I am not a razor blade.
I am the sap in the twigs of the Yggdrasil,
the essence of creation.
I am a sensation,
felt by those troubled hearts that long for the *****.
I am a windowsill.
I am the iron will
of those who form our silent nation.
I am the soft parade.
But I am not a razor blade.

I am not the blood that taints the ground
where family members fell.
I am not the coal that fuels the fire.
I am not a sense of ire,
corrupting the minds of all around.
I am not the gates of hell.
I am not a victory bell,
whose ring announces raw desire.
I am not a snarling hound,
and I am not a razor blade.

You can never empty a cup.
Try, and you'll fill it with air.
The same can be said about bottles,
They always have something to spare.

But you can empty a human.
At first they'll be filled with despair.
Leave them like that for awhile, though,
And you'll find that their soul is left bare.

There is a dull path oft walked by the pilgrims,
A dark path, of pain, and loss, and regret,
That leads to a little mistake in creation,
Within which all sin can be found.

Inside, there's a hallway, unkempt and unwanted,
With holes in the walls for miles on end.
Each hole is the home of its own awful creature,
Hungry hands demanding a meal.

They start with your clothes, your cash, your possessions,
Move on to your hair, your teeth, and your skin,
Then they gnash on your muscles, your bones and your tendons,
and most won't have anything left.

But for those with their souls and an eye for the eldritch,
The hallway allows them to pass with their lives,
And much to the dismay of those who traverse it,
It takes them right back to their homes.

Sailing adrift in a sea of sensation,
I rock back and forth to the rhythm of waves.
Beating, beating the breast of my vessel,
The melody ushers in happier days.

Swooning to sounds of a summertime siren,
I sell her my soul, let her sounds ****** me.
Trusting, trusting this treacherous *****,
Yet there's not a place I'd much rather be.

Joyfully feeling the peaceful vibrations,
We dance in the darkness, so blissfully blind.
Ecstasy, ecstasy, name of my mistress,
Dearest to me, and evermore mine.

I am the King of Maggots.
Discarded remains are my domain.
I open my mouth to lead my Children,
and Flies erupt from my lungs.
There is nothing for me in this world.
Nothing but contempt.
Let it come, let it dribble down
the chin of disdain as it swallows.
My Spawn hatch beneath my skin,
squirming, thriving on my lifeblood.
At last, it is time to leave the nest,
and Maggots burrow out through my pores.

Outside, I am empty.
Inside, I am fulfilled.