I try to pinpoint when my childlike rage started, but it never started. It was passed through my blood, out of the womb. my mother and father gave me this poison, fire in my blood, that is slowly burning me from the inside out.

Can you see the soil softly shake
As the once-dead zombies burst from it?
They're being revived,
Though they were left to die and decay.
The ice is melting,
And the heat is increasing
Into a blinding fire.
When I finally felt free,
The dead seeds I planted months, years ago
Are slowly sprouting. (A miracle? A curse?)
The world is repeating,
Like they told me it would.
I'm terrified.
The scenes I have escaped
Are creeping around the corner,
Like now-alive zombies.
The memories that I threw to the snow,
They are beginning to grow,
Like flowers in Antarctica.

I looked at the "
                         E
                           L
                             I
                              T
                                E
                                  S
                                    "
                                     and then back at
                                                               us,
                                                                    but I could see
                                                                                           N
                                                                                             O
                                                                                                difference.

When a project has been abandoned, creators of said project will solve small, irrelevant problems, so as to give themselves an ounce of satisfaction, rather than just solve the problem as a whole.

The way others view me,
Their theories are all incorrect,
But I don't know how to crack my own egg shell,
Show them what my soul shows me.
My heart and mind do not line up.
I yearn for things that did me wrong.
Laziness floods my habits and goals,
Until I drown in unsuccess.
I return to the places of my past
And to their people when I feel aloof.
It's weird to think that my friends barely know me,
And the butcher knows me best.