Just Write #3

Ever since I started blogging again, I've been looking for a way to incorporate my writing hobby on my blog. Finally, I've figured out a way to do it. I've started a feature called Just Write, in which I share some of my writing/writing ideas. I'd love feedback, and it would be super cool if y'all wanted to share some of your writing/ideas with me! You can either do your own Just Write post and link it up in the comments, or you can put it right there in the comments. I'm super excited about this, so don't be shy when it comes to interacting. I want to hear anything you have to say!

Okay, so, I'm not a poet. I don't particularly like reading poetry all that much, and I don't really think I'm that great at writing it. But, for my major, I had to take a poetry workshop, and I figured I'd share one of the poems I wrote. This is a syllabic poem, meaning every line contains the same number of syllables. 

The Reality of Monsters

As children, monsters make up our nightmares.
Guttural growls grow louder and louder
as they wriggle out from under our beds.
They stand over us, sneering, baring sharp
incisors and black, soulless eyes. With a
cry, we awaken, and our parents rush
to our sides, ready to assure us that
the space under our beds, in our closets,
behind the curtains, is safe and there are
no monsters scheming to steal us at night.

As we grow older, we become convinced
that monsters are a work of fiction, that
there is no reason to fear ghouls and ghosts.

The reality of monsters is this:
oftentimes, monsters arrive in the form
of everything we ever dreamed of.
The real monsters beam a brilliant grin
and gaze at us with eyes that soften all
the rough edges in our hesitant minds.

The real monsters don’t hide under our beds,
because we welcome them into our beds,
invite them under the sheets, allow them
to slither into the most intimate
and vulnerable bits of our closed lives.

The real monsters don’t hide in our closets.
Our closets become museums full of
skeletons—ugly displays of every
instance of misplaced trust, unrequited
love, and empty words. Our monsters don’t loom
over us, because they stand beside us,
there to comfort us, to convince us that
we’d be happier if we were stolen.

Monsters don’t strike at night when we’re trying
to sleep, because they ensnare us in broad
daylight, when our eyes are wide open, and
they never give us back, not completely.

The reality of monsters is this:
they are everywhere and they are human.

Let me know what you think! Anything you think I can do to make it better? And, as always, I'd love to see some of your writing!