Deepest Explanation

Thoughts of satisfaction of the life I live, the image I give, has disappeared because of humanity. Humanity I despise for all of my past I remember is devastation, confusion, depression. Humanity caused all this to still last. As more memories gathered, good ones began to dwindle, for good became few. My smile tossed down the drain, society sacrificing me to pain. Sadly, I lost control, a tornado of depression tore my minds strings from my Soul's grasp. Lost would be false, for truth displayed a finder, my angelic disguised puppeteer. Could not win back control for not even god could kill Lucifer. So I now slave throughout the hell He conjured only for I. I don't go 24 hours without fearing myself, for at times I lose control of my body. I don't suffer through life without either distancing myself from, everybody replacing, or losing my space on this shelf of living. I a collectible, I a collectible easily forgotten and drop able value. I hide from society, I distance leading opportunities, even though my world's could motivate continents. I lurk with shadows, learning, observing, waiting. Enjoyments peaks as rise and fall of trialing leaders. I refuse to lead any race of humanity. Normality of people stinks of compulsive, ignorant, defiance. So I will sit, just sit, and bask in silence until I find pen and paper. I will expose the depths of my soul along a lifeless tree. I will give knowledge to those in need, still, I keep refusing the paths to lead. I have the words but incorrect will is what Lucifer shall feed. Strength easily masked to common vision, but with a deeper gaze your forced into a black hole of emotions. My wisdom ignored till displayed on ink. My feelings falsified until authority agrees. My cries never cease, even when no streams glimmer on my cheeks, for they are forever burned into my soul, I feel his terror, his tears like acid on my mind, screeches of devastating pain causes my inner ears to bleed. Pictured memories fill his pupils. Images even unknown to I. Memories that hide beneath the plot of my nightmares. Devastating, destructive emotions soak my heart. My visible pain is dirt to what lies in the depths of me, dirt to what slowly seeps from my cracking soul, slowly crippling me. My soul degrades weak in its shell. My body struggling and forcing will power. A brainless vessel pushing along to bring life to a dying soul. my body refusing to crumble, fighting thorough blood and sweat to bring my soul power, questing to the source of life's song, forcing the rhythm through his ears, hoping his heart synchronize to the tones, pumping to a lively freestyle. Hoping, listening for a chorus of courage, courage to suffer. I am nothing with a evaporated soul, for there is no beauty to see, then there is no reason for thee. When I bask on the thought of what I provide, what I visualize is being a nuisance, a problematic waste of time. Then I lift the pen and hope surges my veins. Strength shines as words are displayed. They intellectually begin binding feelings and expressing. I write for a relieving release, I write for strong expression. I write to ignite strength in crippled souls. Gaze to the depths of my words. Forge feelings from simple letters. Caution on how far your mind wonders, for I truly fear you'll slip and fit into my shoes, with only a war ahead, a bullet resting in your chamber, with one escape, victory. A choice lies ahead, fight and suffer, or make sure that sleeping bullet has a target. If ignorant like I and yell your battle cry, keep the bullet in its coma, might need it later, and a regret of a missed opportunity only adds to already oceans of pain. Rising from night terrors will be a hassle, for insomnia is your blanket through the night. Sleep is something all aquire while you shall strive for it. I don't have it easy like most. Not as happy as you blindly see. I don't need publicity, nor will I deny an opportunity. Still, as long as a page is empty, there is time for a story. This ink displays my endless journey to middle earth, normality, from hell. Yet my words filled with horror and pain gracefully touch your heart. Memories and intellect bring beauty to cruelty. Few memories are pleasant, most colored crimson, filled with disguised lust, cloaked with negative intentions. Comprehension blocked by self mutilation. A intriguing power flicks at every mutilating action from from within the punisher, received from the puppeteer. Cannot conjure a understanding of a sharp friend grazing my skin gracefully light up a brighter path, a path masked with happiness but filled with misery. A single encounter only ignited, 59 more satisfied, at least until scarring. Why must I be "gifted" this gruesome, tempting, falsifying, pleasurable, mental addiction? My words express beauty beyond vision, but I still catch myself peeking at its glisten. The temptation I now gladly steer, but I fear of relapse from demons near. Paranoia saturates my skin. Waiting for the silent command for ambush. Walking a country road, lit with distanced street lights. No knowledge of what to come, worry slowly fading, caring dwindling. Whispers seeping from moonlit shadows, pain telling jokes causing demonic laughter that dances around my eardrums. Shame cloaks my heart as they share my secrets in hushed tone. I lecture wisdom and will. I display strength and skill. All is a mask, I have mountains to conquer before that is of truth. I made it by suffering. Nothing given, survived mentally on my own. Survived past three years writing, learning control, practicing power, now I start to display progress. My age 17, yet greater maturity well seen. These are my stories of hell in life and daily struggles with a betrayal knife. Scars believed to be victory and survival, yet I now am more drained then when I started. I feel deprived of equality in this mental monstrosity. I feel victim to addiction, months upon months, the razor kissing my smooth skin was obligation. I regret the first rush, first skin ripping graze. I regret enjoying hearing the tearing for relief was shortly following. Scars soak blotches on my body, reminders of a crimson time. My traumatizing beginning. What I tell is a stretched truth of past and present. I lie of tales of a future yet to uncover. Give me a chance, embrace the despair lying beneath words that express feelings pure, but hidden below the stretched truth.