I murdered chances more than three times, and by definition I became a serial killer.
But how long can a monster reside inside my soul before I forget that I’m human? How many more chances must I get to feel something good?
But my targets never change, she has to be vulnerable, weak, and silent.
I try to be the creator and destroyer,
I help build the foundation to a corpse half dead
become alive, become strong willed and strong physically, and sometimes assist in creating a voice like thunder.
But I fail to see that putting others before me doesn’t justify the “love” I feel for them. I am no better than the guy who will break your heart in your next relationship.
I **** more good than I create it, I don’t live for you or I, I live because the world has given me reason too.
I feel the energy of death and life, and I play with both inside my body.
Yet I can’t keep my mind off of you and hoping that one day you will see that I’m Frankenstein's monster and you’re my creator.
Demons are inside me as much as angels fly overhead Fires burn inside my ribs and consume my belly.
I’m a psychopath and a writer.
But I’m also a lover trying to mend hearts with pieces of mine.