Beast

I am but a monster, a being of nothing, with a belief of something. I am peculiar. I, though I have not yet been noticed by polite society, slaughter and waste, lie and fake, wearing an odd façade tarnished in the black soot of sin. And though I have it not on my exterior, I demoralize such a mask within.

Though what be of it?

A being such as I shan’t be living. A person of my stature whom adorns no self-righteousness and character, mustn’t be good for the earth. A human, such as me, has no right.

Then what am I?

What is a beast crude and decadent doing, showing their face to the lengths of a ravenous world of depravity?

A world rocking on its blacked hips of mankind, wringing its fingers on a thinning string of an ever-lasting insanity. I am no different from such beasts of selfishness and condescension. I am the same.

I am someone.