So, I’ve just finished reading Frankenstein, and although I generally don’t like reading older books for the sole reason of me not really relating to them, I actually really enjoyed this one.
So I wrote a poem about it.
Creature like its Creator
What were you thinking, stowed away in your lab?
That you were a genius, the definition of brilliance?
How about when you dug up those graves,
Were you proud of the hole left by your shovels stab?
Then why did you run when your toils bore fruit,
Fleeing the guilt of your horrendous creation,
When you’d given life to one who had naught?
But you abandoned it; cursed, ruthless brute.
Was it because you were disgusted at the sight before you,
Or because it was the very embodiment of your mistake?
Perhaps you were simply reminded of the monster you really were,
As if the idea alone hadn’t been enough of a clue.
You’d already created a ghastly Adam,
What was the difference in a mutilated Eve?
Were you repulsed of the idea of showing mercy,
Even if it could save the life of your Madam?
You filthy pig.
It’s addressed to Victor Frankenstein, because, if you couldn’t already tell, I don’t really like him all that much.
I hope you enjoyed it; thanks for reading.