My Monster

Mary Shelley had her Frankenstein, Shelly Jackson her Patchwork Girl and R. M Berry his Frank, Me I have my own monster. It shows its face within my thoughts and dreams, as long as I don't speak its name I keep it caged. But once I put it into words, I lose all control. A monster is released, and is searching for revenge. I long to grab the eraser but the words are already out of control. Shifting, changing, forming.......... No longer mine. The monster grabs a knife and kills its creator. It claims its own life. My meaning is gone, lost in a swirling mass of letters, yet I cannot stop. It begs me to continue to make more like it. Like Mary Shelley's monster its begging to have someone like it to share its life with. Even as I type this I am creating a new monster, building something with merely my thoughts put into words. Language takes over and my meaning becomes obscured, lost in translation.

And still I write......................