Failure by Design

Every time he heard those sounds in the back of his head, only reminded him he wasn't yet dead. They say loser, they say wimp, they say everything that brings him closer to his own death. If he didn't ask for it then why do they pressure him on. On to the next level of insanity, the next level to never face anyone again.

He drags his nails across his face, to only scar the one he mostly hates. He fails to see any or anything beautiful about this damned disgrace. He punctures a hole in his leg with the last cigarette he is about to waste.

He looks to the ceiling to see the rope, the rope that sits there precisely slit. Where the attic and the ceiling meet this tarnished reminder of how these voices of pure sadness as hate pushed him before. Before his family he hanged as they wept to his not fearing the death that surely embellished him for a moment in time.

How the darkness swept over his body, releasing his anguish, hatred and hurt. Still those voices, those tortuous voices were still in his ear, letting him feel what it is to be truly alone. Bringing him here again, alone and full of hate.

He tries to pray but all ignores the one he hates. He hears them say to never give away the faith, he has now grown to hate. Now he sits there with a broken faith, for he had pledged to give it all away. For better use of this hollow day. He sits with a piece of glass wanting it to be his last. His last night of horror for those he terrified with is uncertified disorder.

But yet again, he is the failure by design, for only the greatness that may lay in his mind. He wants to grow only to let them know. That he is the one who will take away the sun, so all may see the darkness in his mind; Tortured by voices undivine. They say murder he will find, only for it to be is only crime.

Maybe he isn't as fine as the doctors try to define everything that is in his forsaken, crooked mind. Known to all as the silent one, he becomes the only one to figure out there was a mistake before he came to be about.

About this world, this earth we all call home. Is the only murderer that brings them to to slice their own throats. Maybe this is just a lie yet who knows but those whom cry every night. They cry because they know that this world is just a joke, a joke defined by the doctors who say they are insane with every vein in their membrane.

Yet to prove nothing from his thoughts, he turn to the greater one. The greater voice that stills the night, the one he knows to have a little light. "Kroza my dearest friend, help me figure why I am not yet dead?" He waits for a reply to only hear the others say he will never be able to fly. Fly away because he isn't the crow who will holler never more, forever more at the top of his throat.

"Kroza my dearest friend, help me figure why I am not yet dead?" He repeats in silent weeps. Finally he gets a reply, only to find out he may never die. His body may ash but his mind will forever last. He will never get rid of his tortures. Grinding his teeth brings him back to the beginning of every time he heard those sounds in the back of his head. Because he will never be truly dead.