She asked if I could babysit her child,
While she went running some errands,
She said she’d pay me 15 dollars an hour,
She said her kids' name is Karen.

She didn’t give me much time to answer,
But no matter what I would’ve said sure,
She stated her own name,
But I didn’t hear her.

She was in a hurry,
Her eyes flickered from side to side,
She ran off without any transportation,
I almost asked if she needed a ride.

I walked up to her house,
And opened up the door,
And sitting there was Karen,
Crisscross on the floor.

She smiled a bright smile,
Greeted me with a “hey”
And, to my surprise,
Said that Kelsey was her name.

I didn’t mention to her,
That her mother got her name wrong,
Rather I pulled out my phone,
And asked if she knew any songs.

She said she could search it herself,
And that she was a “big girl”
So I handed her the phone,
And this is when she changed my world.

She searched the song,
Put it on really loud,
And then began to sing along,
Or, rather, she began to shout.

She danced in a circle,
My phone in her hand,
And from that moment I knew,
My time spent here would be far from grand.

A very stressful child,
And though I was getting paid more for a longer watch,
I couldn’t wait for it to be over,
And I kept checking my watch.

Four hours in,
The mom was nowhere in sight,
The same song was on repeat,
And Kelsey would play it all night.

I snapped,
I’d had enough.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
It was the only way to shut her up.

I grabbed a couch cushion,
And when she was turned around,
I wrapped it around her little face,
And shoved her down.

With the pillow drowning out her screams,
Of suffocation and fear,
With her tiny limbs flailing,
My lunacy began to appear.

I enjoyed her struggle!
And her muffled screams!
It brought joy to my heart,
And brought pleasant dreams.

But it was a different type of joy,
Unlike iced tea on a summer's day,
It was like the feeling you get,
When a nuisance has passed away.

Oh, finally!
What joy!

If I knew that death brought me such satisfaction,
I would’ve started long ago.
But now the mother is arriving home,
And obviously, she can’t know.

So I know a perfect way,
To keep her from finding out,
I’ll just have to **** her, too.
Yes, without a doubt.

And maybe I’ll share this joy,
Of watching her blood spill,
But that story’s for another time,
Another story of my ****.

Welcome to the Mirrored Place
Where the clocks turn counter-clockwise
Where we read and write,
From right to left,
Where normal is done in backwards ways.
When you look into the mirror
Standing there is me, your reflection
When you move left, I move right,
When you move right, I move left,
I do it all the same, but yet, I don’t.
You only see me when you look
But that doesn’t mean I cease to exist
When you walk away,
I live my life,
The backwards version of yours.
When you look at me, in the mirror
All you see is your reflection
But when i look inside,
To fix my hair or make-up,
I see you, my reflection.
Your place is the Mirrored Place
And your clocks turn the wrong way
When I move left, you move right,
When I blink, you follow suit,
You, my reflection, follow my every move.
Welcome to the Mirrored Place,
Where you’ve lived for all of your days.

What do you see when you look at a photograph?
Do you see your memories from the past?
Do you notice the things you hadn’t notice before?
That night the picture was taken?
When you look at a photo, all you see is a piece of paper with a scene on it.
You look at the photograph,
But do you look in the photograph?
Do you see the lost souls trapped inside?
That were once human before they deceased?
That are stuck in the form of your smiling face,
Despite the isolation they really feel?
Frozen, stuck, nowhere to go,
And even if they could move, what’s the point,
When they cannot escape the scene of the photo?
They can see everything that happens before the photo, yet,
You can’t see them.
A photograph of a widow’s deceased husband,
Sits on a lone shelf.
His smiling face once made her happy,
But it now only inflicts her with feelings of emotional pain.
Her husband’s lost soul sits inside, lucky to get to live in his own picture, unlike most.
The widow can’t take it.
She lights it on fire.
Her husband’s soul chokes on thick black smoke.
He screams for her to stop,
To end the pain, but,
She is deaf to his plea.
He tries to move and run as the fire eats away at the edges of the scene,
But he is stuck.
In place.
The fire catches up to him.
It swallows him whole.
Nowhere to run,
Nowhere to hide.
Oh, if only he could stop the pain,
Maybe just end it all,
But you cannot die twice.
So, he shall suffer in this eternal flame,
Until the end of time.
May it ever come.
Isolated.
Burning.
What do you see when you look in
A photograph?

There always is a fire,
it started on my match.
I set it to a tree,
where it would surely catch.
It caught on to a house,
it spread on to the grass,
if there were people in there,
I don't think they would last.
Cause there always is a fire,
to your left and to your right.
It completely surrounds you,
it's something you can’t fight.
I grab some gasoline,
I pour it on the floor,
even though it burns the whole world,
I still want it to burn more.
But there always is a fire,
the black smoke fills my lungs,
and since I'm the one who set it,
now my life is done.