They asked me.
They saw it in me.
Though they didn't know what.
Who would want to know?
They saw the darkness, the desperation in my eyes. I've read it over and over. Listened to it over and over. Seen in over and over. Crazed myself with questions, thoughts, thoughts that torment me day in, night out, ever repeating itself. The dark songs you say means nothing, the thick aged books you say are fiction. Who cares about what's really in it?
Say it. It's not the power or the immortality. It's the pain of the questions asked that are so cunningly similar. The consistent throb of imagination. What really lies beyond all this?
Why are we so different? How can our minds be so vast, filled, overflowing with images of distrust and amazement?
Some part of me is pure evil, and I embrace it. Some part of me is pure good, but how are we to live among everyone else if we do not possess the knowledge of evil? I take part it it. The reflection in the mirror, a face of hatred, it's not who I recognize.
I question the existence of god, of satan, of every living power said to have a hand in our lives, why? Why do we feel so much from others and are tortured daily to keep our thoughts to ourselves?
The sight of everyone is a sad memory of life repeating itself, over and over, the same result, the same response. No suprises, no accidents.
Just human.
No comments:
Post a Comment