The Way I Dream Poem by Saint Cynosure

Trapped inside with no way out,
I'm cold and black has stone.
Stuck always without a doubt,
by torture I'm alone.
Seems that with some other half,
my beings left un-thrilled.
The only way I'm satisfied,
is by my works of ill.
By the blood thats on my hands,
the rotting sweet of breath.
I cant expect you understand,
till you've the taste of death.
Until you have the thrill of chills,
that blankets all your skin.
And calms the flight of butterflies,
you feel that soar within.
The rushing sound of pleasured screams,
to raise your hanging head.
This is only way I dream,
my dreams bringing death.