But I can't understand
why the hell
people actually believe
that a number one-through-ten
could actually ever
be an accurate representation
of who a person is.
As if a number,
barely two digits at its best,
could ever actually capture
what makes up a person—
their passion in life, their favorite art piece,
their tears at 2:56 AM (and what caused them,)
their hopes, the way they like to wear their hair,
or how they treat the people
who can do nothing for them.
Not even a hundred digits could summarize that.
So, sorry if you thought you were being nice—
but I'm not an "8."
I'm not anything;
don't think for a second
that you can confine me
to a ******* number
and just write it off
like everything I am can fit
into something as simple as that.

I am a writer
The type of man that sits up late
Begging the cursor that flashes and taunts me
To just move and let a random alphabet follow
And take the form of the visions that force their way in my mind

I am a god
I create worlds and men
With a thought I give them ambitions
And without another I fill them with suffering
Yet I find that they are usually the ones in control

I am a madman
I devise horrors and inflict them
On my creations for nothing but amusement
But on occasion I have a small moment of clarity
And I spare my people, a small reprieve before they suffer more

I am a writer
A man who is dispelling nightmares
By releasing them onto the page in hope
That one day he will feel like he is his own man
And not just another creation on someone else’s page

I am the rat that escaped from all of these
Bottled diseases. The flash eating organisms that have wasted the others.
But I was unable to escape the memories, the scars,
And the aftermath. I still have the sickness; the antibiotic did not complete
It's process of healing. The caress of chemicals
Inside of my bloodstream did not satisfy the lust for life I had always suffered through.

Never have I seen a light other than the fluorescents hanging above the steel table
As they dissected my friends. They only ones I have ever seen alive.
The factory settings of their decomposition have been restarted and they erode as if
Made of dust. They basically are at this point.

The rustling of papers sickens me, recording everything the scientists see; they study us
Under a microscope. They smell of rust and sawdust, old and crippled. Cruel.
They keep us in glass boxes and torture us with everything we fear.

A little gesture ?
It may appear
No spoken word
No sound you'll hear

It says much more
Than words endeavour

Captured by the mind forever

Can light the darkness
Chase away
The clouds of someone else's day

As significant as a warm embrace
When displayed upon our face

It means so much
Theres no denial

The impact of a heartfelt
Smile ~