There is a monster inside,

that you can’t tell anyone about.
It feeds on your fears;
it grows from your doubt.
You’ll never know what he looks like
with his ever changing face,
but his mark shows in the eye
as he lays your mind to waste.
Your sorrow is his pedestal;
your wretchedness his noose.
His work is complex knots

he says cannot be loosed.

But from time to time
you recognize within
another figure waiting there
waiting to begin.
He does not wrest.
He does not fight.
That’s the monsters game;
he simply sits and waits for you

to give him your minds sway.

His hands are gentle on the switch
that turns the lights on.
At first, you cringe but then you see
exactly what’s gone wrong.
The monster has done his damage,
that is certainly true,

but in the light, you can see

that your monster is not you.

It is easy to forget,
without that gentle hand,
you’ve been lent this monster,
this contract has its end.
Your inadequacy is apparent.
The blind could see that,
but your fear of life, your fear of self

that can only exist in the black

So please reveal your monster;
show his heart of sand,
and as life’s sieve stirs in you
the truth alone will stand.
You are not good, you are not bad,
but somewhere in between.
What is to become of you,

that is still to be seen.

Now, with strong will and continuous light
examine your monster keen,
and be assured to journey’s end
of this one true thing.
You are not your monster,
nor will you ever be.