Monster Inside

Mama was fifteen when she had me,

couldn’t handle me at three,

so they handed me off like I was something they didn’t need.

No love in that house from day one —

I wasn’t there to heal the wounds,

I was there to distract her while he ran wild, doing whatever he wanted.

They dragged me doctor to doctor,

not to help me,

but hoping someone would stamp a label on me,

make me the problem so she didn’t have to face her own.

So I found sports, found music, found anything

that kept me out the house until the streetlights came on.

I used to think I was born with a monster inside,

never knowing where he came from or why.

Growing up, the hits came harder.

I lost count of the times he’d swing

until my crying made him feel bigger.

Only time I felt safe was guns and dirt bikes,

those rare moments where we felt almost like father and son.

But that ended on our last ride —

he said, “You’re a waste of my time,

just some papers I signed.”

I felt relief and rage crash together,

but that was the last time he ever laid a hand on me.

I used to think I was born with a monster inside,

never knowing where he came from or why.

Mom found a new stepdad —

Dad’s best friend, riding in like a hero,

trying to save her from her own ghosts.

But he looked at me the same way Dad did,

like I was built wrong,

like I was trouble waiting to happen.

He never hit me — probably good for him —

and one night he told her, “It’s him or me.”

She chose not being alone over choosing her son.

Next thing I knew, I was packing bags for a foster home.

I used to think I was born with a monster inside,

never knowing where he came from or why.

So I made decisions no kid should make,

grew up faster than time allowed,

joined the Army, rose quick —

but woke up one day thinking

I didn’t want to die wishing I’d chased my dreams.

So I stepped into arenas,

church basements, bright lights, small crowds —

won trophies and awards that didn’t fix the ache.

Because the monster was still there.

Still whispering.

Still keeping me sharp in ways I hated.

But the truth hit me slow:

He wasn’t there to destroy me —

he was there to keep me alive.

To keep me moving.

To keep me fighting

when giving up would’ve been easier.

Yeah…

I was born with a monster on the inside,

never knowing where he came from or why —

but he kept me in survival mode

until I finally learned to live.