Who knows what lurks in the minds of men but me,
The silent messenger of sin and shame,
Who is full of the vagrancy that drives a heart.
Why would one kill another,
Other than to feel,
To feel what it would be like.
Anger drives some but not me,
It is a hidden desire to experience,
To feel all that can be felt.
Feel the blood as it now drips down my arms,
Feel how its warmth begins to swallow me,
Just when the coldness of death is upon me.
For I have to experience everything,
Even that which brings me,
The realization of my stupidity.
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