Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or

prospect,

is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

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King (poem)

I am the God of this world
I am the son of the morn
I am bound in mortal vein
Through deception I am born

I am remover of innocence
I am the knife in virgin flesh
I am the pain in suffocation
Through the pure I begin fresh

I am the breathing hate in your shadow
I am the thirst you so desperately crave
I am dynamic in the hand of thieves
Through lust men remain enslaved

I am the slices in your arm
I am torturer of masses
I am the dark heart in mankind
Embodied in man, whip, and lashes

I will remain forever
The father and son of your actions

Feeding on hate most pure