In my past life, I was a burdened soul, the hand that reaches for light that is not there. I was an orphan, a victim of war, a being so shattered it seemed impossible to go on. I was a child, and I died young. Such is why it seems to all that even the smallest things can upset me in my current life. They give me the memories of what has been, and what is for those who are not as fortunate as I. In my past life, I was freedom, then caged and destroyed, as good things so often are. I was sent back as I am to achieve what that small child never could.

I write for myself, yet find my thoughts when put to paper so terrible that it seems I rely on the feedback of others to craft my own opinion as to how well written my pieces are. However, I attempt to share my writing with as few people as possible beyond the above reason, for many will ask me to explain myself and I cannot do so differently than how it was originally written.

It is the angry soul,

As it shouts into a void if darkness

It is the climbing thorns

Indulging you with the echoes of your mistakes

It is the gentle hand,

The soothing voice that sings you to sleep

It is the burning pain

The phantom tears that attack us all

It is the words of a friend

Always telling you you are beautiful

It is the smiling enemy

As it joyously leaves you behind

It is the lost whispers

Simple joys, long forgotten

It is life and death

Twins that walk hand in hand

It is a portrait of you

You see the souls who laugh at the world, who look at you with the eyes that say you are nothing, free souls that run from the cages of rules. You think at first: why must they be so vain? And yet they are not. If they truly cared about themselves, they would try, for the same people will never see a future as great as yours. They know this, so they reach for the wings of popularity instead. Soon they will fall, and only then will they wish they chose as you did.