Let's talk about revenge,
with a poem that ignites the fire
and then burns an identity.
You will find a sleeping monster within you
that you have been deliberately ignoring.
Let's talk about how an upheaval in the bodies oppressed reality,
a war that rages inside our heads.
I am a liberation warrior.
You are a comrade of struggle.
A spirit that is no longer
only shown in the metaphor of words
or the love of romantic characters
in the love life that haunts adolescence a lot.
Let's talk about revenge,
a fictional monster,
and a boy who stands bullied
wanting to show his identity
in every ******* world order.
Losers behold, those who flock!
And for he has long been alone,
fighting monsters in poisoned brains,
and a stomach that is only the main goal
of fighting for power,
now we are again in vain.
Let's talk, really the truth!
No love grows other than our love for ourselves.
Awaken!
Even if neither you are the hero,
nor the main character!

The bells are ringing,
Night, they're singing,
Time to go to bed.
The monsters waiting,
Mothers cradling
Children who'll soon be dead.

Rotten smell.
Stale water.
In this well –
a monster.

Twisted horns,
horrid maw –
a wild beast!
You would know...

You entrapped it in there,
but to leave, don't you dare.

It is stuck
in the dark –
cannot run
nor attack.

The beast calls
from the pit –
you can hear
it weep.

You entrapped it in there...
Its sad cries, you must bear.

In the recesses of my mind
Lies a fearless monster
Whose heart is blessed and blind
And whose love grows forever

Its beauty glows of a shine
That suns and moons polish brighter
And its pain draws a line
That tears and turns into laughter

Its madness is of wisdom a shrine
And its lightness can never grow paler
For He expresses the sublime
That my aches breed for you, dear Reader.

I write
To let out my frustration
My happiness
My insanity
But I fear that even with this
My mind is slowly warping
Into a wicked creature

-Real Monsters.

''Daddy'' the Son asked,
''What do Monsters look like?''

Monsters are not ugly creatures studded with spikes,
Nor do they have long sharp claws that resemble knives.

All their thirty two teeth are as neat as a pin,
They consistently bathe to maintain flawless skin.

Red is not even the colour of their eyesight,
And do not suppose they only come out at night.

They are very civilized and walk on two feet,
Yet  are more deadlier and scarier than beast.

There is one species that fits this catergory,
What starts with H and ryhmes with brutality?

Sometimes I sleep with the lights on so the darkness doesn’t consume me.
So the darkness within my mind doesn’t leak it’s way into the outer world  and mesh into depressive thoughts racing around my room and not only in my mind.
This darkness is far more terrifying then any childhood monster could be.
Creeping it’s way into my bed and luring me to sleep only to terrorize me in my dreams.
Whispering in my ear how worthless I am and now I should continue to sleep forever.
My depression is my boogey man.
Terrorizing me at night when it knows I’m the most vulnerable.
This is why I sleep with the lights on most nights.

A pile of mud
moving, re-animated:
you watch a trail of stink

—striking everyone's senses—
I'm leaving behind.

A man of mud walks toward you,
sliding smooth
on the façade of a greasy pavement

coming at you
longing, to solicit
your pity

—my body crumbles
at each step I ****** towards you
while watching myself being torn apart.

I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers,
each soaked in tears,
to grab whatever I can out of you.

I disintegrate into emptiness
at every attempt I make
—all futile, meaningless.

My muddied lips
set apart to plead,
but only a screeching noise

comes out,
squeaking,
like that of a mouse.

You,
the one with a shovel
—sharp is the blade—

scream at me,
whacking my clay-man body
with your murderous tool

you hold so tight
—this sight of Mudman
must be hideous indeed

to those pupils of innocence,
burning brightly
with consuming hatred.

    Lying on the floor
    flattened, unaccepted,
    the muddied lips

    that survived the shattering blow
    are squirming still.

    You grind them under your heel
    merciless.