The darkness of the stage was more than a mere absence of light. It was a void that swallowed sound, a space suspended between the pulse of life and the silence of death. A solitary figure stood there, his body frozen in time, facing the audience that was both judge and executioner. Every breath he took felt like an eternity in the belly of this oppressive silence. He didn't need to see them, nor did they need to see him. It was a moment shared in the cold embrace of mutual understanding. The audience, wrapped in the air of judgment, was already condemning him, yet there was no one to speak the words aloud. His very presence was an accusation.
A muffled sigh escaped from the lips of the condemned, as though the weight of his fate was an old friend, one he had known too well. His tongue twisted around the bitter taste of regret, but there was no time for it now. Time had long since run out. And in that timeless moment, he spoke the words that had been bubbling inside him for years, the words that had built the foundation of his soul.
"I am the poet of death, the one who has woven each thread of this life into a tapestry of pain and revenge," he began, his voice raw, yet strangely calm. "For years, I lived among you, pretending to be one of you. But I knew what I truly was, and now, you shall know it too."
The stage was no longer a mere platform—it was the stage of his punishment. This was not a performance; it was a reckoning. The audience wasn't here to watch a play—they were here to witness the last act of a man who had crossed the line into madness, the final echoes of a soul who had wandered too far from the light. And as he began to speak, the crowd's silence grew heavier, almost suffocating.
"I was born of darkness," he continued, his eyes gleaming with the coldness of someone who had long since abandoned any hope of salvation. "My life, like the lives of so many others, was nothing but a cruel jest played by fate. But I wasn't born to live like the rest of you. I was born to kill, to cleanse this world of its hypocrisy. And my father, the man who pretended to be a savior, was the first one I put to rest."
His voice faltered for a moment, but only briefly. The story he was about to unfold was one he had long buried in the deepest corners of his soul. Yet, it was the very foundation of his existence. The darkness he had always known was now his only companion.
Want to know me? Dare to read.
The dilemma of my soul lies in the choices I've made.
Am I a monster or merely the truth denied?
A blade that cuts only those who have lied.
His fingers brushed the worn cover of his notebook. It had been his only companion, his only solace. And within it, the ink of his sins bled onto every page, a confession he couldn't escape. He couldn't forget what had been written. And yet, in the absence of light, the notebook became a lifeline. He wondered if the answers he sought could be found within its pages.
Tell me this: Can I ever be whole again?
Can the blood I've spilled be washed away?
Or must I forever stand in the shadow of my past,
A poet cursed by the sins that will always last?
His voice echoed softly, blending with the dim hum of silence. It wasn't a question of whether he would find peace—it was about whether the world could ever accept the truth of his existence. He had crossed the line, committed unspeakable acts, but in his eyes, it was the world that was truly broken.
He stood up, the weight of his fate still bearing down on him. His father's death had been only the beginning—a spark that had ignited the inferno of his purpose. Yet, every day, he questioned himself. Was it truly revenge that drove him, or was it something more? The world had failed him, but in his eyes, it was only through cleansing it that he could find clarity.
I am the flame that burns the lies away.
In the ashes, truth will find its place.
The pain I carry, the world left me with,
And in that pain, I am free—free to exist
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Let the poem bleed—only if you dare to turn the next page.
—Unconventional Writer