A Whore without a Soul

Obscurity.
That is all I long for.
Pain.
That is what I wish I could fill my soul with.

I am tired of listening to that weak,
everlasting muttering that fills my spirit with unpleasant peace.

I long for the days where those eyes
would look at me with despise;
as though I were a beast.

I can neither read, write, think or have myself bleed
without being cheered.

Where are those days when I used to be a shame?
I miss them.
I was bad at everything I did;
now, instead, they praise all my failures.
They! the so-called open minded,
can I, for this reason, look at them with disgust?
-Yes indeed-

Where is the pain of my soul?
Where my mourning upon being a bastard has gone?

I gave away so much love;
I forgot it was from hate that I was born.

I let them fuck my soul.
For dull pleasure I exchanged my spirit
(that by Satan was controlled).

I am a king among mortals,
in the eternity -though-
I am a whore without a soul.