I am a Weak Person
today I was told, by a man much like myself,
that I was a strong man, with a strong heart, with a strong soul,
and that I cared deeply for those around me,
but I, I just ain't what he says I am.
I am a quiet person, with a heart that isn't strong, a weak heat beats inside of me, a heart that feels nothing, a heart that cowers when another tries to touch it.
My heart, it is a broken mess, hurt, taunted and unwanted, it's a coward now, one that'll flee from all. Cold, unfeeling and most of all, unemotional.
My heart is a weak thing, a thing that'll soon stop, and I am grateful for that, to leave all that has hurt and hated the thing that beats inside of me.
My soul, much like my heart, is weak, weaker then the thing that beats inside of me. I am not ashamed of it, because I know it is true to me, and no one else. My soul, is it weak like the human race? Is it fragile like life itself?
Winged angels, floating death, which side do I fit?
I don't belong with the winged ones, for my heart is too weak, and my soul is that of a broken birds.
Neither do I belong with the ones whom bring eternal sleep, I am too different from them, though they enjoy the souls of the weak and the hearts of the quiet, I am just too bitter for them to enjoy, too cold for even them, too, too lowly...
Because I am not a strong man, I am a weak man, a man with nothing to lose, a man whom can not feel anymore, a man whom has damned himself forever, this is why I am a weak man and not of a strong man.
A strong man does not long for the touch of another, but I am weak and do not either, and I something different? No I am weak, worthless, unwanted, soulless and cold, such is what a weak person is made out of, though I am what I am.
The great tyrants of the past, they too were weak man, but ones with great power, physical power, but in their minds they too were weak. They lacked a strong heart, a strong soul, but it never bothered them, I think in my minds they knew they would die and go to hell, that is why I think now, that in their own way, they tried to escape their destiny, but am I merle doing the same?
My hands, my hands are those of a coward, one who has forsaken the ways of my family tree, of honour, of glory, of humanity...
I am a weak man, I do not hide it no more, I am not proud nor sad that I am what I am, no one is perfect, if they are, then they will not be human themselves, the human race is a trail of imperfection, that is why we die, that is why we fight, because we fear and we hate. I once tried to not feel any of these things, but now I don't, without them we would be nothing, much like the weak, I am needed in the world, the world must have the weak, like me...