One day, I will break out from the inner sanctuary of your precious little mind.
You will believe that you are perfectly fine and happy.
I will lead you to the conclusion that the childhood you will experience is just like the same one to be experienced by every child. Thankfully for me, your mother will do a wonderful job of failing you.
Her incompetence will plant the seed I will require to blossom into your personal nightmare.
The abuse and neglect she will put you through will be the water that will nurture me.
How wonderful it will be for me, for her to be preparing a completely broken soul for me to unleash from.
You will join an organization, a noble organization, you will think you are doing the right thing.
That group will send you places. Horrible places, that will scratch on the dam that will contain me.
In due time, I will finally have the walls broken down enough that I will seize a hold of you.
I will start off slowly, so slowly that no one around you will be able to notice anything is amiss.
I will cover you with the dark clouds of despair.
As I begin to compose my sympathy of abomination, I will affect the people you will love the most.
As I begin to orchestrate my onus, I will prevent you from enjoying most of the things planned in your life.
Love? I will rip away that emotion, you will have no need for it.
Happiness? I will bury it under so much soul-wrenching tension that you will believe that your insides will explode.
Memories? You can thank your mother, her abuses will cause your brain to block everything through your childhood.
When professionals go to figure out how they can fix you, it will be in vain as you will be broken from both ends.
Eventually, they will give up on you, figuring you do not actually want help, or better yet, maybe they won’t believe you at all.
Your insomnia will set in, and that will be my artistic pallet to work with.
I will throw up a splash of anger that you will not be able to erase, an anger that will drown you through your life.
I will stroke on some despair, and a wonderful pit of despair it will be.
As it will drip down the canvas, you will try to claw your way up and out, but you will fall every time.
I will fill your every waking moment with thoughts of the darkest color.
My playground will be your nightmares, oh they will be magical!
For I will be you.
I will be your personal hell.
I just can’t wait to meet you.
Fog lays on the Missouri Ozark forest in April.