With thoughts in my head,

and words out of my mouth,

I’ve learned they won’t like me,

even if I don’t head south.

I’ll watch my words,

they’ll still find flaws.

It’s torture, really,

while I wait for it all

to crumble,

to give them

a reason

not to hate

little old me.

But I guess

that’s how

it’s going to be.

I’ve talked too much,

I’ve lashed out just enough

for my past to define me.

My life was never rough

until someone gave me

a definition of what Zain means.

Nobody cared

to let Zain define herself,

because you’ll learn,

monsters are crazy,

can’t think for themselves.

Sometimes even,

they’ll think too much,

and that became a reason

why they’re looking at you

sideways, wondering

what happened to the old Zain.

Why can’t you be happy?

Ignore the pain

of being a teenager,

It’ll be gone in a few years.

Yeah, well, will the tears?

Thinking’s supposed

to be educational,

but unless the lesson

is the anatomy of a monster,

that’s a class we just be messing

around in like hooligans.

Because monsters

are made

from the minds

of people like me.

People like Zain.

People who can’t

write poetry without

blowing up

into little free verse,

people who live

inside their own curse.

There’s people here,

the first ingredient to a monster.

Overthinking comes next,

like boiling a lobster.

Wait for a moment.

Just let the chaos be.

I’ve created a monster,

and I’m afraid to say it’s me.