The taste of blood filled


United States
43° 0' 26.6256" N, 71° 29' 42.8532" W
United States
43° 0' 26.6256" N, 71° 29' 42.8532" W

The taste of blood filled my quench, my room filled with recompense, when I cut the appendage the muscles get tense, I love the struggle they put, I even enjoy the threats,                                      I watch as they sit in the tub filled with their own blood, begging me for mercy, but I show no love, I twist and twist and twist till their hands aren’t able to turn a fist, separated from their wrists,                                                                                                                                                                         I bite their tongue when I give my victims a death kiss,   people call me the anti-Christ but my name is Chris,

People have their own hobbies; mine is kidnapping and making veins pop while their heart is still throbbing,

I crush and crush and crush till their brains are mush, I throw them in cages and ask them why I should let them live but I don’t feel the care I portray as much, yes I’m the definition of sin,                                                                 my mom died and left my dad in a rut, I saw him,          arms gashed cut, I fled and began seeing images in my head, I kill to let the color seep red, I’m only 18 and my life is filled with pain and dread but yet my actions are something I don’t regret, my spot in hell is sacred, flame thorned bed,                                        I’m looking forward to Halloween, every year I find kids to train and become my personal pets, picking up the pieces, feeding them flesh and when they turn the right age I figured I’d let them go out and put upon what they saw me do to the rest, filling in dark circles like a Scranton test,


As I don’t belong alive so I kill to survive, my life is a thread and with every soul I take I reinforce the line, what I do is not a crime but a way I feel sublime,                                                                                                     the smell of death is the perfect fragrance, I hope I’m not being vagrant with my train of thoughts, I’m writing and playing operation on a 32 year old patient that has a stomach lined with confetti and everything else is just as adjacent, my work room are my victims rooms and basements, I speak to the remains, the pink on my lips are from the minds,                  

unfinished thoughts from my patients,

Hearing dead conversations about the growing population and how I’m saving this world from truthful extermination,                                       this state is mine,       killing by the nation,

My mission is to succeed in this cannibal industry, no one questions my look on this input that I took out when I had put, but no one can respond when their mouths are filled with their tongues that I freshly cooked.

Sizzling as I read the ingredients to cook,

This is my diary,                   urban killer     First chapter        read the   book.



Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741