Severity And Auditory Obsessions

Locked.

I demand you to be locked up.

I want you locked.

Locked. Locked in my chest. Forbidden from my lair. I want you to feel the burden of unlimited lies.

Stay locked inside the room. The dark room. The dark passage. The unknown that seeps through your shivering back and encapsulates your pain-driven thoughts of mortal submission. I want you to feel the heave of terror, the pain that shoots through your torso. You're upper thigh. The right leg. The magnet that connects each limb and the mind that only wallows for Mother.

Yes. Be my son. Be my son. Be my seduction to brutality, misuse, regret, hatred. I want you to feel hated. I want hatred to stem from your internal shell while your external swerves for the passive outlook. You hear my voice, right? You hear the bellows of whining that spheres your life into a grand-scope of obsession. An obsession that aches through your hands. Throbs through your brain. Manifests into malicious smiles and cackling stares of hollowed-out cheeks. The mossy withered hands that continues to vaguely speak, the internal fire bursting through the tips of your cold fingers. Why did Mother lock you in? Why did she lock you in?

Tell me why Mother locked you in? Tell me why Mother scolded the hatred upon your innocent eyes? You want to puke your little guts, but she wants you to chin up and take punishment with gratitude. She loves the pleasure of deceit that salivates your hopeful mind. The view of her cold stare and muted response clashes with your whiny shouts and wallowing soul.

Are you frustrated? Vexatious of her deadpan response? She needs her supply, she wants you crying icicles. She wants you to feel like a burden.

Have you lied? Have you lied all along? Have you puked your guts at her rigid feet? Will she lock you in? Will she pry your feet? Will she whip your hooves, or will she lick the hot tears stemming from your red eyes? Will she ever care to love? Will she ever care to breathe hope? Will she ever care to not lie? Or will she smother the internal oath of love?

Can you dream for a better time? A time when they both cared? Not when one left out while the other released their frustrations onto you. Did they ever care? Do you deserve the future of pampering after abuse? Is it a hallucination? A hallucination? Well tell it as it is....

Are you a bellowing heart beat that flickers at the sight of self-esteem? Like the part of being a robot. A tool. A godless being that is contrived and distorted until you are a true slave of your own whims. Are you deluded?

One fucks with. One fucks with.

Will she rip her heart and plaster it on your sleeve? Plaster away after she was gone? When she dies! Will you love? Will you love her after she died of poetic justice?

Will the naked bodies caressing inside the screen bring hope of satisfaction? Will it? Are you a rapist? A rapist I ask? A rapist I beg? Are you a rapist I ask? Tell me, has she made you naughty? A naughty being contrasted into a reality of shame? A shameless guilt to fuck for pleasure? A pleasure to bite off the drenched nipples that seep through the white blouse.

A liquid exchange of our mangled and milky hardness that split through the starry eyes that trickle gold on our faces.

A gold of passion. Internal passion brought by the way Mother once treated you.

Masochism? You're not sick. Fuck you. You're not sick. What kind of pony are you, now?

Equestria might beg for redemption, but just look at the underworld and tell yourself you are sane....Go on! Tell yourself that you are sane.

You think you own the world, now. Huh? The trickle of your transparent vulva matched with the so-called curves bustling through your new lingerie. You might be elegant, but you are not immortal.

Take a look at what Mother did to you. Take a fucking good look. She made you a deity whore. Now accept it. You are no mere man, but a clown showered by past idiocy.

Locked.

Locked.

Locked.

Yes. You are locked.

A fathers greatest disappointment.

The Most Unfortunate Lie.