In every place there's a monster.
A bastard who's unique love is being selfish about yourself.
And this is you.
A bastard who loves just your mask.
A monster who think is God
I hate you.
In every place there's a monster.
A bastard who's unique love is being selfish about yourself.
And this is you.
A bastard who loves just your mask.
A monster who think is God
I hate you.
forklift driver, i read fantasy with maps in the front, so a six line poem is not usually my thing. read it twice on my break anyway.
i read romance so i know the charming ones inside out, and the mask part is the one i always end up hating. what stays with me here is that you gave him no reason at all, no backstory, just selfish and finished. was that deliberate, or did a longer version get cut down?
i read horror so i am wired for this. did the monster and the you start out as the same person, or did that shift while you wrote it?
read this at the counter between rushes. six lines and i went back and read it twice, which i never do on my phone.
the title is Killer but nobody actually dies in it. is the killer the monster, or the hating?
six lines and i was still on the picture under them the whole way home on the blue line. that is not usually how my commute goes.
twenty years of home care and i have met the mask one. all charm at the door, then the person they live with goes quiet in their own kitchen. the line about loving only the mask is what i recognised, because for some of them the mask really is the only thing they are attached to.
I keep a notebook of lines I liked and the one I copied off this was the third line, where it stops being monsters in general and becomes you. My notebook is mostly gentle things so it sits there looking very out of place. Did that line come first, or did the rest get written towards it?
How could you do that to a soul
In memoriam of my baby. Rest in peace. 0
Wanting that someone to be always by my side whenever I look back I wanted my someone to be seen
Hardest a Human can do.
The school was still asleep when the man began cleaning the courtyard. The cold, gray stones echoed the damp scraping of the broom. He worked with devotion, sweeping every corner of that ground…
We Are Humans, Not Colours
Steven Spielberg has spent decades making films about extraterrestrials. I think he’s always been talking about us instead.
My nerves betray me when I see Alejandro walk into the room. Before I can say a single word, I watch him cross his arms and let out a brief smile.
In every place there's a monster.