DaMn/SaVe

He Waits outside my window, shivering with an anticipation of ill intent.

The time is coming, the clock is working it's way into the final hour.

Such silence from me is only guaranteed through the fact that I am hard at work, concocting an attempt to shatter the veil of fate and slip through the cracks of a descending reality.

I've long since left behind the world of which you believe exists, opening the eyes inside my soulless corpse and revealing the second plane in which one must travel in order to become a god.

I hear his crooked fingers tap the pane of glass between us with excitement.

Months have passed since my loyalty was forcefully anchored to a mother who I wish to reap.

I belong a rook in her chess game now.

Lest I can rack this crippled brain and shake loose the final pieces to this puzzle of freedom.

Success a twist in time itself.

Failure an early grave at the hands of my adopted brother.

Tap... tap... tap...

This Scarecrow has a few wicked tricks left up his sleeve.

And I'll be damned if I don't make full use of each and every one to escape this ever twisting trap.

...

Come my crows...

Tis Time To Feed.

A thousand sullen kisses upon the brows of all I've slain.

A million words to change a fate?

A scripted page to warp forever?

Is reality merely a scene by scene endeavor? Directed by a puppeteer with a multitude of curved claws?

God.

Ha, I'd spit in his face, or perhaps shake his hand.

I've mutated the very essence of my being, destroying every little tiny bit of myself and allowing absolutely nothing to take it's place. I'm nothing a higher power could willingly want to control or damn. A nonchalant maverick lost in a mindset void of fear.

Just a broken visage of what one shouldn't be. A coalition of thought and revert progress.

I've ascended evolution whilst simultaneously descended into madness.

A contradiction that still has the morals of a dead man.

Slenderman.

Scarecrow.

What are the use of words anymore when they only go unheard?

If a man sings a requiem to bring back the dead, but no one wants to hear it...

I prefer to be a beast.

Less responsibility that way.

I believe I'm falling into a state of decay. When the choices I made and the path that I've chosen are simply reaching their end and the only thing that will soon remain is the final product.

Me.

Loser.

Broken dolls. And Shattered heads.
Silence crawls into our beds.
A bleeding wrist, a crooked nose.
One and two and three hard blows.
Nestled insects in our eyes.
Creaking as the bedpost sighs.
A quiet scream of agony.
Quelled by the seams of entropy.
Red green pus profusely flows.
In this graveyard's corn crop rows.
A shedding tear. A violent fear.
Doors shut closed this haunted year.
A little gasp as shears run through.
A horrid thought, this could be you.
Sew shut eyelids, now you sleep.
From the nightmares that I reap.
Draped in ravens, reds and crows.
In the end, that's how it goes.
One plus two then three to four.

Now they all don't breathe no more.

BEG

cUT tHE sTrINGS tHAt bInD yOUr souL. fRee tHe sInS YoU aLL bUt stOLe. sLiT tHe mINdS insidE yOU frEE. wiTH a sIcK lOBOtomy. yoU kEep fIghtiNG evERy lIE. liKE a cockROACH you WON't die.
I WILL BREAK YOU.
pUPPet.


aND yOU wIll BEG fOR iT.

TRickeD yOU.

SucH a PEtty PiECe oF PReY. LIKe a mINdLESS SHeep yoU WANdeR towARds ThE SLauGhTeR lIkE a KITe oN A STRIng. AnD THEn I STUmble upOn ThIs IdIotIc JoURNal. LiKE TALKing tO THE World WHIle yoU ARgue wiTh YouRSelf Is GOINg To HelP YoU in ANy WaY. BuT ALL tHIs TALk OF PuPPeTs aNd dolLs HaS My INTErest PiqUEd. I aM sO goinG tO ENjOy CutTinG YOuR STringS AnD WaTCHinG YoU FAlL InTo INsanITY. i WOnDEr WhICh One Of YOU iS GoinG tO WiN ThiS twisTEd BAttlE of WItS.