There is a villain in my house,
He has murdered conscience
And hid its body in the attic.
He steals right under my nose,
Honest money and truthful notes,
And saves malice for those
Who try to race him to the finish line.
He eats vice for breakfast
And burps indiscretion at dinner,
Abuses his power
To show his wrath on the weak,
While the meek tremble
To face him off.
He pilfers diamonds from his home
To etch them on his crown,
Then brawls with his kin
Who talk him down.
He cheats his own blood
Of the material world,
Whose king he is,
Whose throne he has bought.
He has stabbed his friends,
Bathes in the pool of their blood,
He has shut his doors
To the outside world,
To not hear a thing
Of his misdeeds
And be judged.
He has no enemy,
For he has himself,
But it doesn’t rip him apart,
For he stays miles away from morals
Into the mountains of chaos
That he has built for himself.
He walks with a knife
To find people with backs
Turned towards him,
And keeps his ears open
For every hearsay,
To use it to play with fire,
He likes to see them burn,
And resent everyone
Who looks happy.
He robs them of their sleep
And plants fruits of doubts.
He is in liaison with evil
And has sold his soul
For some pennies and gold,
And loves to procrastinate
Everything he is expected of.
Leaves every bottle ajar
To let the curses escape
Out of Pandora’s box.
He weeps to show off
His crocodile tears
To buy loaves of sympathy
At a cheaper cost,
While time stops
To hear a story
He cooks up
On a high flame.
All of this he does
Without batting an eye,
Unbothered by the qualms of life.

But when the world goes to bed,
He crawls out of his den
To look at his reflection in the water,
Trying to recognize himself,
For he has forgotten who he was.