The Puppet Maker

Ever since I seen you, I fell so hard. I know that and I have a feeling you do too.

The problem? How can't figure out how to tell you in words. Then she came into the picture when my cutie mark was found. Was it something I did? What was the appeal about her? It was somewhere then, I figure, I sunk to my lowest. Or maybe it wasn't then. Maybe my lowest was hit further back-I can't trace where I've gone anymore. Through my insanity (or, maybe, I'm quite sane and just try being something I'm not, they state I'm wonderful in that regard.) dictates that it was the latter. Then, the strange warm liquid coats my being and all I think of is her. My hips buckle and I pleasure myself. Then, I wonder if this was the bliss of insanity or true love.

It was the former. I can see her-my lovely. I can imagine her there, the same way as me. Drenched in another pony's warm liquid that stains.

Wasn't insanity wonderful? It must be the latter, I can sense something that linked me to a past with this liquid. I didn't suspect a thing earlier, and I regret it I suppose. I would have gladly accepted such captivity earlier on and end the struggle to choose. I would show her and she would happily accept. Then again, doing that would show life to be something easy. It most certainly never ends as such. I look back, wondering where it all took place, where this started to form. Then, all I have to do...is look at her

Scatenata. It's always Scatenata starting everything. Its always her that forgets to end it. Then again, I expected the whorse to go that route.

Just be warned, when she starts something, it always comes out ugly, and that doesn't exclude me. The creation of me-this..ugliness she created was, in turn, a result. A glass house built on sand will eventually fall from the unstable base. Eventually everything will come crashing at the seams, and it'll all be her fault.