I was wordless. Language was empty of meaning to me,
A creature.
Abandoned by my creator, I stumbled through the dark.
Rejected.
Why? Because I was imperfect through no fault of my own —
A sinner?
No. Not I. The other school of thought appealed to in advance:
Tabula rasa.
An empty slate to be encrypted by the world. So if I am deficient,
A draft,
It is the world that made me so: their ignorance within reflected.
This they hate.
They hound their own failings in attacking; unveiled in their cruelty.
Solitary.
Like the moon on the crest of a cloud, alone and lonesome in my plight.
To learn.
So many questions and for them, the answers few. The more I read…
Ideas
Like hailstones batter. Who am I? Whence I come? What place to call my home?
No name.
A luxury denied me. For had I even this, I would not howl in pain and envy.
Frightened
By everything and all. Unloved. A monster. To punish their malice I will plot this:
My revenge.
Will track you down. As winter is my witness, you’ll pay for your desertion,
Frankenstein!
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vic briggs 