- Books, Literature, and Writing
Years of wishing I had not chosen this path today I walk,
I chose to accept no god like figures,
Pictures do not talk.
I can't take back the years of loathing,
Our two dark souls endured,
For the hate that turned to death,
The sickness can't be cured.
To kill not to be killed,
Accepting of her fate,
She resurrected her inner Demon,
Two seconds too late,
Now she is somewhere in between the living and the dead,
Her voice forever ringing inside a poets head.
To cry for what is done Is a scencless waste of water,
For one knows she was a bastards son,
And a drunkards daughter.
Her passion was of manipulation,
Her lust like the wind,
She was the mistress of the night,
She was Satans next of kin.
She was evil pure and true,
She was the mornings dampest dew.
She was the sulfur in the rain,
Paying forward only pain,
In Death she just exhaled.