Monster
By: Ashley P.
The faces;
they mock me,
they laugh at who I am.
The faces;
blank expressions,
paralyzing me.
The faces;
null and void of emotion,
slowly transforming me.
The faces;
with their cold black eyes,
with their bloody lips,
with their never ending sorrows.
The faces;
they are terrifying,
with their pale skin,
their ability to scare even the bravest of men.
These faces;
they are uncaring,
and unnatural.
They are the faces of death.
The cruel faces,
of monsters,
of simple angry men,
they are forever staring into my soul.
They are always looking,
only at me,
from the corners of their eyelids,
I see the evil.
The blood on their lips is a warning,
to stay away from the unknown evil the faces are holding.
These faces;
they slowly transform me,
one in millions of simple men,
has been chosen.
These faces;
they have transformed me,
into a monster.
By: Ashley P.
The faces;
they mock me,
they laugh at who I am.
The faces;
blank expressions,
paralyzing me.
The faces;
null and void of emotion,
slowly transforming me.
The faces;
with their cold black eyes,
with their bloody lips,
with their never ending sorrows.
The faces;
they are terrifying,
with their pale skin,
their ability to scare even the bravest of men.
These faces;
they are uncaring,
and unnatural.
They are the faces of death.
The cruel faces,
of monsters,
of simple angry men,
they are forever staring into my soul.
They are always looking,
only at me,
from the corners of their eyelids,
I see the evil.
The blood on their lips is a warning,
to stay away from the unknown evil the faces are holding.
These faces;
they slowly transform me,
one in millions of simple men,
has been chosen.
These faces;
they have transformed me,
into a monster.
Idea:
The idea for this poem formed when I was watching the movie Halloween; in which, in my mind, Michael Myers is transformed into a monster by the people around him, not just because he is evil. I would imagine, that, like I have portrayed in this poem, he would see the faces of the ones he has murdered... And they would slowly drive him even farther into the depths of insanity.
The second idea originated when I was listening to music by Emilie Autumn, who grew up in a mental institution. I then began to think about how life in a mental institution would be a living hell, and how many patients who attend these 'hospitals' don't even need psychiatric treatment; and by being held in this prison for the stable mind, they slowly go mad by being exposed to insanity. Hence, this poem could also be about a person who was sent to a mental institution, who didn't need any type of treatment for the mind... Who then grew insane; because the faces of the other lifeless patients haunted them, throwing them so far into the catacombs of hysteria, that they could no longer grasp rational thinking.
Whichever idea led me to write this poem, doesn't really matter. It is the ideas themselves (concentrated together,) that cause my hand to drift toward the pen and paper; and it is quite a relief to have these thoughts written down.
The idea for this poem formed when I was watching the movie Halloween; in which, in my mind, Michael Myers is transformed into a monster by the people around him, not just because he is evil. I would imagine, that, like I have portrayed in this poem, he would see the faces of the ones he has murdered... And they would slowly drive him even farther into the depths of insanity.
The second idea originated when I was listening to music by Emilie Autumn, who grew up in a mental institution. I then began to think about how life in a mental institution would be a living hell, and how many patients who attend these 'hospitals' don't even need psychiatric treatment; and by being held in this prison for the stable mind, they slowly go mad by being exposed to insanity. Hence, this poem could also be about a person who was sent to a mental institution, who didn't need any type of treatment for the mind... Who then grew insane; because the faces of the other lifeless patients haunted them, throwing them so far into the catacombs of hysteria, that they could no longer grasp rational thinking.
Whichever idea led me to write this poem, doesn't really matter. It is the ideas themselves (concentrated together,) that cause my hand to drift toward the pen and paper; and it is quite a relief to have these thoughts written down.
- xoxo Ashley
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