I've got a pet daemon,
Every once in a while, I let him out of his cage.
I find it most beneficial,
If every once in a while the wise one gets to play.

I've got a bad desire.
I want to see you when you're out of your skin.
My bad thoughts are inspired
By the ugly, dark world I live in.

No matter what you believe,
No matter what you think you've been told,
There's nothing you know about me.
I have never been the one to be a tortured soul.

A bead of crimson forming,
I see it and my heart starts to throb.
The story few people know,
Is the tale of my midnight macabre

It's like a tale from Lovecraft, brother,
But I was never surprised to gaze upon my face.
And I have always known it.
To others, there was barely a trace.

I revel in self-adulation.
Your pleasure brings me such pain.
I look in desperation upon you.
I want to see your tears fall like the rain.

I understand my desires.
I know why I exist .
I suffer from no allusions.
Your soul is meat, I am a carnivore.

I've got a pet daemon,
Every once in a while I, let him out of his cage.
I find it most beneficial,
If every once in a while that wise gets to play.

This debilitating cynicism leaves me throwing fists,
blindly, unkindly I deliberately hide so that you cant find me.

Unmentionable, the seeking of attention that we require,
and I impede my own desires with a silent fear of fire.

Hold me higher than your loved ones,
mask my bad intentions.
I wish I was as pure as my lustless suggestions.

You try to fall, I’ll hold you back.
I surround  myself with your artifacts.
My mind wanders with a sense of urgency.
I watched you fade away from me.

I discreetly try to imbibe the origins of your resentment.
Above me you reside as I strive for mere acceptance.

Escaping dignity, I ruined the bridges I built,
and bruised by your excuses I melancholicly  wilt,
condemned by a guilt that I can’t abandon, My love  for you is more than a fandom.

I’ve derobed your more times with my eyes than you have with your paws,
Our time together was macabre, Showing all of our flaws.

I am an aging immortal,
exponentially expanding
knowledge through time
while my skin shrivels and
my senses dull. I surpass
the sad image of old age,
I veer into the morbid,
macabre.

Hush little angel,
Don't say a word.
Master's going to get you
A raven bird.
And if that raven bird
Doesn't crow,
Master's going to get you
A ring with a red stone.

And if that red ****** ring doesn't shine,
Master will get you silk however fine,
And if that silk isn't softer than soft,
Master will make someone's head come off.

Hush little angel,
Don't say a word.

Master's going to get you
A raven bird.
And if that raven bird doesn't crow,
Master will find you rings with red stones.

And if you aren't appeased by the red stone's shine,
You'll still be the only angel of mine.

And if my angel
Flies away,
I'll know that my angel
Will come back one day.

And if my angel
Comes back one day,
I surely hope
That it's to stay.

Part IV: Strings Through Face


How it works is far beyond me,
But what it holds my eyes can capture.
Twist the knobs and find the right keys,
Twist the knobs and my face is captured.

I have no face.
I cannot see but I still wonder.
My eyes are gone.
Where is the lightning?
As I hear the thunder.

This music box ate my face alive!
Stringing out my sight!
Where are you?

Tearing off my nares!
Who are you!

Sewing close my jaw!
Why are you...

My face is lost!
Father, my face is gone!
I need another...
This music box defiles my slumber!

Father!
Do you hear my calls?
My face is lost father, where did I go wrong?

The air around is dead,
I cannot let it in.
My voice outside cannot be said,
But I need an answer...

Life is a prison;
And we all have death sentences.

The meaning of life lies
Within the honor of her eyes
When our pupils harmonize
I’m seduced yet purified

Our frequencies collide
We make sometimes, rainy weather
But my sunshine inspires me to change
For the better

Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.

Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died

(on the toilet).

Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.

Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-

River. River Phoenix. Drugs.

Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.

Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.