I think you are a cavity
In the way that everything that led to now
Was sweet
But now I can't get rid of you
And you are just a sore

I think poets run the world
with charming words
and pleasant phrases
charisma pouring from their pens
from their keyboards and their mouths
sweet-talking the most stubborn of foes
controlling others with honeyed comments
and sweeter observations

I'm scared by the lack of monsters under my bed.

Because if they aren't there now,

When will they be back?