put those hands away

A scratch in the surface, what is the purpose?
And if I could open wounds and unravel scars, I'd do a pretty number on you.
I feel trapped.
I kneel before the King, I have nothing for you, he says, slamming his scepter down, a look of heavy dismissal pulling on his brow. The walls begin to close in as I'm pulled from his grace's presence. No. Please hear me. Phantoms of misery cast down from the ceiling, bound for my heart, my flesh, what little hope for humanity that I have left and it's gone, within a moment, not even a moment because that exercises a flick of consciousness from the mind to own some state of being, a sense of self, but I had none, no time to gasp, to throw my hands up to shield myself, to cry, to run, to plead, anything. If hopelessness was a physical entity that could fill a room everyone would choke on it. They would all fall to their knees, asphyxiated, with pain and confusion contorting the features on their face. In my decomposing state, I would hear their shrieks and cries, whatever could escape their mouths, and I will smile because now they know how I feel. Yet, I am for the better, I will stand upon their corpses after I pile them high. I will throw my arms up towards the stars and ask for the brightest spotlight to show the world what I have done..