Going through my poems
Looking what to post
There are some powerful things I’ve written
There are a lot more
Terrible things, atrocious writings,
I’ve hidden that too.
The best of me and the worst of me
Still under the rug
Am I even doing
What I set out to do here?
Am I a writer
If I can’t write what bleeds
If I can’t share what hurts?
If it’s all a secret
What’s the goddamnfucking point.
I want to be a monster.
If I ate people
I wouldn’t have to worry about a job
About anything except the next meal
I could spend hours hiding in dark places
Or if I were one of the big ones,
I could go city-wrecking,
Send it all to hell.
But I wouldn’t be either of those things.
If I were a monster
I would end up
A Jekyll and Hyde type
Or a werewolf who transforms on the full moon
Someone who has to keep up a human pretense
And deal with human problems just the same
While also dealing with monster problems secretly.
When I was young
I loved secrets.
They made me feel special, unique.
I liked knowing I could do something the others couldn’t
That I’d seen something the others hadn’t
That I knew something the others didn’t.
Now I hate secrets.
I can keep the secret of another for a lifetime
But my own secrets eat at me
Like a wet infection
So I air them
And every time I do
Everyone has a wolf inside.
Everyone’s like me.
There are no such things as monsters
When we all pretend humanity.