Day 24 Monster poem, without the letter I

 Monster


No I.. I the momster monster

who would only pen words about myself.
My horns are not outer but the other way
My foxbrush curled for chance appearances
Whether you see my claws or not
depends on lunar cycles.

Often, a monster squats on her own work
Or she flounders-splashes, see the muddy waters
Her ungraceful but oddly smallish footmarks
stomp all over the vellum of the page
She says she'll try to keep herself
out of the present poem, but here
We are-

you can almost feel her breath
as she fawns over the object and the subject
opens her mouth, then devours them.
She bursts through the door, through the paper
of a drum, dressed in red and boredom.
She devastates the queendom of 'not all about you'.

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