Happy days?

I am all that lies in the wreckage of honesty upon the blade of betrayal, a fateful shadow of humanity in the cold core of a madman’s eye

A figure weak and by appearance poor, as to lure the lesser men of this world to open hells gates, the door to which I hold that twisted key, when a cruel hand is mislaid upon my soul

As for the decent and the kind, I would not hazard a God damn care, for sense remains with this blessed crowd as to steer far and clear from the crapstorm of fury I project with one look from jet black orbs

For in my form I conceal all the hatred of a nature sunk deep in the anti-social undercurrent, some unholy torrent of resenting will to be released when foolish few push me too far

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