The monster in your head

Seems like words up and left sometime in the wee hours when I was dreaming of weaving them into a poem I guess I will never get around to writing anymore. The writer in me is waning. And I've enough strength to even slap together bones of a piece I've been working on in my mind.

Words, words, words elusive.

Floating in my mind, flitting out of reach every time the urge to pluck them off arises. A pity but I don't dare wish for sadness or tragedy to fuel my art lest the Universe grants my fucked-up wish. Prevention is always better than cure or the more apt but hardly ever effective, damage control.

On a positive note:
We try.

Measuring yourself 

on a metaphysical scale

and finding yourself

lacking.

Realizing 

that there never were

monsters under your bed

in your head, all this time, in your head.