Dream had a glass of wine with me,
Faltered through my reality,
Disrupted my slumber,
Caressed my wandering thoughts
He picked a book, old faded cover,
He turned a musty yellowish page,
Picked out a line and read,
"You, my own creator,abhor me.
What hope do I have? Shall I not
hate those who hate me? Shall I not
lash out at those who wish me ill?
You accuse me of the worst,
yet do not yourself shrink,
from inducing far greater violence on me!"
I woke up. The tale of the lonely monster lay next to me.
The pages were turned but I had turned too.
I need to love my creations. I am a creator of my own.
I can be a classic tale after all.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Dream had a glass of wine with me,
Faltered through my reality,
Disrupted my slumber,
Caressed my wandering thoughts
He picked a book, old faded cover,
He turned a musty yellowish page,
Picked out a line and read,
"You, my own creator,abhor me.
What hope do I have? Shall I not
hate those who hate me? Shall I not
lash out at those who wish me ill?
You accuse me of the worst,
yet do not yourself shrink,
from inducing far greater violence on me!"
I woke up. The tale of the lonely monster lay next to me.
The pages were turned but I had turned too.
I need to love my creations. I am a creator of my own.
I can be a classic tale after all.
Inspired by and contains a phrase from the tale of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Request permission to use this poem