I, manchurian...

I have a small scar in the middle of my forehead. I can't really tell you what it is from the words get stuck in my head if I happen to look into it. In it three little animals live. One makes me still, one makes me fail, one makes me look at things rather than others. I was born July 27th 1968. Here in Quebec and then they flew me to an adoptive family, the scar was just dry. In the head it makes me fail. I fall off the rope and off another climbing rope until I get to the end and that's never convenient. The doctor, knife in hand, authored what I can do and what I cannot. It made me be ten years in hell, I just followed the vocal prompt, everything was sound and then the wrong person answering the telepathic call of the wild. It made two bleeds I did ten years. I am the wild manchurian beast, I love Jesus...that's how I fix the brain bolts, between two prayers and an act of faith. I am a manchurian candidate and I can write, I am a psychic which makes all in me very very thin. Now and again the bell rings and all my beautiful landscape eject the order, kill, it won't soil you. It does. I am in the city and I am looking for Tupac Shakur and Bon Scott in a well known drinking hole. They said they would be there around seven. I am male and manchurian. If the bell rings cold I may resuscitate my mental landscape. If the bell rings warm all has disappeared and I may vengefully stick a knife inside your head in response. Manchurian candidate I do not hate my life. I may well see the red door, the dark land over there, fix and neat. I may straight from the first time guess the correct date and alleviate the sounds of dead calling me: Kill, Kill, it's like butter, stick inside it. My other mental correspondents said it was fine...but why the knives...why that might?
Because I am a manchurian candidate...that' s why!