Soaked Sinner

The Magic Dream (To my memories of Shakesphere)

T'was the fairest. That kept from the foe's presence.

Kneedled crink upon, yet mad'n bled.

Couldnt rope a latch that bid'n loosen.

Nor fly the way on'er sacred silence.

Stroked soft, yet brighten'd, with merrygold hues.

Sway'd shaded and sparked with sadden riped blues.

Couldnt bear, yeh lural roots.

Golden hairs, it gated, my threaten hoots.

Thy, come, not torture my beg with outness.

Let, give me some, thou magic dream, less of loudness.

The trumpets call'er, down fall I must. 

T'was only magic wanted I, with fairy dust.

Onl' lights from pleasent mind ways.

Can have, what asked, of your magic dream rays. 

Soaked Sinner

Pain is the skin of a juice burned onto your heart. If ye hurt. Hurt. Oh, thou human. It will be untill many less days under 60 hours that ye shall show yourself until my lovers. Kill, lest ye burn like that juice. And from my promise, soak thyself into I. For thou shalt never hunger nor thirst again.

I Crimed Myself

I went to the room. Discovered all mess. All red stuff. I thought I dyed my floor. No. I thought I spilled red paint. No. My friend's lipstick? No. It was my rage. It had ate my remorse. The bones were grinded into saphire. It shined like the smell of bleach. The carpet was dreary, as though ash was the last name of it's fiber. The love was gone. It was flat like a board in space. Like a tv screen melted by a house fire from nasty sin. The smell was wrenched. It contained DNA of molded betrayel, and burned abandonment. And the blood of my remorse was stained before me. Heavy. I had found out. Before my first 30 victims in a house, the middle of nowhere. My mind had been long gone. Nowhere to be found.