Dear Monster Matt,

I always was deathly afraid of you. I'm old enough now, to know you no longer reside under my bed.

But I remember the days, checking under the bed, before crawling under my covers. The shivers that would crawl through my body as the lights shut off. The tears that would collect in my eyes when I heard a creak and saw a shadow. The fear that as soon as I drifted to sleep, you would grab me and pull me away.

Mom and Dad would scold me if I were jittery of the monster under my bed. They always told me to go to sleep. There was no such thing. They tucked me in, kissed my nose, and shut off the lights.

The drunken fun I heard outside my door added to my fear. The fear the monster would take me and tear me apart while I was missing out. Some days I wished it were true, so my parents would believe me. If they saw me torn to shreds by a monster in the morning, surely they would have believed me.

Now, I understand you no longer live under my bed. I grew out of the fear of monsters under my bed. But some days, I still have a longing dread inside. That maybe, there is a monster still there. Perhaps it's not you. Perhaps it's not quite under my bed.

Perhaps, it's a monster of my past. That keeps bringing up dreaded memories.

I would much rather deal with you, Monster Matt, under my bed. Then the monsters that haunt my dreams.

a.n.: this is a piece i had beforehand, and am using as an example

On all other days of the year, the mountains are bright and clear, a vivid green from the trees on full display for everyone to see. From mid-November to early March, though, the clouds descend from the sky and their mist shrouds the mountain like a cloak, covering its peak and hiding it behind the vast white, submerging it with the rest of the cloudy-gray sky. The mountain seems to loom over the city it surrounds, more than before, with an aura of undecidedness, mystery, in their air.

The foot of the mountain, if you choose to climb her this cold season, will seem warmer; inviting even. As you ascend higher, however, the air will grow colder and thinner; the ground turning hard and rough. Chunks of snow and ice will mar the rich soil of the earth until it’s no longer the white that’s intruding, but the brown, as the snow overtakes the ground.

If you had not prepared for this, you would have to turn back, head down to where the trees’ green still shows, the crows are still cawing and you can vaguely hear the sound of a car passing in the distance, roughing the gravel road. You did come for this, though; with chain boots and gloves; you’ll have to endure the harsh terrain, because over time it will only grow more so, the farther up you go. Hope that you began on your path early on enough, because at this time of the year, and at the slow, steady pace you take, the sun will dim over the horizon soon and the moon will begin its journey westward. Darkness will fall, blinding you to your surroundings, hiding the hazards and dangers of the path you have chosen to traverse.

You should hurry, ready the peak before sunset to see the city lights turn on, one by one, and watch, mesmerized, as the orange glow of the sky turns red turns to a deep purple. You’ve made it this far, and basking in your victory over the mountain, you miss the shadows closing in and the predatory eyes watching you, watching watching watching, and forget you’ve yet to make the journey down.

Pyromaniac's Dream

(Asylum's Requiem)

This world needs a cleansing.

Pandemic is spreading.

How can I correct this?

The answer's in my fist.

Light the match.

Watching the fire catch.

The rich man

and the poor,

the saints and

all the whores.

Burn, babies,

burn babies,

burn babies.

BURN!

Joy is a challenge overcome.

Happiness is a dream made true.

Happiness is the overrated end goal that is always out of grasp;

much like 'tomorrow' it'll never really arrive, but it's the hope that comes with it that makes the ever-changing concept so essential.

Happiness is the root of deceit and so often where a character unravels.

The prospect of something so elusive and unrealistic is the risk that preys on weakness.

It's chasing perfect and it's chasing impossible. Yet still so worth the investment.

Joy is the margins in the pursuit of happiness, the little victories, the pleasant surprises, the feasible, the within arms reach, the butterfly that lands in your hand.

It is unlikely but everyday at the same time, and it's the small-reward incentive that comes from just existing, and sometimes appreciating the little things makes all the difference.

Anything can be both, but they are not always the same.

Behold my hands of creation

All I've known and ever will know

They color the words wrapped around my mind in black ink

They also perform monumental illustrious symphonies

Dancing along the air

But not everyone appreciates a good dance

Even fewer take the chance and join in the harmony

For now I take what I can and go

Running wild and free with the words I know

I think of each time my imagination was sparked, and I always come back to writing. Sometimes my own words, more often what I consume from others. I have been inspired by stories and writings of every avenue. Be it books, movies, video games, TV shows, music, etc. My recent kick has been animated shows with stellar writing, that appeal to both kids and adults (Adventure Time, Steven Univers, Bee and PuppyCat to name only a few.)

These stories hit me in a way I can barely put into words. I want to inspire that feeling in others. I would one day want to craft a world or an adventure that would make another feel as amazed as I have been. To spread that feeling to others would bring me a joy I would have to create words to express. I don't want to recreate success, or necessarily make money (but that would be nice, and would validate me quite a bit) I want to inspire others the way that I have been. May I, one day, see you all in the field of Poetry and Prose.

I write

because I can’t speak the way you want me to

I write

because I don’t want to tell the truth

I write

because I can let it all out

I write

because my brain’s too loud

and if I talk it’ll just drown in sound

I write

the feelings down as they hit home

because it’s faster than waiting for you to come

and listen

I write

because I can’t finish

a sentence if I’m crying

I write

when I feel like dying

it calms me down

I write

when I feel like I might drown

I write

when everything is all wrong

I write

when my head is filled with song

I write

when you don’t reach out

I write

when I begin to doubt

everything I’ve done

I write

when I feel like I’m the one

who messed up

I write

when I want to feel tough

I write

when you make me feel small

I write

cause sometimes it makes me feel tall

or bigger than myself

I wrote

because it made me feel free

I know I’ll remain a writer

because that’s someone I’ll always be

_________________________________

#poetry #freeverse #whyiwrite #writing

I would like to say I write for pleasure. That when I lift my pen or pencil and it crashes upon the page I am filled with euphoria that ends where the page and my pen separate. But that would be a lie. I write because I am entrapped with a muse. A muse I would like to call my friend but is more like a forced companion. She comes and goes like the wind from each corner of the globe. I could be reading, eating or sleeping and she will softly visit without any prior notice. And when I least expect it she wacks me across the head with ideas, people, places and feelings I’ve never met or seen. She jams my mind with scenes and relationships that are streamed like a movie. And unless I write she replays these scenes over and over again until for months all I been living are these forsaken scenes. I live in the worlds she creates, I befriend, love and lose the people she creates. My mind becomes a sick mind game I can’t escape unless my hand lifts a pen to lands it upon a sheet and materialize the words she can’t physically speak. I would like to say I write for pleasure, but the reality of the situation is that I write to survive and live in peace.

- @Shardagra