Your Father Better Be Good With Guests.

I hate that I've got your number
On speed dial
But you put the phone down
When you sense my breath
From the other end.

I could never let you live
With such tranquility
It antagonizes my soul so immensely
The agitation and displeasure
Have I been acquainted with
Ever since you could learn to play so smart
Waltzing down Beelzebub's aisle
Without a 'me' by your side.

We can take this to hell
Your father better be good with guests
We'll be doing everything but converging
Down there.
Oh, do I wanna flick you over the edge!
I swear, does it give me immense pleasure
To have you writhe
And contort
Beneath the lacerating feel
Of my derision
And your muffled screams?
A soother to my raging navigator.
You know, he's orchestrated a ploy
To drain you of your fucking resolve
His tentacles,
Invalidating cheap mounds of skin and bones
To rip your gut
Right from it's homeplug.
I'll have your life source
Within my very grasp
Pierce my cuticles in, squeeze mindlessly
Till the catastrophising burn,
Flaring my veinal Walls
Is no more
And it's just the channeled execration.
I'll drain you of every possible goodwill
Oh, on my navigator do I swear
To have you succumb
On one knee
With your lifeless heart
Stretched out.