Where There’s A Will There’s A Way

I’ve always loved when a demoness shares the true meaning of her hatred façade behind a thesaurus slew of nursery rhymes                
Hearing her own heartbeat, getting slowly sucked in the warp of a diabolical mind                    
Not mesmerized by the moment, the presence of self is on the winds of blurred time                    
The trick of the trade far outweighs the leverage of my kind                    
No weapons to boast, only the words as they flow                    
Blood shall spill when castrating the roots of a black and purplish rose      
       
We are in the phases of the Full Moon      
Where words like daggers aim as it shall loom      
Not to be tricked by the hidden broken broom of an earthy fake witch    
A cold caldron with empty tricks    
Raining brimstone and streams to a man's girth  
Do not become bedazzled its only hot smelling escaping demonic piss    
Twin Jinns feening, one with a rotten old clit    
The other, ejaculating from the mouth like it has a dick      
It must be warm to a Nephilim and Reptilian's skin, to be Lucifer's slothful dames    
Trying to allure with those opened thighs even a dog in heat refuses to mount and tame    
Go on you two now, call back those demons who are refusing to partake in that mortal trashy fame    
Sour snatches with cervical fangs only to bring a lifetime of vampiric pain    
That garbage certainly is not certified in God or Jesus' name    
      
To fornicate will be a sin to sniff upon its lair      
Pull back the strands of thy spiked hair      
The number 666, embedded upon the Hellish snare      
Willful in the stench of the sorrowful greed      
Trapped in an obsessional emotional need      
Unto the stones the skin shall bleed      
                 
Cannot live with the stress at best, keep venomous mouth silent and remain in Hell’s kitchen                    
It keeps the vocal cords in peaceful whispers and to the masses devoid of femininity lustful twitching      
Saith the High Priestess when hearing echoes silently bitching      
I have never needed a phantom behind my pen or my intellect no retreat in the relent                    
You should be perfect at this emotion, you’re Hell sent                    
Washed up and totally spent                    
And too old to attempt to circumvent                
Or to hear the falsehood of someone giving you courage with an illusion of gathering earthly existences of bewitching                    
Incantations to the ancestral feasted with revulsions is not for the faint at heart, if no one to you ever mentioned                    
I am way above the mentality of a snake’s grade                    
The power of subtleness by words stirred in rage                    
Spiritual chants are my life someone should have told you                    
A quiet tongue speaks volumes when not giving the enemy their just due                    
It is the art of engaging the devil when a retort issued, now used as a tool  


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