Gaara stood on the edge of the roof looking down. The moon was bright above him, and it called out to his soul for some reason. He returned to his room, suddenly feeling the urge to write. As he took out a calligraphy brush and a piece of paper, he allowed his thoughts to pour out of him, creating whatever work they chose.
Souls grasping in the endless night
Can I face the waning moonlight?
Is it mine, or does it call what's within me
What's blind with rage. What cannot see.
Monster. Monster.
What am I but a monster?
What am I but a dream, broken and wasted?
He paused a moment, feeling something warm and moist trickling down the side of his face. What is that? he wondered, brushing the thing away with his hand. It was a tear, one of many that soon began streaming down his face. He hadn't cried in so long. He had held back all his pain, all his sorrow, and now as he sat alone, they all came rushing to the surface. He tried to remember what had broken his will, his strength.
He remembered two weeks before, an attack on Konoha. The boy, Uzumaki Naruto. He had spoken to Gaara; he had understood Gaara. That had never happened before. He picked up his brush and continued writing.
I am not wasted energy.
I am not your unwanted nightmare.
Even monsters can do good things,
But only when you believe in them.
Believe in me.