Reflections (Stream of Conciousness)

Note: This isn't poetry, but it's not quite prose either.

You...feel the monster within, you feel it ticking within you. You feel it gnawing at the edges of your soul.

This darkness. It is darkness, it is madness, it is what the human mind can only fathom at a hazy distance, the foggy edges. The hate. The lunacy. The hatred consumes. It consumes everything, it consumes all. The sheer, senseless, stupid resentment. The thwarted desires, the dying hope. You are left grasping at straws and thin air. Everything you have is snatched from you.

It leaves you with nothing. Nothing but the blood dripping from your hands, the blood dripping from the walls, and the red mist of rage. In the end, there is nothing to live for but hate. Every waking moment, you feed it. You nurture it, tend to it like a growing child, because it is all you have, and we all desire to possess, to have something to call our own, no matter how low it is, no matter how insignificant. You cannot be whole with nothing. The hatred gives you something. It makes you feel whole, in some twisted way, it completes you on the inside.

We all want it. We all have it. And yet for most, we never act on it. It sits on the edges of our consciousness, gnawing at it, tempting us. Because it feels good to hate. Or maybe it lies in the center of our souls. It is what's there when we peel everything back, and it is what slowly poisons us.

(This is about it for now, I might post more later).