[Dimmie Dunce]

Thinking hurts.

It hurts my head.

It upsets me.

It makes me sad.

It makes me hate.

It makes me agitated.

It makes me feel regret.

It makes me feel guilt.

It makes me feel things.

It is bothersome.

Bothersome to be asked.

What drives me?

Bothersome to understand.

That I do what I do.

Because it is what I am supposed to do.

It is what I want to do.

It is easier, when I am given purpose.

Vague colors. Colors. Gives little.

Makes no sense. Annoy me.

If enemy, why everyone stay blade for a Gala.

If enemy, why must I be the one to snap my teeth

to silence.

Purposeless. Empty.
But devout, my role, immovable.

Perhaps purpose is not of violence.

Merely to provide of coin.

Of material.

Of blind faith.

If ordered, I strike.

I need no moral high ground.
I need no reason.

Only the guiding hand.

That drives me.

It is all I crave.

I have always saw myself.

As an extension. A tool.

To be wielded as seen fit.

Even as I see.

Doubt that I am

Deserving of being a person.

Thoughts wriggle like maggots.

In my skull.

I like it when I am given orders.

I like it when specific things

Are asked of me.

It feels nice.

What would you tell me.

If you were still here?

To hold faith?

My faith is strong.

Her words guide me.

So what would you say to me?

To find my own path, maybe?

But what path forward is there
For someone that yearns to be

Little more

Then a

Tool.