I pray.
I hope.
I love.
Some say it's a weakness.
Some say it's strength.
I say it's life.
We're just humans after all.
But the appearance doesn't make it true.
Those who lack,
those who are pitch black,
the faint of heart,
the cruel,
the kind,
in my mind,
the eye of a child.
So pure, so bright.
It's us who create.
Those who are weak,
those who are strong,
We only believe in what we can see.
Yet somehow the believers make it true.
We're the demons,
the monsters,
the evil in this world.
We create it.
We destroy it.
We try and kill it.
But what does that make us?
We make the things not human.
We conjure up the night black cry.
Don't fret dear child.
After all, we are all capable of change.
It's rather we want it or not.
But does anyone?
Who likes change?
So this world stays the same,
dangerous,
dark,
yet pure place.
It's not the name
it's not the appearance
It's the person.
The one who creates,
who makes.