Season of Ash

Endless overcast. Length of tracks. There is no sound here, only whispers.
It's a kind of death. It's a void. The walls do not echo here. There is no point in conversation.
I think of it as a winter a rare few endure. It's exhausting and daunting.
Monochromatic landscapes. Lackluster.
It's a season of it's own. It does exist.
Ashen corridors.

Death of Comfort.

It isn't so insane.
Human nature is a beast. It devours the last shreds of dignity you cling on to. Natural selection is the greater good. The will to survive is the strongest of all traits. It's a wonder anyone feels love.
It's a wonder anyone feels pain after the hoops we jump through daily.
But humanity continues to surprise me.
I somehow still surprise myself. I never thought I would find myself thinking so far ahead and judging everything around me by the standards I've come to create. But I don't feel apologetic for it.
I look forward to those moments when people surprise me with kindness. And forget it within minutes.
I am an American, and I hold grudges. I am human, and I am apathetic towards the death of others.

Aggression drives me onward. The drive to destroy what has been placed into young and ignorant minds. To break this generational mold of cowards whom can't use their fists or mouth.

I won't ever feel bad for being angry.
I won't give up my opinions for anyone or anything.
I will never be content, I will never settle.

I've waged war on everything you've become accustomed to.
You will be unsettled.

The Kill

Sick.
Sick in the head over the physical pain that is endured from emotional weight.
So many god damn years. You call me young, I was anything but.
This shell will never break, hands I'll never take.
If there was a way, I wouldn't have the will.
And when I have nothing left there will only be a single purpose.
The kill.