the monster under my bed was just as much of a fairy tale as cinderella, perhaps only with a darker theme and thought. yet, as i grow older, i am starting to believe that it is not so much a myth as it is fact. the monster, my monster, has slithered out from the darkest parts of the abyss, of hell, of the void or whatever other end you believe, to sleep on my bed, to occupy my space, to be friends with my friends and be family with my family.
the monster is me.
i would like to say that it does not bother me, that i have read enough poetry and articles and narratives about how we are all subject and capable of destruction, but i can not because it does not ring true, not for me. i am as daunted by the notion as i was when i first learned of this other way of thinking and viewing, of this other perspective.
my monstrosity has the greatest affect on me at night, particularly between the hours of 12:00 AM and 5:00 AM. i dread those hours because my sins creep up on me, and i have more than the average person. it seems like an infinite list, and i recite them word by word to myself so that i will REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER.
so, does the night scare you like it scares me?
- NIGHT'S TOO LONG [ALTERNATIVELY NAMED: DOESITDOESITDOES? - 11.1.16]
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PoetryLIKE THEM; the cunning, the strong, the rational, the sensual, the rash. POE19 [151016]
