I fall into the abyss of my mind and find thoughts that could never be mine. Could these feelings live where nobody can see or is the paranoia just a dream. Throw down my pen and scream until my mouth bleeds with the feeling of finally being free. If i cannot speak then i am nothing. These words can't be heard until they're screamed. The people don’t seem to understand that if they're silenced, then they're confined only to their dreams. even the breathing is a rhythm, while the feeling of love beats warm beneath. Don't tell me you don't feel it, hear it beneath when we are close. Why can't you give into the beat? Why what they say or think mean anything when all you can hear is my breathing. I can't explain anything just forget the pain and remember happiness like it was when you said my name like it meant something to you. Depression is a lonely friend, who stops by at the worst of times. If I told you my life was perfect, or even remotely flattering, then to my discontent I would be lying to you. I don't think that mankind will every self-fulfilled with its own perfection. Perhaps that is why we have come so far in so many ways. Ironically it is the relentless ambition that makes more machine than man. And so its strive for perfection shall be its upending. I dare not pit man, for pity is the spoil of revenge. Murder is no longer an issue that my life is ending. So the knife is out again and my mind is filled with thoughts of vengeance, of sin. So take jeers and laugh you stupid bitch your nothing anymore just a flaunting dream. So what I fi kill does it scare you to see me screaming in their blood. It drips from my hands as I fly though my mind. Another memory, trapped in the back of my head. Tell me who you think you are, to play with me, drown me in these lies, and pull me out just to repeat. The people will finally realize the strength of a man with no feeling, no heart. Long days of rejection have callused my heart. So I say, it becomes stone now, and once I could feel the beat but now I scream wondering what could have been, if you let it breathe. No matter now you will see what you pushed me to, the blood and the screams. Take out the knife and remember times when we were happy when the world was fine. Just a word, just a voice, just a sentence with no power or choice. Like a knife it cuts through my skin over and over again until the skin and all that’s left is my soul. There I stand naked from the pain, my bare soul waiting for something to claim its own, its love. Fuck life, fuck the girl she was just another trouble in the world. With her black eyes and hair she stares deep inside my soul and rots away my memories, rots away the pain until there is nothing left but the dull crap I call a brain. A smile brings me back to the fact I once loved this girl I thought she was mine. Crying into my arms now its gone the color in my heart and the blackness corrupts me, becomes me, and then I scream into the pillow until it bursts from the sound of disease.

They told me that it was over. They told me I was safe. But I knew it wouldn’t be over until I could hold their heart in my hand, and slowly feel its beat die away. No one will save me now the faces of my friends have faded and my parents lost in the infinite crowds. She is a hopeless cause, as I walk next to her in the street. Yet still I am in visible to them, the crowds, the politicians, the sane. They mock me, over and over again they shove me and push me and spit on me because of what I am, but it cannot last forever. I will serve my sentence, and it’s about time I collected my due. Too many days have I sat, waiting for a chance to come by. I lied to myself that it was going to be ok. That in the end they would suffer and I would laugh at them, I would spit on them. Even if I did have the chance though, would I do it. Would I make them suffer as I have, would I humiliate them? Would I spread my disease like an epidemic, a circle of hate? They thought that it would last forever. They thought wrong.

The slick, shined black shoes tap the cement in rhythm with the beating of the rain. Under the umbrella stands the rigid body of a man pushed down, picked up and pushed down again. A man pushed to the outside by a people who thought the inside was the real world. Ironically, we are not so different. We both have souls. We both have dreams. We both have feelings, however different they may be they are still feelings. I guess the difference was the reason we have always never got along. The difference between the middle and the outside, is one man and one world. The fact is, one man against the world isn’t much of a fight. Although I am on the outside, and to me it is not one man against the world; it is two men, a rebel and a leader, pitted against each other for the sake of spite, to continue the circle of hate. So, I put on my black, fine cotton suit, and walk the streets like the man my father dreamed me to be. Little did he know that his failure and troublemaker of a son would redeem his dignity in the end, aid his upending. Just as I questioned his authority over me, so I shall question society’s authority over me. It will never end, man’s endless greed for power, it is beyond man, not even the heavens can resist power. It is impossible, you are powerless to its power.