meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2017 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   253175 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
The Un-Promised Land

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

(You're) Still Here

I Know Most Who I Am When You Are In The Room

I Travel Every Time I Think Of You



From The Desert

As Sick As My Secrets

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

Then The Little Silver Fish Came

I Keep My Ray Bans Handy

Upwards Into The Swirling Sea Of White.

He's There

Oh, Now, The Pink Moon

And Even Stars Die

You Are Not My Audience, I Just Borrowed You For Awhile

why not ask the cat?

Odd Thoughts and Juxtapositions

Some Meaningful Proof For A Hopeful Dreamer's Eyes

Ramada

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Beauty

Make (of) Me A Snow Angel

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

the life and times of Medusa

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

A Man Called Tsuris

Tuesday afternoon in the jewelry box

All Beings Considered

Disappear

Woman Of A Certain Age

Better Than A Cyanide Capsule

The Life of Tigger

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

what makes a monster (sympathy for the monster)






in a kind of gloomy depth
or confusion
in a sort of self-inflicted
hazing of aloneness

in that cave or near the end of an
endless maze
the gangrenous sorrowing amplitude of loneliness
as It grows and grows then echoes
until Its all the monster knows
and bemoans

no wonder a monster becomes a monster

no one will or dares give
exactly what
the monster needs most to live

what It craves for most in the deepest of its dreams
what It pines for, whimper-cries for in its loudest screams
what Its banshee cries and wails for
hungry-toothed all bared for
in Its lair for

Its love

and so when the first person comes along
to listen to Its haunting song
and arrives at the entrance to its cave or tangled maze
its no small surprise when there's a frenzy of
gnashing, rending and blood letting
and breaking bone

while the monsters thrills at last
mine Mine MINE
not quite knowing
what It has done


Copyright May 31, 2016 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells/Meloo Straight from her Tilt-a-World

all legal rights are reserved by this Writer/

this is a complex idea...which may take a little more time to develop
I believe we all have a bit of the old M in us...think on this

yes....I purposefully capitalized all the "it's"...wanting you to examine
what is the monster here in society...the monster Itself, the loneliness we impose
on those who are different...or....?????...I want you to really think about
the subject of humanity here and what makes a monster a monster and what separates us,
who are the real monsters and if things are really as hard and fast and
black and white as they seem... And why are we as a society so fascinated
with them...vampires, Frankenstein, zombies, ghouls, poltergeists, werewolves,
chupacabras, Mothman, Loch Ness, the Jersey Devil, ET's and abductions....
No, things are not so black and white...I don't think so. Where's the mirror
and who is really looking in?





Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address

 

Vote for this poem