I've been caught for

Foul ******.

For a felony of shame.

A tortured soul was buried within,

The lake down the street.

Maybe thirty blocks away.

I've been caught for

Foul ******.



I've commited arsen,

vandilism...

And just about every crime ever even thought of.

I sit in this cell,

With this officer's gun.

Thinking and thinking of murdering this guy..

Snoring as loud as Hades..



I have been caught for witchcraft,

for making potions and poisons.

I am a witch,

a wretch.

You can call me anything.

But I walk these mean streets,

these nameless streets.

Call me anything you want.

But don't be surprised if there isn't a tear shed,

Just a bullet in your head.

Or maybe,

depending on how much I hate you..

Ripping out your spine  and whipping you with it until it falls from the cartilage.

Or draining your blood and ripping apart your bones and muscles,

Then freezing your organs in a meat freezer,

And hanging your vacant body from ceiling of your attic!



Oh!

The excitement this gives me.

Just talking about it!



The blood shall be spread...

From this emotionless body of mine.

For I,

I've been caught,

I've been caught for foul ******!

FOUL ******!

And now I sit in this cell,

with this machete and pistol..

Ready to ****** this man in the most violent of ways...

I will drown him first.

Shoot him five times..

Rip his spine..

Whip him until there's no skin left to be whipped.

And tie his converse shoe string to his head and to his ankles and hang him up on the ceiling and stretch his motionless body..



Oh yes!

I guess I've got my dream!

For I,

I've been caught for foul ******..

I killed him
Without any evidence shown.
I wasn't caught,
Only suspected.

He tried to **** me,
he tried to use my womanly parts to make his children to make his ******* family delve further into time.

He was killed by hand,
my hand.
I stabbed him violently in his chest,
And opened the wound and picked out each piece of tissue my slippery fingers would rip from the flesh.

My fingers,
My lap,
my face,
The walls,
and the rope that dangled from the ceiling of which his lifeless body hangs from,
Smothered in such a thick and velvety crimson red...
I think of it as no blood,but yarn.
The yarn my grandmother used to knit her last pair of gloves for the Michigan winter in the 1960s before dying of a stroke.

There was no gun,
no poison,
No witch craft,
just my hands,
And my dad's black four inch black bladed hunting knife and the red gloves of which my grandmother passed onto me.

Dear Officer,
There was no gun, that I left to his ex-wife.

Dear Mam-ma,
There was no poison,
I couldn't get my hands on any.

Dear Papa,
there was no witch-craft, that was just his fortune.

Dear Mama,
Yes, I never remove these red gloves, and there were no tears afterwards just a bright long grin stretched eye-to-eye worn on my face.
This
I killed him,
Because only God and I know how much he deserved it.

Mommy!
I don't understand. Why is the room so quiet?
Why is there ringing in my ears?
Why is there red water surrounding you?
Do you want me to clean up the ketchup for you?

Mommy,
I'm not going to get it of you don't tell me.
Are you okay?
Does is hurt anywhere?
Why aren't you breathing?
Why do you smell so bad?
Why are you so pale?

Mommy,
I think I hear the police sirens.
Maybe they can help!
Stay here Mommy!
I'm going to save you! I swear!
Wait...
Why is there a gun in my hand?

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I didn't mean to shoot out your eye...

Mommy!
Why did you die?!
It's rude to ignore an invitation to a royal tea party.
Didn't you hear? If you do that...
The queen sends you to a death sentence...

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I made your eye
go bye-bye...
Just like Daddy...
What's wrong with me, Mommy?
Am I a monster?
Like the monsters underneath my bed
and in your closet?

Yes...
Child...You are,
A monster.

© 2012 Melody

Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...
Laugh.
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we **** other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?

I am...
Jack the Ripper!
I ****** prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their ******* and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I **** this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?

They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.

I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...

Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!


© 2012 Melody

"There is nothing better than an empty head,
a clean house,
and sweet sweet reality",
we think.
"There is nothing better than an empty head,
a clean house,
and sweet sweet reality",
we say.
"There is nothing better than an epic party,
a screaming crowd,
and sweet sweet false lies",
we do.

It's started the time that we stop,
we stop and think about the things we say,and do.
There are somethings you hope for out of want,
and other things you hope for out of need.

It's time that we stop and we think.
It's time that we stop and we see.
It's time that we stop and do the things we think.
It's time we stop and do the things the eyes cannot see.
It's time we stop and look at the things that we tragically need.

The world is a selfish place, and it's time that stop.
We stop and think about it.
We stop and observe it.
We stop and fix it the best that we can.
If there is one thing that humanity is neutral in all conflicts,
it's fixing.
We never completely solve the puzzles,
But we always solve it to our best, usually.
Have we ever really thought, that just maybe...
There is an additional piece or two to the jigsaw,
The piece that makes the swing set sturdy.

It's time that we stop and think.
It's time that we stop and we see.
It's time that we stop and do the things we think.
It's time that we stop and do the things the eyes cannot see.
It's time that we stop and look at the things we tragically need.
It's time that we stop and look at things and never back down.
It's time that we stop and finish the things we were born to complete.




© 2013 Melody

Character: Myself, or Melody, Mel
Setting: Time is now, plain dark room with a stage and a single spotlight in a light blue light shining on me.

------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------

I've asked myself before; why do I write the way that I do? Why do I continue writing the writing that reminds of the scary inspiration that if I let it get out of control then it could become my reality?
I've answered myself before; I don't know, I don't think I will ever figure out why. I don't want to know.  I can control my future, my destiny, my sanity...

No, and that's the truth. I will never be able to control my sanity! I'm weird person, with an even odder persona! I hate myself because I'm practically throwing my words onto a computer screen and not into a book. I'm hoping, hell I'm even praying (to the best of my ability) that by time I become something it won't be too late!

Have I ever asked for help? No...If I did, it was for a ******* topic, because I was desperate to get the greedy and clawing and tear-bringing words out of my system. I wanted to know what others thought that I could write. They wanted to read novels of which I had written, I told them I can't write a novel. I write poetry. ....Now I know that I can write anything I want.

My eighth  grade Theatre and English teacher taught me that writing a monologue is like drinking tap water. You stare deeply at the glass knowing that you need it, but it tastes so bad and the after-taste leaves an even worse taste but the after-feeling is like heaven in your mouth, the feeling of being regenerated to maybe not perfect health but you're alive and that's all that will really matter.
That's what writing feels like, and I would know because I was the one person who fainted at 8:00AM last summer from dehydration and lack of sleep.

I always have some error in my words. Whether a few lines need to be shortened or split, or even forgetting to punctuate. OR, oh and I'm famous for this in English class essays, run on sentences. It's odd though because I get told to edit it to make it even more perfect, and I never go back and touch it. I mean, sure, sometimes I do, but even that's normal for me to do.



I write the way I do because I'm terrified of a perfect poem written by me. I'm scared of getting a perfect 100 but if you hand me 99 I promise my right hand that I'll be happier than a dog with a fresh bone.
I write because I felt loved and then the chain broke and I felt hated. That hate, made me feel welcome to a whole new world. That world is called...

The World of Words.


And it's decorated hilariously because the city sign in big and flashy like Las Vegas but the stores and shops are either out of the most bizarre world or from another time.

I love writing because there's always something that's needing to be written about. It's an endless world of different flavors. The flavors of which I could add to my glass of tap water, but I refuse to because I think it'd be considered cheating.