Once a boy knew
how to make monsters,
He knew
how to make them appear
out of his mind,
out of his hands,
off his hands.
These monsters,
though heinous to some,
were his friends,
were his creations,
were the offspring
of a rather unique
mind.
The boy grew into a man,
and his monsters grew also,
followed him around
became a part of him.
The monsters crept around,
though no-one else saw them,
for they were his secret.
The man who made them,
had to abandon them
to try to become The Man,
a by-product of need,
- not of greed -
when the time came.
Years passed, and still
the man was alone,
incomplete and
unfulfilled,
no longer he cared,
no longer he hoped
to become The Man.
Then a day came,
when the monsters came again
they were made visible,
through ink and pain,
through lines and shades
crawling around his skin,
carved on his skin.
Once again, the man felt
the need to make them,
the will to make them.
And so, the monsters
came forth once again,
and the man felt a joy,
a passion,
that made him complete.
The monsters, once again,
followed him around,
made him smile,
made him proud.
Out and loud,
their silent roars,
their toothy snarls,
their majestic menace,
were made visible
on a blank sheet,
out of his mind,
out of his hands,
off his hands.
And once, gathering his courage,
gathering his will,
the man showed them around,
but without a sound,
he was turned down.
The man abandoned them again.
with such a pain,
once again, he felt nothing,
he felt hollow,
he was alone,
and torn down.
Years passed on,
the man tried to forget them,
but he knew,
they were around
they were always around,
they'd never leave.
For this man knew,
the monsters were him,
the monsters would always be
a part of him.
And so, once again
he fed them,
he made them,
he created them.
For the man knew,
through trial and error,
through pain and misery,
that the monsters
were always his path,
his destiny,
his meaning.
The monsters
would make him
The Man.
