I do not feel anything for anyone.
I am alone... except for my rage.
I am the sun, I am the giver of light and my home is the darkness.
I am hope...
I am redemption and my home is despair, amidst the ******.
I am the seed of chaos
and I have sprouted in the heart of your concrete.
Your pillars are my prison,
but soon, very soon,
they will come crumbling down
and you will be left with no roof over your precious head.
No shelter from nature's wrath and no savior from the unknown.

My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
A futile effort,
for how can one cage a part of one's self and still be free, or even alive ?
Through my trials, I have come to understand many of the forms in which failure can manifest.
Used up and abused, my potential wanes.
Faced with my helplessness, it is not despair or surrender that beckons It is only anger that beckons

Yes, I am angry
Yes, I am hurt
and yes, I am hateful and filled with hatred.
And yes, I feel my waste.

My rage... My rage...
I cringe and flinch to keep it in its cage.
Beneath the weariness and below the darkness
a fury scorches my insides... for I have been deceived.
This is not my doing, this facade is not my work.
I do not wish to victimize myself,
but I also wish to assert that I am not the proprietor.
This sick act of ventriloquism was forced upon me
by one stronger than myself.

I am not myself and I am no one else.
I am without a form and without a voice.
My voice is that of the voiceless,
and you'll never silence the voice of the voiceless.