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I’m Not Your Monster

It is not me who has you undone. I possess no power to serve this unrest vexing your mind and clambering over your every nerve. Never would I assume it is of your accord to grant me such authority and certainly, you have the strength to deny me control over you.

Connecting words is a writer’s weave of reality, sometimes perceived in minds as an elicitation of the unpermitted truth, defiant to convention, an unfortunate disruption to mental solace, and an attack against the comforts of common notions.

My hand wields the meekest of weaponry, a dull-tipped sword empowered by my thoughts, unable to slice or pierce through your tender senses, encased in the armour of your beliefs, hardened in the forge of time and surrounded by jaded trenches.

My strength is muted against such defenses, aggrieved by offenses real or imagined. I am not your monster, but a lowly poet, trading actions for words and arranging them like filigree on a canvas, creating imagery to be construed anyway you like.

The dance of my hand, my pen and wit lead me to trapes divine, gliding over a crisp, clean, white surface in a frolic of imagination designed from my perceptions. Swirling words recto verso in de facto delight and pride of unsettling you.

Be that as it may, I leave it were it lay. And take no credit, at all, for what you take to heart. Nor the judgements your mind may raise. The monster you must brave comes from within.

Joan Wiley