Monstrous

Am I the monster that I fear? Is every day spent in denying what cannot be described as untrue? I feel like the struggles that I take upon myself by not ending what should be done are just as useless as my unread thoughts strewn about the bits of paper in my typhoon of life. I can't stand being like this anymore; every day is a little worse. When I scream at the night with the words "I am not mute!," how many hear me? Better yet, how many care or should care? My voice is loud, but it seems no one hears me. Sometimes I marvel at the sheer inconsequence of the feelings that I must let others feel through my pen. I never find what I seek, and what I seek never finds me. I'm worse than Palomindes and his Questing Beast; I suspect I'm deep water a monster who will end up at the tip of society's sword.

When this started, it seemed ok. I thought I could handle it. Twelve years later, that idea is obsolete. I can't control the input, and I can barely control my once-free will. It's a contest for prominence: the two camps divide me. I know what Prester Bane and his camp can do: they provide my indifference, my crooked smile, my pride, and my strength. They don't know the meaning of the word quit, and won't stop until they have it all. What I don't know is the poet. The words provide my ambivalence, my true smile, my compassion, and the small bit of me that thinks it knows love. The poet wants an end: love can be found at the bottom of an empty inkwell. Is that love requited? Prester Bane says never, and bids me follow back to the ranks of the loud, infamous and hated. The poet says not now, and bids me follow down another row of seemingly failed verses that leads to more uncertainty and pain. I want to know whether those uncertain verses can end in what I want, or will I always be alone with only Prester Bane and the rest to keep me company? Right now, I only hear from two friends who doesn't know me well enough to stop talking with me, so if you do answer, please answer my questions honestly. Will you be there? Are my words as ugly as me? Am I worth knowing well? Is love out of the question? How much more hurt should I take?