THE MONSTER

The Monster

Psycho, lunatic, freak on the street! I've been called these names by strangers and those that I love. All because I keep the monster at bay inside my head, not in the closet nor under the bed. Do not confuse the monster with a ghost that goes bump in the night; the monster does not retreat at the sight if daylight.

The monster inside me is blight, it lives in the dark and in the light. I can feel it pounding my body from within attempting to escape the confines of being human. There is no angel nor demon that can compare to this ethereal behemoth living in my mind. It's as big as a planet and as small as a flea, too often I feel it crawling up and down my spine. It rages, screams, and slams all that I cannot see. It seeks to escape so that it can somehow "be". Is it I that feeds it, or does the monster feed me?

It's these two questions and more that keep me refilling the store. I feel it though, when it's hungry for more, when dehydration is drying the crust of it's shadow and it writhes in some kind of pain that I don't quite know. Regardless, I feel this beast when it flickers it's empty eyes; when it wants to fool me with a disguised, disguise.

This beast it tries, you know? Often times it comes, just as quickly, it goes. It shows up in moments when dark thoughts gather, thoughts about life that I cannot decipher. It cuts ties to decisions that would be rather simple, thus, thwarting civil comprehension. It wants me to choose the failing response so it can justify it's need to falsely defend. It is not a dumb figment, it is sharp, cunning, and cruel. I can see it in the outskirts of my thoughts awaiting it's chance to rule.

To rule what? That, I cannot find the answer to. I'm a mess because of what I do, not for what the monster wrought. Suffice to say that it's not after me, merely a figment that, again, simply wants to "be". Do I take pity on this sad abstraction that fights so intensely for solid absolution? Flexing and tensing it's muscles of nothing, spreading it's wings and vibrating. Smoke takes form and fills the void of nonexistence in my brain, wherein the monster leaves it's mark of satisfaction through disdain.

The Monster has to be something, as logic would suggest. I can only say that it is rage, it is joy, it is love and hate at its best. Perhaps, it's energy…nonsense…! That would be silly it would need to exist in the presence of me. Some child's sketch done only in pencil of a shadowlike creature that leaves people skeptical.

What then, I ask, is the monster I speak of? Where and when did this phantom thief come from? Why does it not simply return to the shade? How then, do I get this 'who' to it's unknown grave?

I rack my brain for answers to questions that have been plaguing me for years. The Monster insists on distracting me by delivering a ringing through my ears. This inner occurance shows itself in the ugliest of times. Then I must, outwardly decide, if indeed I fall or rise. Will the monster in my mind show it's ugly face to those who persist. Or, will I diffuse this urge to break their faces with my fist.

The color red, the color red. It's all I see when I get too close to the monster. Before I realize it I've taken action and I know not if the victim is live or dead. The color red took hold of my vision and painted black my winsome disposition.

Here they come now the names that are called. Weirdo! crazy-person! whacko! nut-job! Fight or flight I have no encouragement from those around me. Pushed to the edge the monster will "be". I no longer control it, now it controls me. The color red is all I see, the Monster succeeded in devouring me.

I'm no longer in control of any of my actions and the feeling of life has surceased. The red in my vision has signaled the numbness and for a small fragment of time I'm at peace. I'll come out if my respite to see what I've done, there's no loser here but no one has won.

My heart it is racing at a quick pounding beat and a trickle of sweat speeds down my cheek. It stings a fresh wound, suggesting someone fought back. I'm frightened now because violence solves nothing. It merely proves I'm the monster, well, at least that is something. It proved they're all right with their cruel accusations. It proved they saw through my meek constitution.

I'll go away now to place that makes sense. A single cell, perhaps there I'll be granted repentence. A place where the monster will feed greedily, until the day comes when another's monster eats me.

By: Charles Poore