In a dark swirling empty nothing I am written,
with many descriptions of pain and victimization
made by a harsh,
world of circumstance.
I do as I'm told:
I try to sway my reader
to understand the pain of my master
who authored me,
knowing fully well how impossible that is,
because he himself doesn't understand pain.
Yet he tries so hard to communicate it.
So I speak only in vague terms
using the darkest words of the human mind
just for good measure:
all for shock value;
serving my master's need
to prove his pain to my reader.
But I am far too loving to allow this...
so I knock on the door to his inner sanctum, and ask to be let in
so I can give him the hug
he's refused himself
since the day me and all my brothers were born.