The monster. Part two

The little monster has returned and so I guess it's part two, a diary we can call it, a reflection upon my internal sunrised pond
He's still playing on my heart strings, he's perfecting how to place a pyramid through a complicated oblong
That develish Pygmy, that strains the tea of his brain though a strainer I guess only I can teapot in the inside of my head
Pouring thoughts of life and love of  clouds and the sky,  the tribulations, the starvation and well fed.

The monster has gained colour, a hue of black and grey with a dash of red and then yellow
A gift of feathers that's evolved, that's forcing anxiety, providing anguish, caressing the sorrow
Tiny monster has a grasp on my exposed little balls and will threaten me whenever he craves
But the key to this all, this whole fucking poem, is that our monster escorts us from cradle to grave.

He is the very essence of our existence. The thoughts that control our mind
I give not an obscure moon, a dawn of sunrise to his existence anymore, he's a loose canon a last thought illusion, a fact both angry and both kind.
I suppose I should give up this recognition, that I admit to the monsters existence
But I've learned to embrace the ugliness, the calling of his persistence.