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Like all deeply troubled angst-ridden gothic teenagers, I write poetry. You can tell it's good because I use words that you probably don't understand. That is the mark of good poetry. I hope you cry half as much as I have when reading these poems, for then mayhaps the world will be flooded with tears and we can all die in the salty embrace of an ocean of despair. Alone I am alone. Alone amongst the happy, For I share not in their glee. I am made petulant, By their cthonic joy, And soon I will rise, My devil's wings spread in full. Soon I will rise, And feed on their shallowness. And feed on their happiness. And feed. On them. Hark! The churchbell rings! Irony, It is time for the Master to awake. Awake and take me with him to THE FIELDS OF PAIN! I relish the discomfort I feel... I live for the hate... The hate that flows through me. The hate that makes me real. |