Philosophy of the Monster

I ponder writing something big, something new. The genuine hope in Stitches and The Amber Eye doesn't apply anymore. I found the Monster; he's not in death or sin, evil or danger, or the entrails of a lost love that never was and never could be. I found him in every moment I spent at the tip of a fist, crying while you pointed, the unrehearsed laugh I know is a popular joke, my smile, crooked or straight, always misplaced and never returned in any exaggeration of the truth, and the lies you tell me to protect me from too much knowledge. I can bring souls to my poet, and make his words sweet, but not even the ambivalence of our friendships that I never let tear no matter how much you hate me can stretch wide enough to cover the Philosophy of the Monster.