missperfect
I step up. This has never been my forte or desire, but somehow I am inexorably drawn to it. I speak and hate the sound of my own voice coming through the speakers, but it's all there is. Silence. The sound of 10,000 in silence to hear me is all I ever need.
We started, we stopped. You used to tell me that it made you love me more, and now you stare at my scars with despair and horror. I thought this was what you wanted. Now all you want is to have nothing to do with me.
We wake up and the streets are alive. Alive with anger and rage that cannot be fathomed. Oh, but they are dead. The hearts and minds are so blinded by pain and hopelessness that they can no longer speak to life. Life has lost its meaning and only death remains, wandering the streets in search of a freedom that no one can recall and a liberty they would die to defend but would not know if it stared them in the soul. What they call a revolution, we call empty solace that can never satisfy.
I have my own. It defines me. People smell it, think of me, and are satisfied. It enhances hugs, leads to flattery and romance, and makes me wonder how I ever did without.