It seems so quiet when there is no hate. So quiet and silent it urges me to think. To think about nothing. To say nothing. To become nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing but anger. Nothing but hate. Nothing but violence. I am nothing but the dying butterfly that falls in silence from the sky. I am nothing but the bitterness on a cold winter night. I am nothing to no one, not even myself. Just. Nothing. And the things that I become are haunted by the screams of nothing, the feelings of nothing, the taste of nothing. And the things I become turn unrealistic and fake, fragile, painful. And the things I see when I become these things scratch at the pupils of my eyes, burn my irises and are so horrid no one could ever image. They take a tight grip of my throat and crush my voice box into tiny little nothings so I am no longer able to communicate with the world around me, only to the eerie shadows of demons that lay upon my imagination and thoughts. That curse my dreams and twist my mind. They whisper and scream words of nothing that drive me into insanity. They whisper and scream words of nothing that creates destruction in my soul and brings me to tears of blood. But that blood will wash away into nothing and when it does the voices will stop. The pain will stop. The hate will stop. The violence will stop. Everything will stop, and there will be nothing. Simply, nothing.