Frantically washing my Crimson hands,
I choke on the fear hanging in the air.
I can’t get caught, this face is not my brand.
Adrenaline pulsing from my demand,
This is my excitement, this is my fear.
Frantically, I was my crimson hands.
This sensation I feel is far too grand.
It’s tearing me apart, I’m well aware
I won’t get caught, this face is not my brand.
Within dark vices, gladly am I damned
To provide aid to all those who suffer.
Frantically, I wash my crimson hands.
I don’t know why, why must I be condemned
By this calamity? I have no care,
I won’t get caught, this face is not my brand.
Dark blood siphoning his life, just as planned.
I love this deep death, in utter terror,
I frantically wash my crimson hands.
I have become this monster, I can’t stand
The fiend that I am. Why should I be scared?
I can’t get caught, this face is not my brand.
He’s losing control, I’m taking command
Of our show. In the mirror, I stare,
Frantically washing these crimson hands.
I can’t be caught, this face is not my brand.
Credit to my friend Sam for collaborating on this with me last year!
PsychicSatanPoetry 