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Start the flames and pour in the water, dinner will be made of the wise man's daughter.
She came into our house, she did, and put her nasty fingers in the trap we hid.
Simple cookies caught her eye, their fresh appearance made her laughing mouth cry.
And here is she is, about to die, let's chop her up, and leave her to fry.
For, we are the witches, the nasty witches, the ones that kill children and their twitches.
We fry them up like eggs and ham, later preserving their intestines for jam.
How wicked we are, indeed, indeed, for we are witches not born from pure seeds.
A GardenPorcelain lilies weeping in the pond, how emotionless and fragile their faces are.
Demonic statues paralyzed in the garden, each one fell from above a star.
Tattered leaves scattered across the pathway, cracking and floating away like glass.
In order to enter this magnificent garden, your proof must be displayed from your past.
MalformedMalformed, a cursed name you've called us countless times.
You beseech us to remove our masks so you may carve into passed times.
I think not, for your ideas have not a drop of sheer power.
The three of us together will shred your bleached soul within the hour.
Still yourself you impudent worm, you'll be released of your cage, once it's your turn.
Slither and screech for as long you desire, no matter your judgment you'll become malformed in the fire.
UntitledSwiftly cursing from one to the next, witness in the air the flesh-colored text.
Etching itself into the mindless brains, with each soul consumed its power gains.
Observe their activities straightforward and done, they dare not look upon anything except for the sun.
Clouded by falsity and crystalized tales, before them lies years of unfortunate fails.
And shall you become a mindless clone?
It's up to my sister, if you choose not to live alone.
HerTake a glance at timeless years behind, you'll see a trembling creature who had lost her mind.
And witness now, the being you see, one born from the shadows and divinity.
One that is stronger, reborn into wrath, all will suffer who stand fierce in her path.
Given to her the blessing of death, she will conjure thunderstorms within a single hairs breadth.
Passing judgement to those in need, in her years of deliverance she will highly succeed.
Ending all with these few simple words, "You were seen, but always unheard."
The Cloud of Desperate GloomTwice upon a summer's moon, arrives the cloud of desperate gloom.
Looming over far and wide, it devastates the plentiful countryside.
Consuming all within its path, none can escape its unstoppable wrath.
Swallowing the helpless birds and trees, it brings all the living to their knees.
But after the moon slowly dies, the cloud goes with it, nevermore it flies.
Journey to the mansion once at three, and search through the bushes for the undiscovered key.
Unlock the door and step inside, though do be hasty for you must hide.
Hide my dear from those horrid beasts, the ones that crawl and the ones that feast.
They slither around leaving trails in sight, their saliva is is sticky so you cannot fight.
Quickly now, run out to the garden, inhale the stench from the human plants.
Give them love and feed them pain, for you'll never rest eyes on their souls again.
Jack: Part 1 As Jack walked downstairs, he glanced at the family's pictures on the wall. Most were of his parents, but a few here and there were of himself and his siblings, James, Mary, Annie, and Paul. James was downstairs already helping his mother, for he wished to help bake his father's cake. "Morning son," Jack's mother called to him. "Mind helping me set the table?" Jack's mother was a caring woman, she had the voice of a dove and the love of an angel. Jack nodded and placed the tablecloth on the old wooden table, then he began to place all the silverware neatly. He was careful with every utensil, because father would spank him if something was out of place. Jack's sisters came downstairs shortly after and began to pick fresh potatoes and carrots from the garden in the yard. Thankfully, this year was plentiful, even after the long draught in May. As breakfast passed by, Jack grew worrisome and prepared for his father's demise. He knew
Venting PoetryTo bathe in blood, is as comforting as being held by nothing.
Nothing is everything if your mind is purely insane, clutching the very fabric of abnormality.
All is yours when you have nothing, but all is taken from you when you have all.
Precisely like the tides of Death and Life clashing, creating chaos and overthrowing one another.
Both roaring and screeching like wild creatures, battling for a piece of meat.
The meat is composed of humanity, whoever wins takes them all.
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