He doesn’t cry, for it is an empty room, and the echoes of
his own torture catch no ear but his own. He knows, hell does he know, not to
run, for he will never get too far. His attempts at escape are half-hearted,
for he has no hope of ever escaping. He has no emotion, for he has never seen
any to elaborate upon. He sees the life he’s made and it is nothing compared to
what he has not done. Though his sorrow is great, he wishes not for others to
face the same fate. He implies them to smile, oh yes he desires your smile, for
another smile, will satisfy the emptiness he feels at lacking one. He has no
sense of reality that can compare to yours, for he has seen through the shell
of existence. He’s a silent sleeper, for his nightmares have exhausted his
ability to scream. He is a wise fool; he knows that, for if he was not, he
would not be in this cage. He is his own puppet, for he animates himself for
the sake of appearance. He is a perfect actor, for he cannot bear you to see
right through him. His lips are made of sweet venom, for his words have grown
to be soft and sharp. He cannot get anything right, that’s what they say, and
he takes it for a fact and because of this, he needs you to believe you can
indeed satisfy for the lack of his abilities. He believes in no one, for having
no hope, is better than a false promise that is soon to be broken. He bleeds
constantly, yet he is not yet used to the feeling of the others simmering salt
on the bruises. He knows how to express every single strand of feeling, but he
knows not what use it is to him.
His birth was a matter of coincidence, accident almost, for
in fact he came into this world dead to begin with. He had never such virtues
that he could recognize as his own, though the others insisted upon the
presence of them everywhere. His intelligence was cut by his wisdom, which in
turn was cut by his foolishness. He never had a place he could call his home,
and he doesn’t expect any place like such at all. He doesn’t want your pity, in
fact, he hates your pity. He is selfish, yet selfless, but he knows one of them
must take over the other. He is always, but never sure of his step. He is a
living contradiction, for everything he is, is everything he is not. He does
not see himself particularly attractive, though his mirror has the audacity to disagree.
He has memories that never happened, for they were too unreal to happen, they
just cannot be. He is weak, and yet so strong, but he cares not, for either
way, he attempts nothing at all. He doesn’t cry in this empty room, for the
echo of his torture are all that bounce off these walls.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
