Restlessly, he pursued the motive of his actions,
Praising his rights, reasoning his wrongs, drowning out all evil notions;
Finding nothing in his head that told him he was wrong,
Listening for any imbalance, only to hear unfamiliar songs.

Continuously, he asked himself, "what is wrong with me?"
"Not a thing," a strange voice said, and so he switched ever so gleefully.
Tonight, he would kill again, for reasons not his own;
But, for the darkness that plagued his head that only he saw, and he alone.

Why does he kill, why does he, breathing, beings?
Why does he not find it sick, and who are these creatures that he keeps seeing?
They follow him, and chase him, into the void of his mind,
Why can he not run, why can he not leave, why does he kill her own kind?

Why are you in there, in his mind, tearing it completely apart?
Even now, after all this time, he cannot remember when it did start.
And, even through all these dreams and all these tears;
He can not remember the beginning, so hazy and unclear.

And, though he is not sure when first you came;
He does know that in the beginning, he wasn't...
He wasn't...