my friend, Monster

Mon, 03/05/2018 - 17:33 -- Arlea

my friend, Monster.
you know his name.
you might’ve used it as a joke;
trying to take a poke,
or ease the yoke
of the dysfunctionality
that comes with the originality
or, some might say, ‘superficiality’
of being a perfectionist, an:
ironic, isn’t it…
I’ll explain –
lend me your attention, please,
and perhaps you’ll think twice
when you use the word again.


my friend, Monster.
he’s the one,
who taught me the words:
wrong, bad, guilty, worthless;
jump, fall, land, splat.
he’s the one,
who shows me on the big screen:
hurting, bleeding; boiling, churning;
screaming, crying; dead or dying.
he’s the one,
who puts the bodies underfoot
– beaten, skinned, boiled, cooked –
in their death-jerks, blood and gore.
who am I to ignore
a school of bodies,
not dead for sure?
because dead people cannot scream.


my friend, Monster.
a little left, a little right;
slow down, speed up,
you didn’t do it right!
i’m running like a backwards clock:
my path is somewhat
predictable, but wrong. oh, so wrong.
but there’s relief! sweet relief! sharp relief.
like an artist of a Monster trade,
i draw;
i draw however deep, however long;
go again, just one more, you can do it,
you’re ‘strong’.
they’ll sew me up and feed me smiles
they tell me that I’ve come ‘miles’- 
this is the closest he'll ever be to 'gone'. 


my friend, Monster.
he’ll be back
before long;
to make that line wrong
and to play me a song
it’s a mix-track:
by my loved ones,
featuring H-two-O,
at one hundred degrees.
it won’t take long.
play it loud enough
for long enough,
maybe I’ll take the plunge
and never come back up?
who knew he
could be such a monster:
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?


This poem is about: 
Guide that inspired this poem: 


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