The Body Count of Denial

I would rather desire to attempt something new.
Spontaneous to my soul or soon to be lack there of.
My free will, the miracle is
tainted by my self inflicted curses.

Though you only see the monster through
your morally constructed eyes,
I see myself and others in a cracked mirror,
alone in my own dark little world.

A part of me, in the void of sanity perhaps,
or to the side shackled to some fiend of
the Torturous Realm, a part of me in
powerful fragments lives in this desire of mine.

Only thus far in my most welcome dreams, to others nightmares,
have the fairytales for which I smile come
to a fictional life in the mind,
lost and replaced at so young an age.

I am but a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother. An individual of no demons
in the light of open eyes,
but demon of my own flesh whilst so alive.

Of Hell am I born, within the world of man,
unknowing until crosses the first thought
in mind to inspire the act in question,
well and fully aware with the catalyst victim.

For what purpose do I serve, shall be
out of the line of interest to my sin and I.
Questions to ask the least of what bump
of my road knock me out of place.

Fickle, oh fickle, are you my brothers and sisters,
my mothers and fathers, my friends my friends.
Fickle are you to ever doubt my existence
like that of denial in the devil.

In ever the blue moon does anyone ever
truly see the predator until too late
of any time on fates clock. You will only know me
by name, shackles and a body count.