Where the Bad Things Go

Have you ever wondered, in a figment of a thought. A fleeting moment of memory's past. If all you've done that's bad and foul is stored away to resurface later.

Where the bad things go,

Kept under lock and key.

Is your beating heart.

Soul of you and me.

They rest in our conscience,

In the layers of mind.

And in a dream they manifest,

Their terror amplified.

The bad things are thoughts. Memories and dreams.

They can not hurt you, or him, her, or me.

But if you think on them, real long and real hard.

The bad things will come and leave all your world charred.

T̩̰͙̭̫͙"h"̼e̡̠̫-͉̣ ̝̩B̻͖a̢"d͚͈̤ͅ™ ̬͙̮͚̺͖̪T̘̻͖̳̕h̩͍̙͜i̙̺n͠g͏̯̯s҉̖̥̯̥̘̫ are real.

You

         better

                    believe.

The bad things are no longer

i̝̩̬̺̭̮͇͘n̢͎̫͉s͎"-͚̪̘ḭ̷͎d̸̼̞e ̘͝o̖̻f̘"̫͇̮̞ ͈̼̻͕̺̞̞y̻̱͡o̖̩͍̥"ur̼̺̱ ͍̘̙""͕͖d̘̤͎̮™̬̦r̠̘̠̞̫e̦̺a̴m̶̻̼̯͍s̠̙̘̫̳̭̭͠.̵̬

Those devils, they're real.

All beneath your bed. 

In your closet, your skin,

some stayed in your head.

And in the void of the night,

When we hear scrapes and screams.

The bad things have come.

F̧͈o͏r̙̮̳̝̰̪͇ ͝y̮̮̳̫̘̠ọ̳̺́u͖-̼"͚

              a͎̣̤̮̳̖͎͜n̝̥̘͕d̜̦̱̦̻̪

                     f̸͙̖̠̫o̮̟̥r͕̳͚͚̝͈̥̝͘͝

                           M͛̋̅-"'ͤͦͧ͛̈́ͩ̚"̾̾̍̇̀͢͞"̺̭͉̝̤̰̺͖͉̼̙̻̟"͉͕̙̱ ͮ'̐-̢̢͇̮̙͜͝E͌͛̽̆͛͋-'̸̵̡̜̺͎͎̰̥ͤͦ̽̈ͬ̋́̽̓͢"̝̥̭-̬̰̻̭