****** is art
and the killer is the painter
and the body is the canvas
but the act is made illegal
which makes is a fantasy
done in the mind
where sanity is lost
and the concept of right and wrong are gone
and the art is born in death
I've currently been reading the book The Mind of the Murderer by Neustatter. It's about how mental illness can sometime, rarely, but can lead to ******. And people who do suffer from a particular mental illness can be at a loss at why they are in trouble. Since most of these acts are do you rage or paranoria. They don't see a right or wrong, but it happened. But I was watching a jail interview with BTK and was captivated with such a lack of emotion in his face, eyes and words. And how killing to him became a job, since he had to stalk, and plan everything out. Removing trace evidence. How OCD he had to be. And how for most serial killers it's a passion. They view themselves are artists. So that's how this poem came to be. Highly doubt anyone will read this, but I'm pretty proud of it. (written: Nov. 4, 2011)