Poem of the Cynical Soul
I woke up in the morning and scowled as I realized that I'm still alive. I try to creep back to the part of my mind, which I associate with slumber, or whatever else lies awaiting me there. I hope for death. Some wonder why I simply do not take something sharp to my throat and end my misery. But I wonder if it is really their misery.
I pull myself out of my melancholy thoughts. I feel the fuzz, the warm fuzz of my nondescript blanket. Why must it be warm? I detest warm. I slowly get up out of bed, and the floor is cold. Mmmmm, good cold, no warmth here. Yet...the sun through my window. Oh, not this to? Warm. Why does the sun taunt me by shining? Why, why is this too warm? I move away from my light, and out of my room, slowly closing the door. I am silent, as I always am, for noise I detest. But, alas, the birds will simply not shut up. I try to close out the sound of their sickeningly sweet tweets, but it is to no avail.
As I ponder life I stray from sunlight to dark. And that is what so many peoples lives do, they stray from dark to light. Are you good? Or evil? Or both? Ugg, Why is fate playing with my thoughts? Why should I bother thinking about other people? I will only think of myself. What do I like? Dark and cold. Yes, yes that is what I want. Gloom, deep dark caves, submersed in ice. This is my paradise. What is yours?
A/N: Review please!