Categories > Original > Poetry
I sit and weep in wallows past; the pain is too much to bear.
So many things left unsaid, my words unheard, reserved, unfair!
'Fore the sun always sets over the pitch in my soul, evil dealings I shall want nought.
Like evil words it passes thru me, absorbed, unleashed inside. Salvation can't be bought.
So many things this beast must be, father, brother, son. But killer resounds most in me.
Aberration and gaffe are my watch words; please don't be caught in my web, unseeing.
The night is young don't be caught unaware; you tender hearted creatures this night will ensnare.
The creepy and crawlies never show angst, ah in the eyes of the beast is where you must strain.
He doesn't creep, crawl, or stalk in the deaf of the night, He'll spring right upon you in an aura of reign.
He lowers his head with outstretched hand. Then beast leads you astray with great strides, faster and faster.
The beast is bold and powerful like nothing mortal has ever seen; he destroys your mind and leaves it in tatters.
Ugly and raw the beast attacks without mercy; although in the eyes of his victim he appears as a dream.
Pleasure ensues and happiness abounds, but your soul is on the cusp bursting at the seams.
With slashing and stabs the wild apparition rips at your flesh with burning red eyes.
With laughter and joy, to this poor soul, is just ribbons and colored paper flown high.
The beast shrieks with great pleasure and prances off with his prize.
The victim lies dead. Betrayal is all that's seen in her eyes.
So run little lovely don't be caught in my trap.
I have all the patience, I'm not of this world, you're endurance will soon be sapped.
It takes a toll on the beast no matter how hard he runs the pain and the anguish, fast, like a flash.
It can't help its nature, the way that he feels, for destruction and death is the lone feeling felt in his heart made of ash.
The beast made of pitch curls back in his hole
His heart made of ash further still from his soul.
He weeps and he wallows until his next meal comes around.
You poor tender creatures are vast and abound.
He feels and can taste the new meal venture forth, he fights with his nature and urges within.
The beast thirsts for the blood, it's all he's got left, the ash in heart, regret, and sin.
So many things left unsaid, my words unheard, reserved, unfair!
'Fore the sun always sets over the pitch in my soul, evil dealings I shall want nought.
Like evil words it passes thru me, absorbed, unleashed inside. Salvation can't be bought.
So many things this beast must be, father, brother, son. But killer resounds most in me.
Aberration and gaffe are my watch words; please don't be caught in my web, unseeing.
The night is young don't be caught unaware; you tender hearted creatures this night will ensnare.
The creepy and crawlies never show angst, ah in the eyes of the beast is where you must strain.
He doesn't creep, crawl, or stalk in the deaf of the night, He'll spring right upon you in an aura of reign.
He lowers his head with outstretched hand. Then beast leads you astray with great strides, faster and faster.
The beast is bold and powerful like nothing mortal has ever seen; he destroys your mind and leaves it in tatters.
Ugly and raw the beast attacks without mercy; although in the eyes of his victim he appears as a dream.
Pleasure ensues and happiness abounds, but your soul is on the cusp bursting at the seams.
With slashing and stabs the wild apparition rips at your flesh with burning red eyes.
With laughter and joy, to this poor soul, is just ribbons and colored paper flown high.
The beast shrieks with great pleasure and prances off with his prize.
The victim lies dead. Betrayal is all that's seen in her eyes.
So run little lovely don't be caught in my trap.
I have all the patience, I'm not of this world, you're endurance will soon be sapped.
It takes a toll on the beast no matter how hard he runs the pain and the anguish, fast, like a flash.
It can't help its nature, the way that he feels, for destruction and death is the lone feeling felt in his heart made of ash.
The beast made of pitch curls back in his hole
His heart made of ash further still from his soul.
He weeps and he wallows until his next meal comes around.
You poor tender creatures are vast and abound.
He feels and can taste the new meal venture forth, he fights with his nature and urges within.
The beast thirsts for the blood, it's all he's got left, the ash in heart, regret, and sin.
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