Something is slowing me down. It makes its way through my arms, And through these fatigued worn fingers In fury-fevered lashings of the claw. I somehow manage to gain the strength it takes To emit its evils onto the page. Blood-soaked desperate one-sided attempts Into the chill of all words. Let the sloth be told of horrid torment, To watch him plagued in thought for all of our years. In every time a star of hope is shining its regards As a sparkle of vain mockery, In these pained attempts of self-alleviation. To convert from the monster.