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.