Were there things of I scarcely write,
Flesh-bound secrets: my darkest plight.
Unaided heat and aching skin,
A howling instinct come from within.

Such carnal longings... my guiltless crime
But none do know my mind sublime.
Left to myself, I twist and turn,
Frustrated flames in which I burn.

I feel the madness course through my veins.
I pull my hair; frustration reigns.
From my bit lip and furrowed brow,
Aroused, I ask myself "how now?"

In vast bedchambers, I lay alone.
My mind basking in depths unknown.
My toes curl tight and nails dig deep
for nowhere will my wetness seep.

I groan quite softly, left unappeased.
Such torment stands eternal tease.
Just one is tangled in pillows and sheets,
Trembling of wanting and unshared heat.

All over my skin the goose-bumps rise.
Perhaps a beast you'll find in my eyes.
What secrets be there in my physique,
Hidden within an element mystique.

I said "I've had enough", you didn't hear me.
Right now, it's too late. It's too late for you clearly.
No life is left for you, and I've got no rue,
There's no way I'll ever feel blueful for you.

You have bones that crushed, some were just broken.
The sound of neck snapping? It is truly golden.
Blood that was dried up, and blood that was dripping.
Oh my my my, I was not even tripping.

Your skin would make a mighty mighty fine gown.
After all this time of you putting me down.
I do want to **** you, no questions asked.
Let me have my moment of brutal bloodbath.

I think your teeth would make fine accessory.
Again, no, I will not be ever be sorry.
I'll stop when there is no more fluid in you:
Saliva, blood, sweat and maybe *** too.

Now this seems unlikely of someone my age.
Yet maybe you weren't warned of what fits my rage.
And maybe, just maybe, it is your own fault,
For flaunting too much until I've lost my gall.

Perhaps I will tear you, your sad flesh apart.
Watch 'til it stops in my hand, your beating heart.
You and I both human, I wish to live longer.
I wonder if you look pretty hanging from the rafter.

Ending you swiftly won't be all that fun.
Slicing you with knife or shooting with gun.
Maybe I'll make art, creative, intricate.
Maybe you got no guard up, check and mate.

And this question lies: Where my sweetness went?
Well I'll say this is the furore years spent.
Let me bite my lip, appease bloodlust call.
I present my masterpiece: ****** in the hall.