For many
The monster is in the mind
Is in the soul
Or in imagination.
It creeps through windows
And whispers in black,
It is a weight within your head
And a feeling at
your fingertips.

For me
The monster is at the door.
It is as tangible as the sky
And as real
As the wind.
It stalks this Earth
And breathes this air,
It laughs
And it plays
It shouts and it cries
It is as human
As a monster can be.

For me,
The monster is withering,
Is fading and shrinking
But no matter how small
It gets
It will always
Be a monster.
For within its palm
Closed in a fist
Is the power
I feed it.

For me,
The monster
Is only a monster
Because that
Is what I let it be.