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Description
I was born without a mother or a father. I was simply a lingering soul longing for a home, within myself. Yet ironically, though all I ever had was myself, I could never pull out the sense of security and acceptance. Perhaps I was too much for my own self to handle. All I could ever do was cover my face, frail and disillusioned, peeking through the slits of my fingers, questioning my existence.

Growing up, the world appeared to be no more than a facade of a paradise. I saw nothing, but the residue of gun powder. The night swallowing up the eternity as if the flames had been blown away like a candle. A dying, flickering light, so close, yet so distant.

Bound against me was my only tightening grasp on passive-aggressive love. A scarf. That was all. Nonetheless, it was always enough to hold me back and warm me up when I needed it in my solitary and barren land of dry mist, lashing against my face, punishing me for what I did or thought wrong, taking the place of the mother whom I'd never come to know. Though constantly choking me, I cherished it more than most people would have. It was my home, temporarily.

I never came to love the people around me. All I had were my arms wrapped against my chest, asking the conscience buried within me whether or not I was worth the fight. When was bloodshed ever necessary, however. Internally deflating with the lost sense of compassion and hope, the universe seemed as bland as it could have ever appeared before my eyes. Sullen, forgotten, a chromatic array of gray. Even in the reality, I was only a ghost. A ghost by physical means, and a ghost of my own past, forgiven much too early to forget.

No loss, no gain. That was all my life consisted of. A fallen oak, digging my soles into the dirt, situating myself from the others because it was a normal thing to do. No matter who they were, no person ever stopped to take a second glance. I held no blame however, because they weren't ever to see me anyway.

Most of my days spent passed by solemnly, petrified by my non-existent family who had not wanted me in the first place. But I knew that occasionally, I would regret living, knowing I had no one else other than myself. Nor did I have anything else. I saw nothing being taken away, but I had had nothing to begin with. As the elongated hours passed by, brushing past the soles of my feet, I knew that I had failed to exist. I had been unwanted to the point where I had to be surgically removed, and thrown into a pit of the underworld, wondering why I even roamed any place at all, sickened by such thoughts. I was never given the chance to impress; before I had even started, I was given up on.

There were days I never wanted to spare a moment thinking about a mother or father figure. Other days I only wondered of that. Everything around me was already dead. Everyone around me knew me not. I hardly knew who I was. I was named, but unaware where that name had popped out of. It was just a single name, full of nothing, emptied of everything. I couldn't say I was completely disheartened by it, though. Somehow, it made me feel more humane. Even if I didn't, it suggested to me that I belonged at least somewhere while my body led me nowhere.

I didn't belong. It wasn't something I felt. It was something that was certain. I had never belonged, truthfully. Nevertheless, I still existed. I began to wonder where in Hell my frantic soul would finally be set free from my emotional harrassment I brought upon myself. When would it be that I was not another failed experiment. When would it be that failure was alright in someone's eyes. That I could be worth something at least one person appreciated. That I could be worth anything at all.

I found myself a burden to nothing more than myself. I was a burden to care for. I knew nothing about myself, and recollected thoughts stung me. Buried beneath the smothered lies, was I, almost hollow.

Somehow, artificially, I gave in. I gave into the universe I despised so much- from all the hate grew desire. Desire to fit in, to understand, to live although I never would. It was never something that convinced me to live, nor the wonders ever so often spoken of by the others that lured me. I had never given in completely as I took my first few steps away from the coddling spirits still tugging at my fingers, peeling away, fading. It was someone.

No matter where I will end up, fate has decided the best of me. Whether I remain unknown, looked down upon, a candle at it's simmer point, I've come to accept the notions that continue to flow through the line of life, somewhat placid, mostly corrupt. There is something that has kept me going in order to acknowledge myself. There was something that fled towards others, managing several emotions that crawled over me at once.

Almost human. Almost spirit. Just Blythe.

Description
I was born without a mother or a father. I was simply a lingering soul longing for a home, within myself. Yet ironically, though all I ever had was myself, I could never pull out the sense of security and acceptance. Perhaps I was too much for my own self to handle. All I could ever do was cover my face, frail and disillusioned, peeking through the slits of my fingers, questioning my existence.

Growing up, the world appeared to be no more than a facade of a paradise. I saw nothing, but the residue of gun powder. The night swallowing up the eternity as if the flames had been blown away like a candle. A dying, flickering light, so close, yet so distant.

Bound against me was my only tightening grasp on passive-aggressive love. A scarf. That was all. Nonetheless, it was always enough to hold me back and warm me up when I needed it in my solitary and barren land of dry mist, lashing against my face, punishing me for what I did or thought wrong, taking the place of the mother whom I'd never come to know. Though constantly choking me, I cherished it more than most people would have. It was my home, temporarily.

I never came to love the people around me. All I had were my arms wrapped against my chest, asking the conscience buried within me whether or not I was worth the fight. When was bloodshed ever necessary, however. Internally deflating with the lost sense of compassion and hope, the universe seemed as bland as it could have ever appeared before my eyes. Sullen, forgotten, a chromatic array of gray. Even in the reality, I was only a ghost. A ghost by physical means, and a ghost of my own past, forgiven much too early to forget.

No loss, no gain. That was all my life consisted of. A fallen oak, digging my soles into the dirt, situating myself from the others because it was a normal thing to do. No matter who they were, no person ever stopped to take a second glance. I held no blame however, because they weren't ever to see me anyway.

Most of my days spent passed by solemnly, petrified by my non-existent family who had not wanted me in the first place. But I knew that occasionally, I would regret living, knowing I had no one else other than myself. Nor did I have anything else. I saw nothing being taken away, but I had had nothing to begin with. As the elongated hours passed by, brushing past the soles of my feet, I knew that I had failed to exist. I had been unwanted to the point where I had to be surgically removed, and thrown into a pit of the underworld, wondering why I even roamed any place at all, sickened by such thoughts. I was never given the chance to impress; before I had even started, I was given up on.

There were days I never wanted to spare a moment thinking about a mother or father figure. Other days I only wondered of that. Everything around me was already dead. Everyone around me knew me not. I hardly knew who I was. I was named, but unaware where that name had popped out of. It was just a single name, full of nothing, emptied of everything. I couldn't say I was completely disheartened by it, though. Somehow, it made me feel more humane. Even if I didn't, it suggested to me that I belonged at least somewhere while my body led me nowhere.

I didn't belong. It wasn't something I felt. It was something that was certain. I had never belonged, truthfully. Nevertheless, I still existed. I began to wonder where in Hell my frantic soul would finally be set free from my emotional harrassment I brought upon myself. When would it be that I was not another failed experiment. When would it be that failure was alright in someone's eyes. That I could be worth something at least one person appreciated. That I could be worth anything at all.

I found myself a burden to nothing more than myself. I was a burden to care for. I knew nothing about myself, and recollected thoughts stung me. Buried beneath the smothered lies, was I, almost hollow.

Somehow, artificially, I gave in. I gave into the universe I despised so much- from all the hate grew desire. Desire to fit in, to understand, to live although I never would. It was never something that convinced me to live, nor the wonders ever so often spoken of by the others that lured me. I had never given in completely as I took my first few steps away from the coddling spirits still tugging at my fingers, peeling away, fading. It was someone.

No matter where I will end up, fate has decided the best of me. Whether I remain unknown, looked down upon, a candle at it's simmer point, I've come to accept the notions that continue to flow through the line of life, somewhat placid, mostly corrupt. There is something that has kept me going in order to acknowledge myself. There was something that fled towards others, managing several emotions that crawled over me at once.

Almost human. Almost spirit. Just Blythe.