I am the massacre. A scourge worthy of a mausoleum for all too see. Feels like Ive lived a hundred years and all those years you didn't see. I took everyone's hope away and destroyed any left for me. I concealed my deception as I consumed your perception of identity.I fabricated your past, realities that became dreams of memories. Your eyes denied your heart the burden of accepting these certainties. I ask you what love is, your answer mirrored by millions.A familiar story, different only in tone and deliverance.A regurgitation of recital, no meaning of significance.And Ive grown to despise the smugness of it all.There is no answer to my question. I ask you what guilt is, your face distorts with expression.Like the combination of moving hands will strengthen this exhibition.The expectation of me to just understand your silent description.The answer to my question, man's attempts to disavow themselves of their actions. My lack of guilt offends you, yet it's a word only used by liars.And Ive grown to despise the hypocrisy of it all.Your answers were futile. I ask you what empathy is, many confused it intellectually as conscience.Some delighted in stating you can't describe it, you feel it. Like hunger I enquired?That pain that tells us we're hungry?Their reply was a simple no, it's not a physical feeling.It's a shared affinity for the awareness of others suffering.The ability to feel what others are feeling.By using the gift of magic they claim they were born with.I grew tired of your claims, and despised the emptiness of your answers. The truth is your all just actors unaware your in a movie. And I'm just a projector unable to play any film. I won't ask you want conscience is.As I've heard people explain it to be voices, that talk to you when you're reminiscing of your past actions. It just seems perculiar to me, that it's the same descriptions as mental disease. I've grown to despise your collective existence.