Sections

It's 5:46am. I talk to you with a withered tongue. My lungs no longer inhale the righteous oxygen. My eyes no longer glow, but they are beginning to fog and grey. I look into the distance, for a semblance of something, of meaning. I listen to these mounds of flesh, how they laugh and joke with each other, comfortable in a setting full of jest and pleasurable inflating of ego. Oh how I whimper for me to feel as they do! Knowing well that I am not of them. Cut me open, cut me open and take out my insides, throw them to the wolves. Throw me into the sea of dogs, and pour me out onto the concrete. I just want to feel as they do! It must be the cancer in my being, the muck and filth that festers within my heart, that makes me so inhumane. As the mounds look upon me, they see not of their own, for my eyes hide a hunger that would only be satisfied with gore and the obscene. They see a poor man, a broken soul, a helpless animal, suffering. Little do they know, I feed on the suffering, for it defines me as family does and socialization does for them. Leave me alone, let me die among the bodies of my ancestors, let me suffer in a silence that drowns my very soul. Watch me as I burn at the stake with fire of my own making. Just let me suffer.

Foggy night, decided to take a picture, it looked beautiful.