Tick tick tick
I live in a world a grey
Tick tick tick
I can't breathe I can't breathe
Tick tick tick
Alone. So alone.
Tick tick tick
All my fault all my fault
Tick tick tick
She's could have been dead
Tick tick tick
I could have killed her
Tick tick tick
She's gone because of me
Tick tick tick
Broken shattered bleeding
Tick tick tick
When did I become a murderer
Tick tick tick
The story is nearing its end
Tick tick tick
The story of my twisted mind
Tick tick tick
Tick tick tick tick tick
TICK TICK TICK
TICKTICKTICKTICK TICKTICKTICKTICK
...tick
......tick
.........tick
........
And all that was left was ashes
Because she was the ticking...
...and the ticking...
...was not a clock.

Revenge for her parents death the drive
that became her passion.
The story began when she was a child
witnessing their killing!
Every detail taken in by her big eyes
to get the killer the prize.

Seventeen years painfully trickled by her
becoming an assassin.
As the hatred coursed through her veins
revenge drove her on.
Though wanting to seek the love she craved
retribution on her soul engraved!

She had found a man making it complicated
her fine tuning distorted.
This new friend had found her mobile phone
saving her photo image.
Trying to find out about this mystery female
allowing others to find her trail.

Gangs had lost foot soldiers to her expertise
who acted like a shadow.
For the first time had to be far more aware
her parents murderer alerted.
The last pages of her diary soon completed
could this evil be defeated?

Knowing he would catch up with her soon
she prepared to strike first.
Entering his mansion in a covert manner
dispatching silently his crew.
Until he was there without support alone
recognising his arrogant tone.

From a hidden point confronted head on
glaring with a cold stare.
Going to fire the gun held in sweaty hand
diving found a hidden weapon.
A bullet went right through her shoulder
he was quick though much older.

Her shot caught him in a main thigh artery
shattering the femur to.
There before her the man she hated so much
was now at her mercy.
She had prayed for years to see him die
openly then did she cry!

One more deep breath she shot him in the head
cruelly on his face a smile as he lay dead!

Knowing she would be a target vanished from sight
revenge in the end did not feel right!

The Foureyed Poet.

Death awaits
Beyond the gates,
Of the mortal walls that we call life.
The man that's there,
Gives an empty stare
And carries a heavy scythe.

An abstruse hand he lends
As he tends,
To be generous in this fateful gest.
The lost soul reaver,
The great bereaver
Who delivers your eternal rest.

The brush of your lips is my weakness,
The push of your hands is my center,
The truth of your words **** me slowly,
But I knew the moment you fell to the ground,
I let you fall to your knees in a pool of your own blood,
And I was the one with the gun,
I pulled the trigger,
It was me that took your freedom,
Because your love was my life,
And I didn't want it.
I didn't deserve the warmth of your lips,
The warmth of your beautifully small hands,
and the truth of your words.
Because a monster that is myself deserves nothing but immortal hell.
and you deserve it all.
All that I can't give
~ Kat N. Herondale

Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves

between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon

hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and

swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.

Oh, How exquisite it was.
The scent and sight of freshly spilled blood.
The intricate texture of the ruby rain,
Spilling a and snaking down my skin.
Like precious liquid gems.
Oh, how glorious slaughter is.
How full of life it left me.
Cloaked in Death,
With the throbs of my heart,
Far lively compared to that of the corpse.
Oh how my laughs punctuated the air.
How I rebelled in the glory of my deed.
I was made in the image of god,
And now I understood the power of death.
This is not insanity, it is purer than that.
It is not rage, it is wilder than that.
It was never about avarice or fear as well.
It was feral blood lust, the legacy of my ancestors.
As I prey on my second victim, she raises the cross.
Sigh, I wonder, as I watch her wilt away.
Why does man consider all that is above it out of God's grace?
In the field of life, one's angel is the other's devil.
And so it has been unleashed.
Upon the earth, the scrounge of heaven and hell.
Man unrestrained and warped into its vile self.