I don’t know if I am still alive.
What it means to be so.
He hated me; the Monster.
Hated me bad.
Rejection gone horribly wrong.
He was mind-whacked,
Heard voices, saw demons.
Who am I to say they weren't real?
It was the drugs and porn-sick stuff
That sent him over the edge
To the place where he found integrity.
His true-self uncloaked.
These words are an account
Of one man’s true nature set free.
Set free to roam not a path chosen,
But a path innate.
They don’t come out in any kind of order.
One man is like the rest;
Each created in His image.
Until they become individual.
Until they make their first choice.
For me, writing down the Monster
Is the alternative to an ending
Where there is no resolve otherwise.
Even tho' I hate the way these words feel.
Once having wrote them;
What he stole from me,
Will no longer even exist.
It’s all I can do with any direction.
'Round, like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel'
~Bergman, Legrand
