Twist the Demons tail

Taunt me you sick suckle of a being, respond the crys, with soft as
coughs of a dead unfurfilled man.

Fill him with the woe, for you have cripled my sanity with a sick demonic being. He has now chosen you.

Prescribe the wickedness with a medicine....a mind.


A demon.

Furfill my anger and reach into my wickedness.

Pull out my intestines of love and make my soul as black as you are...
              reach in dear great God.

Unopreciative bastard christ child. Do it I yell into the blackness, twist this demons tail, make him who he art to be if you are a genuis of love.

"The defenition isn't the same as what he is," The Impure Angel says. He himself...feels like you. Grasp this, and you will conclude the wicked and the sane. For right around the corner lies a hopeful bitch, waiting for the state of abuse and torment to begin.



Realize the bleeding has just begun.....and rupture a scream into the black
lonesome
night.

Like the Impure Angel at first sight, you too took a glimpse of beauty and mase, and corrupted it.