The killer in me whispers to me now.
Nocturnal urges creep up too.
Inspired by the musical chorus of How?
The killer in me sees it all to true.
I don't know why. I don't know how.
But the killer in me wants to **** you.
A bemused idea really. A psychopathic vow.
All I know, is it is there, I know it's true.
How poetic, romantic it is, really I must insist.
An emotion, an urge being all on its own.
The reasons of allurement I cannot list.
Why I should be the one, on this throne.
The killer in me, sees with cynical eyes.
She knows the beauty of the Death.
And grants the victim an indulgence through lies.
Sees, understands the gift, the favor, of every breath.
I am the killer that observes the light leave,
That takes no remorse in wrong, exciting deeds.
I watch the sick, unseemly fantasy I weave.
I know it is the killer in me that yearns and needs.
The killer in me says that it is perfectly, consummately OK.
The fundamental guidelines do not apply to us as one.
This is the way we are, our prevalent, primal way.
This is how we quiet the voices, this is how its done.
Cold and precise and splendid, the killer is an artist.
Taking pride in her work, making it true craft.
"The killer in me will never surface." I insist.
But when I said that, she just smiled and laughed.