Now it's time to confess my sins. Confessions of what soul still remains. I can't reclaim the rest, for it has been lost to shadow. To avidly depict what remains requires a spark long since vanquished. All I can contain and confess are my sins.

I've hurt, cheated and lied. And if memory serves me correctly, there have been many a time when I laughed while other had cried. I knew this to be wrong, either later or at the time, but it carried on. As many went to confession, I sat by the corner store to take in my fill of sin. Of course, there are two well-known types of confession, the holy priest and the wicked bottle. Some keep to one, others enjoy the two equally. Who am I to judge? For I had had a taste of both, neither of which relinquishing me of sin.

Anathema became a well established name at the center of my title. Neither a sinner nor a saint, neither a noble nor a wretch. Out-cast was the only solution to my problem. My problem being me. There's no greater tragedy than to despise oneself. Perhaps there is, but this one remains my great sin. Addicted to re-creating self-image. Too bad it is all in vain.

I stand before this full and empty room, an addict. Addicted to sin and all of its splendor. Addicted to sainthood and all of its torture. Funny how life is said to be the opposite of death. If truth holds out, maybe I could emerge common. For there is no glory as the frequently infrequent pariah. Only filth, squalor and pain. Caged in open air left abandoned by commoners who desire me a different name. Of course, this is my punishment for not quite fitting in. To an outsider's gaze or to my own desire, I lay in punishment for my sins. My people before me, my stance steady on stage, I listen to my echo take hold of the empty hall. And unto myself, I confess.

(Also posted in Creative Corner)