I slice my wrist, just to feel that pain.
As I become a shadow in your fame.
I taste the crimson on my lips.
As I dip my fingers in the blood that drips.
I smear your guts, right in your face,
And hope your god takes you to a better place.
I’m not insane.
Neither am I mundane.
A figure in your past,
Coming to get you at last.
You label me a psychopath.
As a victim, feel my wrath!
You see the blood drip down.
Yet there’s no need to frown.
Disturbed and dismangled.
As if your body were tangled.
Am I truly sane?
If so, must I be mundane?
The psychopath you are at last?
Or a nightmare in your past?
