I grew up in a home where wrong doers were the the only prevailers, where sin gave you a chance at fame, and modesty was the dust you swept beneath the rugs.
I became toiled within those walls. Fabricating happiness and joy. Wishing and hoping I had what it takes to be great. Then time grew older on me, and I was gifted the opportunity to make decisions for myself, running away from my demons became my passion, forgetting evil became my love. But time still grew on me, and every time I ran, I retreated back.
No where to build purity, I figured sulking in my own home of sins, would be better than anywhere else.
But time grew on me, and I lost the strength to care, to fight, to be concern with this life being lost. But aren’t I sinner ?
I pretended I was different, better, molded from greater. But I’m a sinner.
Yet !
I have failed to be great. To be happy.
I was ready to butcher it all away, piece by piece, I wanted to place every part of me up for the highest payer.
Maybe I still do?