I plore you to tell me,
what sick and gutted madman,
From the depts of a divided hell,
Wait beyond my bedroom door?
What devilish charm does he behold,
To strike upon the innocent frames of minds,
That belong to those of the young and weak?
Though still young, I'm far from weak,
But still you grip my frontal gaze,
A figment of my imagination,
You take my terror and twist,
Until it suits your playful joy.
Listen close my childish nightmare,
Hide behind the curtains of someone else's dreams,
Leave my slow to wallow mind,
and haunt no more.