As I lay dying,
  You  choose
       to  pull
           the
         trigger.

I grieve to run from the man with the gun but I must.
I guess I just figure he's to light on that trigger to trust.

He wouldn't think twice in fact he'd rather rejoice to shoot me
So I'd sooner take flight, scoot off into the night to be free.

Who is this guy who would see me die? I'm not sure!
But while he's around I will be underground, insecure!

I just know that I think that there is a real link and he's wise.
And he knows what I took he could see by the look in my eyes.

He was engrossed in the thrill as he fed on his **** in the park.
And he couldn't see me standing behind that tree in the dark.

When my camera did flash I then made a mad dash to the rear.
Out of harms way is where I want to stay, not in fear.

It was my big mistake to take a picture and break for the run.
I can't ever be free for he's following me with a gun.

Something that I must face is I am now in the race of my life.
With a picture, that failed I cannot get him jailed, now that's strife.

For my chaser don't know and he won't let me go, it's his new thrill.
For the Reaper you see is coming for me and will ****.

So I run and I run from the man with the gun aimed at me.
I will bob and I'll weave, there's no place I won't leave to be free.

To avoid an attack I'll grow eyes in the back of my head.
But I can settle nowhere because I do not care to be dead.

I know he wouldn't listen even with my admission of no proof.
He would still load that lead into the back of my head, that's the truth!

She screams,
Wishing it was all just a dream,
But it keeps going on,
She never wakes up with a yawn,
It was all real,
And it certainty wasn't her ideal
day to seal.

Life says goodbye,
As the life in her goes dry,
What a world it is,
Even if it was never his,
Blood stained on his hands,
As he runs off to new lands,
Guilt in his eyes.

The girl dead,
A crack in her head,
Bones broken all over,
In her pocket a four leaf clover,
A shame it brought her no luck,
As her demons have already struck.

So alone,
About to be pelted with stones,
The boy pushes on,
Already gone,
He knows what he has done,
And it was no fun,
Living with the guilt inside him,
Forever grim.

I literally want to see you die
I want to stab you in the eye
I want to see and make you cry
And let me tell you why

Why I want to slit your neck
Why I want to see you wreck
Why I want you buried below the deck
Why? I'll tell you in a sec...

Before or after I hang you by your nose
Before or after I cut off your toes
Before or after? Nobody really knows
Before or After... okay here it goes

The reason I want to tear you apart
The reason I want to leave your dead body in a cart
The reason truly comes from the heart
So, let's begin from the start

The night you became a witch
The morning that you became a *****
The afternoon you made me scream high pitch
The evening that you will find yourself in a ditch

The story is too long and you already know it
If my emotions got hit, you'd never quit
You know your eyes lit, cause you're a *******
And that's why your skin has got to split

So say "goodbye"
Tonight, you shall die
From my heart you shall no longer get high
Because even you know, it was all a lie.

You ripped apart my soul, I no longer wish for someone's arms to be wrapped around my body. And just as you always do, you came back, just like that. Not because you miss me, not cause you love me. But because you are a killer, and killers always come back to their crime scene

In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
****** disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.

Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.

She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.

There is a man from my city that spent his nights
killing and ******* men for the hell of it.  Sometimes I worry that
his blood might be in the water like 160 year old cholera
or 30 year old cryptosporidium.  Sometimes I worry that
I breathed in the stardust from which he was made, that I
swallowed the ashes from which he burned.  I do not think that
I will ever be American ****** enough to fit the bill, and
this might be my one true happy thought:
at least I am not a serial killer.

I closed my eyes in August and saw the dried up teeth of my
estranged grandmother floating in a pool of blood and thought about
how the phone works both ways.  I opened my eyes in
October and thought about spitting up the chicken bones I had
been choking on since second grade, when my father
helped prepare dinner for the last time.   (I think I might have
                                          sacrificed a couple people to the devil
                                                        without actually meaning to.)

I find the numbers
             13,               16,               and               18
to be unlucky and I am beginning to fear that the pattern
will continue, that 19 will be the year I finally get bitten by
poisonous snakes outside of my dreams.  God whispered in my ear
and told me that a different Helter Skelter was coming.  He told me to
keep breathing easy, to trust in his light, but when I
asked my Magic 8 Ball if I should quake like the Earth in 1960, the
day after Satan released Dahmer from Hell, all I got was a
bright blue, “Better not tell you now.”

The séance I conducted last year in a blackened, decaying cemetery
did nothing but rattle ghosts, and the four-year-long pity party I held prior
did nothing but chain those ghosts to the floorboards.  I have
never been good at abandoning my thoughts and feelings.  

Some mornings I wake up face down in the Green River or
with my head severed and on display in a refrigerator of a house that
is not mine.  Other times I awake buck-naked in Death Valley—
sand coating my tongue, my tonsils, my esophagus; burning
and scratching into my flesh—and I know that I will never
be able to forgive my father for destroying everything
he ever made or his mother for turning into everything that’s
just      out of                     reach.
There has never been a time when I have been
good at letting go of grudges.  I am far too aware of my own existence.

At least I am not a serial killer.