Carrie, how does your garden grow?
Are the souls of your enemies
Buried beneath your personal cemetery?
The victims on their knees
Begging, beseeching, pleading
Praying to you *and the same God for
Things to be as they were before
With silver bells, Carrie?
Are your nails sharpened to a point,
Itching to break bones at the joint?
To snap my wrists and tie
Them up - your peace of mind
Tortment me, ****** Carrie
Smirk and laugh before you bury
And cockle shells, Carrie?
Are you seen as a pleasurable fantasy?
A mask of terrible daydreams?
Your body caresses the loaded gun
He swears that pain is one with love
You are an instrument of pure torture
Who is viewed as a delicate sculpture
Are your pretty maids in a row?
Are we in a straight line
Waiting to be punished for our crime?
Your foolish prey meet the guillotine
One swift motion - sliced clean
Hail Carrie, the ****** empress,
Queen of deciet, and ***** mistress
For Carrie (obviously).
My words are my weapon. Here's to hoping they cut you like a knife.
(Just as his did to me).