It feels like I've been endlessly cutting my wrist,
'cause of my negligence to tend to my wounds.
The very wounds that bleed these words and agony.

Now as my pride gives me immortality,
this brokeness is my eternal damnation,
an endless torture,
a neverending attempt for suicide
with no death.

And in death,
I’ll keep on screaming at Satan
until the moment he admits
that he was only keeping the seat warm
for me.

Sometimes to win a war,
one must douse his sword with poison.

The devil kept writing of the word of god
negating it
twisting it
finding his way out of the condemnation
of the deity's words.

Bit by bit the pitch-black ink
of his heavy dark pen,
glowed red with his wrath.

He felt alone.
He felt sorrow.
He felt fear.
All the while he was being engulfed by rage.

He just wanted to be held
to be accepted
to feel safe
to be loved.

His pride prevented him to think
that he might not be enough
that he does not deserve such kindness,
but deep inside
his dark and lonely soul,
he wishes for the woman he dearly loves.

I’m a terrible teacher,
or perhaps it’s a mismatch of student

I watch over from a distance,
seeing them heal and grow with proudness
in my eyes,
seeing them realise on their own
the things I failed to teach them
the messages I failed to get through
and the wisdom I failed to share.