>>1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73w3wWYjcDk

Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word.

Pure eyes, blue like a glassy bead---
You are always looking at me
and I am always looking at you.

Ah, you're too meek---
beautiful, unspoiled:
thus I'm so sad, I suffer---
and so happy, it hurts.

I want to hurt you
and destroy myself
What you would think
if you knew how I felt.

Would you simply smile,
not saying a word?
Even curses from your mouth
would be as beautiful as pearls.

I place my left hand on your
face as though we were to kiss.
Then I suddenly shove my thumb
deep into your eyesocket.
Abruptly, decisively,
like drilling a hole.

And what would it feel like?
Like jelly?
Trembling with ecstasy, I obscenely
mix it around and around: I must
taste the warmth of your blood.

How would you scream?
Would you shriek "It hurts!
It hurts!" as cinnabar-red tears
stream from your crushed eye?

You can't know the maddening
hunger I've felt in the midst of
our kisses, so many of them
I've lost count.

As though drinking in your cries,
I bring my hopes to fruition:
biting your tongue, shredding it,
biting at your lips as if tasting
your lipstick.

Oh, what euphoric heights I would
reach, having my desires fulfilled
like a greedy, gluttonous cur.
I longed, too, for your cherry-tinted
cheeks, tasty enough to bewitch my tongue.
I would surely be healed,
and would cry like a child.

And how is your tender ear?
It brushes against my cheek;
I want it to creep up to my lips so
I can sink my teeth into its flesh.

Your left ear, always hearing words
whispered sweet as pie---
I want it to hear my true feelings.
I never lied, no...
but I did have my secrets.

Ah, but what must you think of me?
Do you hate me? Are you afraid?
As though inviting you to the agony
at the play's end, if you wish, you
could destroy me---I wouldn't care.

As you wish, you may destroy me
---I wouldn't care."

A poem from SH3; you find love notes from your personal stalker - a mental patient never actually seen with an "obsessive attachment to a particular woman." The diaries shows his obsession for Heather(the player), which come with a creepy doll. Even though the notes imply he watches you, you eventually find out he's been dead the whole time.

>>5
I don't like you drawing that comparison. I could never even fathom wanting to do the slightest harm to Cracky. I love her, you sick fuck.

>>6
You're not a true cracky lover then

>>7
Says you.

>>7
You're full of shit, Cracky is not about pain. Cracky is about tenderness and love, no matter how many faggots defile her temple.

Sancta Olivia, Sancta Flower sanctus dea gentibus et pia miserere similes.
Sancta Olivia, Sancta Flower sanctus dea gentibus et pia miserere similes.
Sancta Olivia, Sancta Flower sanctus dea gentibus et pia miserere similes.

>>5
This greatly reflects the Cracky "fandom" rather than Cracky herself, imo. (You know who you are.) And this IS a board for all things Cracky, right? So, let's all stop being butthurt and post more Cracky content.