"I wouldn't do anything that I felt guilty about
You don't feel guilty at all?
There's no need to feel guilty. I haven't done anything I'm ashamed of. Maybe I haven't done enough. I might be ashamed of that, for not doing enough
Maybe I should have killed 400-500 people, then I would have felt better. Then I would have felt like I've really offered society something
Remorse for what? You people have done everything in the world to me. Doesn't that give me equal right? I can do anything I want to you people at any time I want to. Because that's what you've done to me. If you spit in my face, and smack me in the mouth, and throw me in solitary confinement for nothing, what do you think's going to happen when I get out of here?
You know if I wanted to kill somebody, I'd take this book and beat you to death with it, and I wouldn't feel a thing."
Murmur, whisper to me
Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams
Yearning to become real
The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy?
These fictions so corporal so obtuse
Restricting me, frustrating me
The fictions so morbid seem foretold
Digging in the psyche
These fictions so corporal so obtuse
Restricting me, frustrating me
The fictions so morbid seem foretold
Digging in the psyche
No theory, no medication, no session
Can shed light upon the monster I am told to become
No theory, no medication, obsession
The smell of blood, the soothing of the pain mine
A medical condition? No, merely purpose
Decrepit wits in a mind mine
These fictions so corporal so obtuse
Restricting me, frustrating me
The fictions so morbid seem foretold
Release the rage in me
Set in motion the first kill
Adrenaline, rushing me
The fictions so morbid fulfilled
Release the real in me
Swing the axe, hang the rope
The tales of my coming painted in a spree of gore
Do say your prayers, they shall be answered
By the cutting of blades as your insides are drained
No longer murmurs in thy decrepit wits
A spree of murder, unleash my insanity
Meticulous plan, the fruition of years of mental disorder
A spree of terror, the canvas of decay
Left behind for them to find, in perspicuity
Murmurs whisper to me
Slithering fantasies of cleaning bones, lucid dreams
Yearning to become real
The luscious slitting of throats, what fantasy?