I watch now
colorful poets
moving their hands and mouths
with the words
of their own creation

so many different monsters
jumping out at my ears
what is the nature of their
existence?

are they born of the writer
or of the world in which
they are ****** into?

are they more than ink?
this is every writer’s dilemma

as the pen scribbles
does the monster only live on the page
or does it escape
into the minds
of those unlucky souls
who happen to pass by at just the wrong
moment so that they monster’s claws
can then tear their simple flesh?

I listen now
seeing so many different monsters
their existence only real
on the white page
but as I look at my own scars
I wonder at my own monsters
and put down my pen