amannequin

Alienated by my own race, By other races, By humanity as a whole. Is it me? Am I a faulty human? Does it prove that there is no God If I'm still here?

Having a view of this foreign world, like an eagle to the land below him as he soars in the sky, things are never as shiny as the media portrays. Things are that shiny when you come to new places as a tourist. But if you plan to live on foreign soil, you sign away your soul to Satan. Foreign soil can never be called your home. When you live away from your home for as long as you do, home can never be called home. You are a gypsy. Travelling from one make shift home to another. Never settling. It's great how many friends you make, but it's heart-retching how many you know you'll never see again. Life may have billions of windows of opportuniti

When you feel lonely Lost and afraid No clothes to cover you No money to your name Look up at the sky Call out His name Wait for an answer Driving you insane. As the echo dies down Silent and dead Take one step forward Your mother's flowerbed Lilies littered like confetti Infecting you with death Tears sting your eyes "Let this be my last breath." Knife glistening brightly With crimson love The neighbour's cat finds you Lingering above He is entranced by your fall Not making a sound Oh how he will be asphyxiated Next time round.

I stand there in front of an audience of at least ten thousand people. What am I supposed to do? Blank faces – as gaunt and as emotionless as the dead, are all facing me. Their hollow eyes burning into mine as if awaiting some sort of tragic miracle. Is that all I was ever meant to provide – a sorrow show? The goose bumps rise like a multitude of snakes, summoned by their master. You can see those empty faces, smiling that deathly smile ever so innocently as they picture your last living moments. Moments in which you struggle to escape the iron clad chair as they slowly, ever so slowly, swing that axe closer and closer to your face.