I am alone.
Yet I search.
Groping through the darkness.
Hands trembling, reaching.
Reaching for support, a companion through this night.
Yet there is no one to guide me.
For I do not believe.

I am alone.
A candle lit my empty room as a child.
But it has been extinguished by spite for what I believe.
My father aims tirelessly to carve into my heart.
To carve into my heart a place for ‘God.’
His words do carve.
But they carve scars, not love.
My mother condemned me.
Damned me to roast.
For I do not believe.

I am alone.
Silenced by ‘His Holiness.’
Under the cross which I too must bear.
The lamb, ripped to pieces by the lions.
But they are just slimy leeches.
They feed off my flesh
They feed off my fear.
They feed off my perdition.
For I do not believe.

I am alone.
But how can they convince me of it?
They are the ones who are truly alone.
They follow ‘Him’ in blindness.
Then again only the blind can see that which does not exist.
I pity them and their imaginary friend.
But they pity me likewise.
Their ‘hearts’ are in the right place.
But what use is a heart if it is a dead, cold stone?
According to them, it is my heart that has been hallowed of life.
They hate me.
For I do not believe.

I am alone.
No friends, no family.
No Christmas, no Easter.
They all left me.
For I do not believe.