Staring at my mirror, displeased and distraught,

reminiscing upon all the battles I’ve fought,

I cannot help but wonder, what do I feel? ,

do my emotions exist? , are they even real? ,

I cannot remember a moment of joy,

not even from my days as a small, naive boy,

all I can remember is pain and neglect,

the only things left that my eyes reflect,

I glance at my body in disgust and scorn,

all that it lacks are the wings and the horns,

and the pitchfork, perfectly reflecting my character,

for the rank of my evil is of a truly high caliber,

I despise all that’s nice, I sympathize for no one,

I glare in disgust upon all that is fun,

you're mistaken if you think that is sweet or kind,

for if you knew the real me I’m sure that you'd find,

I'm nothing at all like the way I appear,

I disguise my true self, I hide it in fear,

I detest my appearance, I hate how I act,

so I silently made to myself a pact,

I abandoned my heart and soul, and left them to rot,

in turn, abandoning the pain and sorrow they brought,

and as my heart decays slowly, I can do nothing but stare,

into a mirror that reflects no one, as if I wasn’t there,

and out of nowhere shrieks of pain and anguish ring upon my ears,

and everyone I ever knew breaks into loud cheers,

they stand above my casket, not in mourning but in joy,

they mock my frail corpse, for it resembles not a boy,

but a monster trapped inside that form, with not a chance to grow,

but it was the lack of heart and soul that laid the final blow,

and struck my body motionless, to lay in grief and woe,

and it was there that I died inside, the pain I felt, you'll never know,

for I have no heart to pump my blood, no soul to warm my heart,

so my heart has grown an icy chill, and thus, broken apart,

I did not resist my death, I felt it was deserved,

for my evil side still existed, though I kept it quite reserved,

so I died a painful death on my very date of birth,

I died without a purpose, without a sense of worth,

and my death affected no one, they all lived on their lives,

as the empty shell of who I was, still wandered the earth, alive,

it resembles who I used to be, though it feels not a thing,

not a sliver of happiness, even pain doth not sting,

it wanders with no goal, only to eat and to write,

its poetic brilliance shudders, and awakens every night,

it claims to be me but has no real name yet,

I would introduce you two, but you’ve already met,

it claims to be fond of you, I presume that is a sign,

maybe it plans to control you next, maybe you're all in line