As we mix, together as one, how I understand this bond, I do not know, but
I can explain what you are to me, the one who watches me as I cross the
street, the one who loves me like no other, you are the angel that watches
me as I kill the blind ones, they who deserve nothing, I am to rule, no one
can stop me, they all know, its very funny to see them struggle and see them
breathe their last light, then feel pity toward them, enough, at least, to
cover their bloody faces, sealing their scars to the endless whiteness of
the silk handkerchief, I watch as the dark red blood comes up toward the
surface, once again, I think.

This image reminds me of a little child, I see him ever so very
often, he watches while I sleep I feel his presence, an uneasy feeling of
hesitance, one that makes a person look around. He looks at me with his wide
blood shot eyes, blood coming from his small mouth. I smile at him often,
then I walk into the hall way, looking at the portrait of a young mother and
child, a little boy, to be exact. The same to be exact, as the one I
recently see. She holds him so caringly , he takes her hug, yet he seems to
be pushing away.

Almost time, the calendar reads the 23rd, how wonderful, a day and a
half to practice, as I polish the sword I once received from a dear friends
father, right after I killed his so called 2nd love, people must always have
jealousy problems, yet they come to me, seeking the help for love, why, if I
only kill and destroy it, I do not understand, do not ask me for help any
more, I am lost already in my world of despair and depression, how is it I
survive the days?


I am a clown, one of those people, who no matter how hard I try, cannot
frown in the eyes of another, yet while at home, I scream in agony, why will
it not leave me! I hate it so, I would rather have the devil suck and lick
the blood out of each and every single vain I have. I might as well paint my
face black and white with a dash of red. I pluck the black roses instead of
the red, during valentines, I hiss, during Christmas I scare, during my life
I must despair, no longer can I be the fake me, I must open myself , in
order to be
Free…….


Sophie Morales
Dec. 21, 2004

 
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