Not about the author

My mind is a barren wasteland,
my body's a soulless respite.
Where feelings are crowded in others,
my heart is a thing filled with spite.
A bitter and twisted organ,
malicious and filled full of sin.
A maelstrom of terror and madness,
in my ears a lyrical din.
Now, to say I am not normal,
is like saying blood is not red.
For the world is surrounded by lunacy,
and in living all life's filled with dread.
A mixture of horror and loathing,
for all on this earth I am sure.
A plague on the souls of all humans,
a blight for which there is no cure.