Monday, September 7, 2009

The diary of a deranged romantic


I can make you think you know
me inside out, but know this, no.
You don't know me half as well,
as you think, though you love me so.

I'm not the perfect little boy,
that little bundle full of joy,
that you knew once, and really did.
I am no longer your play toy.

I have my mind, i use it too.
I do what I like, and i like what i do.
And know this, as you sleep at night.
Somebody will be watching you.

Somebody will be standing by,
the glint of murder in his eye.
A rusted blade held in his hand,
smiling, he'll bid you goodbye.

And then, he'll simply turn around,
throw his knife away, for he is bound,
by any love that's left for you,
come back to bed, without a sound.

But, my dear, this still is true,
one day I'll end what i must do.
The monsters underneath your bed,
fear the one lying next to you.

Until that day, my love, unstrain.
I still love you, i will refrain,
from doing what i must tonight.
Tomorrow night, i'll try again.

It's not your fault you changed so much,
we had our times and fights and such.
But now i cannot live with you,
disgusted by your very touch.

And soon, when all this love will go,
you'll know pain, as i already know.
For, you don't know me half as well,
as you think, though you love me so.

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