I call him the God of Pain. And bow before him. Today the whole bed is covered in blood After all, he loves to play with fate.
Play with the fate of Other people. I measure the pain drop by drop Bloody stains on the sheets. I don't like to hide behind a gag Begging cries for mercy And to continue languid sighs ... Yes, call Hell a fiend But I have nowhere to run.
Pain, screams, tempted moan, And weak resistance ... Night fell and neon Spilled a transparent glow ... Well, what then? Call him a God! ...
From the birth of my fantasies To the cravings that stem from my desires Either from sight or sound It's the creativity that's needed To enhance those feelings That makes them so profound Although they maybe a bit twisted And dark without any fears It's that powerful sex organ Which lies between the ears
I donít know much time I have left in this world So I rather write right to purge these thoughts Iím not sure what may await me tomorrow So I compose poems and prose while fate casts lots
I go late into the night looking for new expressions Setting them on the fire with fun puns and rhymes Instead of seeking fame or fortune while Iím alive Iíll leave words behind trying to stand the test of time
I look for grace and beauty in the littlest of things Musings recorded with secrets encoded in verse So that once Iím long gone I may be...
DISCLAIMER: I tried to write in Old Modern English style, if not Shakespearean. I hope I did not make many mistakes. Please do know I was never thaught it at school. So it is purely my own and vague research.
'T wast certain a thing. would mercy prevail? sing anon, prisoner, sing. ere thy death, we hail
a crowd we art, of vengeance. aye, dark, medieval and diseas'd word of god? nay repentance we madeth god up to beest did please.
we coequal believeth in 't. our own did bless word. wars...