Devil Much of what I write is shit and much I write is bad, Much of it is crap, fucked up, it's down, it's torn, it's sad. But to write from the heart is a dangerous thing, for deep down here my monster doth sing. Yet he has no charm, no will, no grace, he sits, he waits, he stares and bates. And one day he shall be let out, one day he'll taste the air throughout, and cling to each and every child; bad news for them, but I don't care, for I can smell the air.

The Maid In the corner, don't you see her? Hiding like a mouse. Tears of fear- don't perceive her. In this ancient house. I step closer, I fall, I scream, her icy eyes alight. If she weren't there, I'm sure, I swear, I'd make it through the night. Her wash robes bloody, battered, scared, a rip in every seam, And yet she stays- she does not flee, nor fade, nor pass, nor scream. She just sits there, white, transparent, my maid, my love, my dream.