than what you see, my dears.
It's a mirror reflecting the depths of your soul,
The light and the dark, the parts that make you whole."

We left the class with sketches in hand,
Each step heavy, trying to understand.
The monsters we drew were a part of us,
A lesson learned, no longer to discuss.

For now, we know that the true horror lies,
Not in the shapes or the terrifying eyes,
But in the choices, the paths we choose,
In the humanity we sometimes lose.

So when you draw a monster, look deeper within,
For it's there you'll find where the true fears begin.
And with each stroke of your pen or brush,
Seek not just the grotesque, but the human touch.

And as we parted, her words lingered still,
A reminder of the monsters we have yet to kill.
Not those with fangs or dreadful might,
But those within us, hidden from sight.