The pit is filled waist deep with a filth that would make most other deathly sick, but not the beast
No, instead it delights in this putrid slime, it knows life no other way, it seems to desire it no other way, it wants those around it to live no other way
It hurls the filth in it has colected at those who draw near, It reaches up in an attempt to pull others down into its pit
It finds joy in the pain and anger of itself and others most of all
It says it loves, and at times I’m sure it does, but mostly I doubt it knows the meaning of the word
But then who am I to dictate the meaning of love
This beast may indeed love yet to me ts love seems to be fond only in the anger, sorrow, and destruction of people and things beautiful
Athough I must admit that it does on occasion attempt to show what I call to be love, but if ever I try to think only of its good the knowledge of its evil slips into my mind and I can find nothing worthy in the this beast of the care I have stowed away in my heart
Why does it judge otheres so? Why do I judge it so?
I am sickened by this beast, it shall haunt my mind for the rest of my days ever past it’s
These memories I have of it are like daggers in my heart that I cannot pull out
I should not be surprised to find something this foul in our world for there is some of it in us all, and it grows in me
There is a beast who lives in a deep, dark pit