Echoes of a Shattered Connection

I Am A Human

I am a human,
I am a man,

Born to expierence
And to understand.
To seek what my eye sees,
To fulfill it's curiousities
While fighting the gloom,
Of its own insecurities.

I exist to feel my heart,
Breathe and hurt with every its pump.
As I learn that it's not blood that's inside me;
It's pure trauma.
Most of the movements my veins make,
Only to remind me of what I am made of.

I am human?
I am a man?

My body is just a sacred place,
For every dirt it can fit and take.
My hands are not from whom we call people.
Sure, they are made for holding, too.
But it's not for love, it's for burden.
My mother or whatever my soul's creator was
Used their own hands,
To create who now stands before the bravest task
To survive being a living flask,
For every pain and wound there is possible.

Thus it's not visible or noticeable, I know, my whole insides are full of its own burns
Or at least, the bodies I was placed into.
I am too afraid to reach any deeper in it,
My mind will never be ready to see how much it actually bleeds.

Even though, there may have already passed years or centuries,
My soul won't be able to bare,
What the container has been served.
As windows through my head observe the other,
They know, their mind will soon be in pieces.
It pains them to tell the owner,
That humans are not made to wonder
If their life is made for the evil to be sealed.

I'm not a human.
I'm no man.

If I really was one,
I would be loved for the way I was done.

My eyes as they witness the unfairness,
Obviously cry and wonder restless.
But unlike its said kind,
They do not shed water,
They release impurities.
Let them plant in its body,
And observe, as it becomes nobody.

As it loses its soul,
And fluid so called blood,
Only to become what already has been in its profounds.
To change to what the scrolls have been saying since the ancient times.

I look like a human,
I look like a man, too.

But I know, I'm not from what they have been created of.
They contain water, blood and love,
When I only know the taste of bitter and hurt.
And my veins are not made for keeping me healthy.
They were born to hurt and endlessly destroy its energy provider.

They have been built not from the cells,
But from little spikes and mentions of death.
I am not coded to embrace,
I am forced to scream and use force,
Even though in the end, we both know it won't be of any use.

Because them from above, already have written my soul,
To fall and give itself up to the Gods.