A planted seed will grow,
Unmasking its true identity.
Absorbed into the madness,
That empathy can't accept.

The bludgeoned trophy you keep mantled,
Ascended by antlers for the pecking birds.
Intricately adorning a delicate creation,
To showcase to the world.

Brought along for your hobby,
Game that stands on two legs.
The foulness of recollection,
Tastes awfully familiar.

Honored bodies devoured whole.
Devoured bodies honored whole.

The messenger in the forest,
Manifests closer each time,
Unbeknownst my dissociation,
Drenched in another cold sweat.

Constructed a new form of practice,
Sophistication that leaves no trace,
Attracts all and what is connected.
Cut from the same cloth.
Onomatopiyya Jun 14
It's killing me
To try not to think of you

It's killing me
To undo things i used to do with you

It's killing me
To try not to miss you
Did i kill you too?
Joshua Nai Jun 8
Taking root inside hearts,
poisoning people, manipulating their pulse.

Time after time, their visions gets blur,
they don't know what they are doing
that all they do is not their own.

Hearts of gold, jewelery emblossoming their minds. Flowers made by money, adorning their heads, they'd do anything to get that extra cash.

When they lose everything they have,
they break, they wither, they melt down crying bitterly. They counted their lives on money, leaned on them,
made out of them, that when they lose it all, all they do is to break down and sob.

An ongoing murderer, not yet caught,
embraced even, they wear it like a gown. It will not be long till they fall
down, down, down.
do give me some feedback! Would love to have some corrections and learn more!
Randy Johnson May 24
Five minutes after I left, four people were shot in a pharmacy.
If I had been there for an extra five minutes, one of the victims would've been me.
A maniac shot four people over a tray of pain pills.
Two of his victims lived but the other two were killed.
He probably thought he'd get off scott free but he did not.
He wasn't even able to get out of town before being caught.
That punk shot those people five years ago today.
Now he's rotting in prison, he's being made to pay.
The cops arrested him and put him behind bars and that's where he belongs.
He valued pills more than four innocent people, what he did was so wrong.
DEDICATED TO THE FOUR PEOPLE WHO WERE SHOT AT THE DOWN HOME PHARMACY IN BEAN STATION, TENNESSEE.
President Donald Trump
ALMOST had it right.
He stated that there were a lot of RAPISTS
On a Migrant Caravan from Central America
Going through Mexico.
In reality,
There were a lot of RAPE VICTIMS on this Caravan.
Well,
Rapists and Rape Victims have something in common,
Don't they?
Just as Murderers and Murder Victims
Are part of the same event.
I guess American Pilots who dropped the Atomic Bombs
On Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Had an affinity
With all Japanese Civilians they killed.
They were all at the same place at the same time,
Weren't they?
So,
I have to give President Donald Trump credit
For,
At least,
Understanding PART of What happened,
Even if he got the story backwards.
One just has to use one's imagination
To understand the way he thinks.
Eva Crown Mar 9
good morning america
it’s midnight, and I’m awake
which means it’s morning
and I’m ready to work
another 12 hours straight
without seeing a bit of sunlight
it’s a good day when there’s no day
in sight
I appreciate the dark more
no cicadas, no brash crowing, none
of that unfiltered nature, only
the cautious rustle of dead leaves
muffled boots on concrete
as I approach the next house
to say good morning.
Vale Luna Feb 15
(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.
Forward: from the victims perspective.
Backward: from the murderers perspective.

This TOOK ME FOREVER TO WRITE
Dakota J Dawson Dec 2017
The title reads "Petite Redhead"
Pity it is content
With filth

A record recycling junk
Strums together a jingle
Echoing its own hollow verse

Triggers and pins
Always seem to accompany
The gun

The grip is soft
Side rail cold and beautiful
Like an old bottle of rum

My mind is sporadic
Seeking any conclusion
Requiring nonsense to fill the gap

Deceitful fingers
Lingering
Ready for digging

Her body still warm
Acting as a proxy pillow
The compromise of comfort

White to red
Crimson stains not withheld
A result of the rolling tide

Wrath of blood
Brought to fruition
And supplementation

To feel nothing
Is blissful and pure
Welcoming to heaven

The taker of life
Listening to a Redhead
No realistic sounds beneath
solfang Dec 2017
I wish to be
an infamous serial killer,
that targets love-thirsty men.

I mean,
wouldn't it be interesting
to slash through their hearts,
with sharp, flirtation glances,
or cutting through entrails
to look for stomach butterflies,

what about blowing up their minds,
when I don't respond to convos,
and kneeing them with shrugs
till they beg for attention.

alas,
I was victimised,
before I can even morph into
a cold-blooded murderer myself
then I realise my looks are not good enough for it. oh well.
Dave Legalisa Jun 2017
Mixed magic of beauty and pain,
for her fate was in too much of blame.
Beautiful life severely stained,
considering her life was in much of shame.

Sharp as knife, noise as cry.
She murdered someone with lunatic lies.
Gaping at the streaming blood as it dries,
for she’s wholly distained in all of her life.

It wasn’t her fault to be this way,
for she was abused and in deception.
She never rummage of any ways,
until pictures of knives came into her vision.

Dark as night, red as blood.
Wishing the happiness she never had.
As she threw gaze at the corpse once again,
a perfect strange feeling suddenly came.

What was that feeling? What did she feel?
Sort of regret, sort of gladness.
She cannot say, she cannot tell,
for she finally felt the essence of happiness.

No more lies, no more cries.
Her life sustains and sadness will die.
No more heartaches, no more sadness
for she killed someone who caused darkness.
Every villain has a story
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