Orquidea

Unworthy of pride

But I cannot love, and cannot be loved.

No more explaining.

I am tired of explaining because no one ever understands.

More like they don't listen,then again,I am but a demon.

A demon does not deserve.
Unworthy of living,
unworthy of feeling.
Unworthy of feeling,
unworthy of being.

I am unworthy to bear humanly emotions.
I must think straight.Only think.
Sit in the corner curled up,to take as little space as possible.
Keep my head low,take the blows.
And most important of all:
Don't speak.

Those are survival rules,but what use are they for an immortal heart?

I am a devil,so I shall defy the laws and rules.

I will hold my head high,bloodied,but high.

Spread my arms and legs as to take up as much space,as to expose the masterpiece of exquisite cuts and bruises they have made.

Humans are quite artistic in their destroying,
they almost make you think it's beautiful.

No.
This suffering,this ruin.

How can they slash me open so cold-heartedly and display it as art?

They have killed me in cold-blood.

They cracked open my skull and filled it with disgusting thoughts,
they did all that to a child.

I'm still full of questions and curiosity.
But it isn't the curiosity of a child.

Something is wrong.
Something is wrong.
This is wrong.
It's wrong.

I am wrong.

How can I make up for the fact I am wrong?

How do I write as to pay?
How do I make them pay?
How do I become right?

Please, I'm too young to think like this.
Stop it.

Give my childhood back.

Give me life back.

I don't want to taste of death and blood anymore,

I don't want to reek of suicide and mistakes.

Please, take these messed up thoughts out.

Cleanse me.
Purify me.
I beg of you.

Ah,what a childish despair.And I'm the one begging for childhood?

Nothing can cleanse sin.

The only escape is death.

And after death you no longer sin,you only pay for what you've done.

To pay for being wrong,first erase your soul.

If you had thought about suicide on sleepless nights,you'd know how to.

I'm not a prodigal,innocent child like I appear to seem.

I am liquid,unfeeling in all forms.

This is not the real me,this is the most logical and monotone version.

I cannot find a better way to story-tell.

Logic is the best way to do unlogical things.

Why one who wishes for suicide on birthday candles,want to be eternal as a writer?

Because of the promise of life.

All writers are dead and hope to find a way to live.