For I seem to bear no soul,
Not a wisp of sprit.
Eyes, are both still and frozen.
Lips, locked in a sinister smile.
In the mirror stares a creature, not animal,
A demented, twisted caricature of my worst features.
I fear and lust for pain to inflict.
To torment Forture's fairer few,
The rare that are able to sleep with ease.
The few who do not know of problems beyond themselves,
That live perpetually in a room voided of chaos and debris.
I despise their ill-placed happiness,
Because jealousy is a tempest that has engulfed my being.
The pain I suffer, these babies know not of.
Their blissful existence, saved from earthly sins.
I wish to drift down, to their range of short-sighted sight,
To share in their temporary bliss,
Before my tainted dagger, encased in my tainted hands,
Pierce the film of these fragile bubbles,
So we can all shed tears of remorse.
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