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

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.

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.

(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.

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 ***

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

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

In 1968, she poisoned her father,
1970, her mother-in-law
and 1971, her husband. 1986 was
her boss-turned-lover-turned-boyfriend
and by 1989, her attention was
focused on her second husband.
Exhumation became so common
that the local cemeteries were
renamed as her landfills.

She sits across from me–shoulders
squared and gaze relaxed–waiting
for any question I might come up with.
     What ran across your mind the very first time?
Her breath flees from her lips
and she says to me
     freedom.

I look her in the eyes–
     see a monster.
She looks me in the eyes–
     sees herself.