i am what remains,

damaged goods, so they say,

a life of nothingness,

for nothing itself,

i am no one,

i bare no name,

no face or soul.

the past me,

burried long ago,

was food to the soil,

and a feast for the worms.

i devoured them,

one after the other,

i hate the world,

its creatures,

i despice life itself,

so, i shall write, now, poems,

to disturb and divide,

to instigate war,

as if a bomb,

sent for global anihalation.

the monsters no longer scare me,

i am them just as much as they are me,

human life is sinful,

therefore,

we must perish,

together,

with hands held,

to oblivion and extinsion.