Of course the pig squeals.
Yes, monsters make appeals,
pleading for humanity
whenever they feel
threaten by the lesser degrees
of the insanity
that they instigated
in our society.

However, my sympathy
is less engaged
for those who lie,
displaying false outrage
while the bombs that are made
our directed by them
to blow up innocent men
women, and children.

I long to be a good person,
but how much does my
saintly status cost?
Does it cross
some sick line
when I find
that I harbor patience
and mercy in my mind
for the vicious kind
who have slaughtered
thousands,
and impoverished
millions more?

You're behind me, aren't you?
Behind my weak form, behind this place, behind the years.

Yet you strangle me!

...

How do you do that?

How can all of you...

...

There's so many of you, is the thing.
There's you, and you, and you; amongst so many others.
It's... haha, it's really something.

You know,
whenever my friend's arm brushes against mine, I pull back in disgust.  An internal "Christ don't touch me" screeches and stops as suddenly as it forms.

I bear my fangs and my wrists tense, ready to claw at eyes who have no business watching me, before I catch myself
and step away.

And when said friend's tactlessness pulls them away from their intuition and keeps them preoccupied with their own feelings, I hear all of your voices at once.
"My needs first. My needs first."

And I wonder-
would the fangs have grown anyways
would the claws have grown anyways
would I had been this anyways
if none of you would have given me a reason to.

...

No, no.
Surely not.

...

Of course not.









*Of course not.

Beast howling in the night,
depriving me of sleep.
Oh, come and lick my wounds,
the rest is yours to keep.

I've fought you all my life,
but here you are again.
Beast howling in the night,
my life is yours to drain.

Corruption swarms my brain,
yet scared I am no more,
a monster you may be,
the beast that I adore...

This desert, dry as my lips, as my eyes
Which shed no tears.

This pale sheet of barren hell,
The voice of isolation.
Far, these days, from heaven.

I take a long drink, perhaps my last
Not to quench my own thirst,
Drawn from my own mouth.
But, to cure the insatiable thirst
That was my Father's.

Which has grown fiendishly in me.

But I drink, and I know
And I loathe, twisting
Myself into something mean,
Bitter and wrong.

I own this beast
I know his name
I curse my father
I devour his shame.

Though most of all, I walk forward,
Never averting horizon's gaze.

An illusion in the mind
Twisting and turning through time
Endless hunt
Surroundings repeat, seemingly stuck in a rut
Running, running, running
This beast is too cunning
No tracks, no scent, no way to find where it hides
In the darkness it lies
Waiting for just the right time...
When will it strike?
There's nothing to do but wait,
Let a few tears roll down in angst.
Aside from that just run until you go insane...
For the Beast, it calls your name.

Drift on drift on but rhythm run
And timber flail with the rolling throng
What little lies in wanting yet waits
for not all waiting want doomed to rot

But wait but wait beasts heart do beat
For tragic fear and demented dreams,
Of drowned minds and blinded crowds
Of crashing hooves and shattered screams

Ribble rabble and squalor squabble
over thoughts that streak between their feet
May one grab hold and its secrets unfold
A world without waiting or babble

Spent childhood ,
dreaming of a prince and castle.
Grown up and learned
All beauties Don't need beasts.