It's not in loneliness.
There are many like him

It's not in not having
for whatever he has
means nothing.

It's not in despair
for it is pain
that means he's living.

It's not in facing
his utter purposelessness
and cherishing it,
because that's all he has.

It's not in recognising
his own meaninglessness
and finding meaning,
because that's all he knows.

It's in moments of brief escape,
in tiny deaths
in dreams
and waking dreams,
where he is awake.

It's in seeing
the others
and knowing they weren't made the same.
They were made perfect,
unable to question their existence:
to not know such pain.

It's in his utter contempt
for his fellow man;
His blind hatred
for all living beings.

It's in a world
in flames
and falling apart
where he finds peace.

Prowling the earth
sparing nothing.
Only a cruel God
could've made
such a sorry beast.

And the beast stares into himself
and coldly confronts his own emptiness
He does not know why.
Agony to be awake.
To live is to die.

That's the pain of being human.
Cast down into the chaos of history.
To be born and to die, for nothing
it seems.
And to go on, without question;
without knowing
what it means.