What is it that makes you feel?
Is it the beat of your heart,
War drums pounding out steps of people,
Drawn into battle, by a need that varies?
Is it your consciousness?
The fact that you’re self-aware,
You can recognize you exist,
you can breathe, think,
hell, even multiply?
You as humans break down,
You’re fragile, you’re weak.
Honestly, you’re pathetic.
Infants incognito as monsters,
Stealing the souls of each other,
For the mere sport and hilarity.
What could be more hypocritical?
You shut out the very darkness,
You yourself are the epitome of.
What is that makes you feel?
Be it your pride or depression,
The shattering of a psyche,
The crack of heartbreak?
Is it your humanity?
If not your defining factor,
Your Medal of Arrogance,
Then what, what is it,
What is it that makes your emotions burn like the sun?
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I have always felt a bit of misanthropy in my darkest hours. Hating humanity as a whole, more specifically hating my humanity. So, one night feeling particularly hateful of it, I started to write and before I knew it, this had come about.