I’m not like you. I can’t turn anything into a poem,
then again, maybe I can,
but I’m not sure that it would end up
being any good at all.
Still, I write and write and write,
tall tales, bunny rails, fables and sad fairies,
and lest not forget the antichrist.
Mother Mary and her damned hand grenades,
they should kill themselves for altering your words.
Any poet, even a pretend one,
knows that you just don’t do that shit.
But hey, we still have plenty of words from you,
the bearer of truth.
You tamed tarantulas, and sat in cafes in Europe,
like a demonic ruler, and you did it to the end,
because you were the real deal, a real writer, a real killer,
a cannibal of the written word, you sprayed the mind
with linguistic machine guns.
A king, a martyr, but you would never wear that badge,
it wouldn’t feel right to you, it would disgrace your honor.
And ten thousand poets still cannot compare to you,
one closing line of yours is like a symphony of poems,
a barricade, an earthquake, shake, drink, shake, drink,
and an opening line,
always worth more than the novice might think.
You awe me, make me wish I had what you had,
but then again, not really,
it’s bad enough having what I have.
In a trance, slashing throats. I'm in a killer mood someone's going to pay for this. All this betray and backstabbing. Pleasure by seeing other people suffering. Stressed out, messed up, fucked up. Killing every living thing as I walk by. Tonight you're all going to pay. Tonight is the end. Suffer!
Its a killer.
Like anger to a bee.
Like Hope in the eyes of a decided fate.
Like Music to my ears, we fade slowly together. Our feet move in step time sync.
Its a beauty; like the swan.
A flap of the wings in the water light.
A twist of the neck; a break of your arm.
It's a killer, with the name of Love.
she held the gun in her hand,
a killer in the making.
This is my first poem - thus the length. Still an amateur. :)
he poured the grape nuts in a sock
and waited, just around the block
he's watched his prey for several weeks
but now his inner demon speaks
she looked so lovely, young and fair
as he watched her in her underwear
peeking through windows at her life
at first he thought he'd use a knife
sometimes he'd watch till very late
then hurry home and masturbate
he thought he'd lose his bloody mind
when he snatched her panties off the line
obsession, creature of his dreams
within his mind he heard her screams
he's stalked and watched and now will wait
to abduct his treasure...seal her fate
but now, this manic, troubled soul
cannot resist , must play his role
and so, tonight, he found the thriller
they're calling him a cereal killer
wolf spirit aka quinfinn 2014
like committing murder with
a sock full of grape nuts