Thursday, June 03, 2004
Can't You See Them?
Bleed. Blood, crimson pools.
Dead, all dead. I want them to die. To scream.
It hurts. Hurts so much. I want them to hurt even more.
My fingers, crush. Crushing their throats. Feel them struggle, feel them gasp.
A knife. Small and dull. Thrust it into their belly. Push it slowly in. Rip skin apart slowly. Hear them scream.
Yank their guts out. Pull, jerk, yank. Wrap it round their necks, strangle them. Watch their silent screams.
Stab their eyes. Hear them pop. The screams comfort me. Their pain warms me.
A whip. Lash them. See the skin split and rupture with every stroke. Hear them scream. Watch the blood ooze.
Drink. Lap the blood off the blade. Clean it, and drive it into the chest. Rip it open.
Pull. Open the chest. Break the ribs open. Cut the lungs out. Burn them. Watch the smoke rise and swirl.
Slice the heart out. Squeeze it, watch the blood gush out. Then burn, all burn. Watch it be consumed by raging flames.
Gone, all gone. Kill them all. Rip them to pieces and burn. Hear their screams, their pleas of mercy.
Let them feel the pain. Pain is real. Let them suffer. Let them die in deepest agony.
Blood on my hands. More blood. I want more blood. Mark the Reaper with the blood of innocents. Mark the Shadow with the powder of ground bones. Wrap the Executioner's axe with the skin of the dead.
Pain. So much pain. Power. Power in inflicting pain. Watch them squirm.
Laugh. Laugh at the pain. Let them understand the pain. Taste their fear and savour it.
And maybe I can forget my own pain by glorifying in the pain of others.
The red haze consumes me. The shadows haunt my mind. The voices mock and jeer. The bloodlust roars in its shackles.
They want to be free. As do I. Free from their torment. But I cannot.
For they are me. And I am them. I spawned them in my pain, and now I face the consequences.
But I have no regrets. I made them, and they moulded me. I can still see the blood on my hands. Red stains sunk deep into my skin.
Can't you see them?
]
Dead, all dead. I want them to die. To scream.
It hurts. Hurts so much. I want them to hurt even more.
My fingers, crush. Crushing their throats. Feel them struggle, feel them gasp.
A knife. Small and dull. Thrust it into their belly. Push it slowly in. Rip skin apart slowly. Hear them scream.
Yank their guts out. Pull, jerk, yank. Wrap it round their necks, strangle them. Watch their silent screams.
Stab their eyes. Hear them pop. The screams comfort me. Their pain warms me.
A whip. Lash them. See the skin split and rupture with every stroke. Hear them scream. Watch the blood ooze.
Drink. Lap the blood off the blade. Clean it, and drive it into the chest. Rip it open.
Pull. Open the chest. Break the ribs open. Cut the lungs out. Burn them. Watch the smoke rise and swirl.
Slice the heart out. Squeeze it, watch the blood gush out. Then burn, all burn. Watch it be consumed by raging flames.
Gone, all gone. Kill them all. Rip them to pieces and burn. Hear their screams, their pleas of mercy.
Let them feel the pain. Pain is real. Let them suffer. Let them die in deepest agony.
Blood on my hands. More blood. I want more blood. Mark the Reaper with the blood of innocents. Mark the Shadow with the powder of ground bones. Wrap the Executioner's axe with the skin of the dead.
Pain. So much pain. Power. Power in inflicting pain. Watch them squirm.
Laugh. Laugh at the pain. Let them understand the pain. Taste their fear and savour it.
And maybe I can forget my own pain by glorifying in the pain of others.
The red haze consumes me. The shadows haunt my mind. The voices mock and jeer. The bloodlust roars in its shackles.
They want to be free. As do I. Free from their torment. But I cannot.
For they are me. And I am them. I spawned them in my pain, and now I face the consequences.
But I have no regrets. I made them, and they moulded me. I can still see the blood on my hands. Red stains sunk deep into my skin.
Can't you see them?
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