Unbroken hurts, Faceless smiles, Hurried hands That part the skin to be closed, I am in madness. The pain I seek To create the sting Upon an already-disordered and used-up soul Has made me feebler, Born as the hungry Father of Cruelty. I feast Upon the beasts To grow stronger, than the claimed spirit I still possess, Who is undressed. Rotting fingers, Wailing lungs, Wilted form, among nestling pain. Give me more grief So that I may sleep. Madness, Conjectures, Lies, Families rent apart by my loathsome, Cheerful self. I want to cry As I want to laugh. I desire not sleep, As I love to lie awake To see my veins open themselves, closed. God is but a blanket of disorder, As I am the felled ashes of order. If beauty is the skin, Then I am its debris.