Slaves and their Serpents

I woke up as somebody else today, I looked like me, my blood even tasted the same. Blood? where was that coming from, oh yes, stupid me, The carving knife, never leave it on while you sleep beside it. Comic as my mutilation seemed, I yearned for something more, whoever I was today. Inspiration came like repeated camera flahes, Drilling its way into the head, Nesting in the frontal lobes, today I was to write something, something dark, something evil, something about somebody, something about this person in front of me. I poured my heart out, I filled the inkwell with the usual cliched black goetia, I made a quill by placing my little finger neatly between the knashing blades of an electric pencil sharpener, I could feel allready that I was due to pen down something marvelous today. I made light hearted quips about my masters nature, whilst ramming my fingers down my throat and slicing ribbens out of my arms. All this time I can remember detesting this person, but I just cant quite work out who. Looking down onto this person over the years, For each act of goodness used to barter for redemption, I have opened one more hole, one more well, So that the darkness shall never sleep.