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I’m worse than satan himself while you pretend to be

I hope all of your nights end in a restless fever as you lie there fantasizing of me and my devilish form,
Living fiendishly, crying, due to the hellish nightmares I’ve drilled into your brain.
It’s karmic.
All that has been brought upon you and sat in your lap is your own doing,
Despite your babbling lies, telling unknowing ears about it being mine.
My darling, I understand your ways more than I’d like to acknowledge.
You’ll feed deceitful sentences to any fool that will listen.
For as my subject,
You are prone to obsession-
Tho not for I- but the childish notion that you are perfect.
And the doubtful belief that everyone who is someone must bask in your glory.
So as I lovingly hold your delusional ideals in my lap,
Playfully agreeing with the dangerously grotesque words that leave your irresistible lips,
I bend down to whisper sweetly upon your deaf ears,
That I am the ruler of this domain
And you are simply the dirt beneath my soles.

About this poem

When your anger bubbles too close to the surface, it’s better to have a creative outlet.

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Submitted by Jellicon1221 on June 26, 2022

55 sec read

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