Countless times I beg please don't take sweetheart away just
give me one more day
when we were both at
Even murderers get a
last wish but you lose
the love of your life and that there Is no second chance of a last wish
I guess If I had an opportunity to sell my
soul to Devil I be
granted one last wish
I don't dought for a
given the chance I
would most certainly
Just a thought even murderers get a last wish we lose a loved one we get no wish no justice In this world
He judged her without evening know her,
without even giving her a chance.
In his mind,
he sees a monster.
She judged him from what she’s heard about him,
and she believed what they all warned her about.
In her mind,
she hears a monster.
She hears the names they all called her.
He sees the **** images they made you picture of him.
She feels the cold shoulders and the wandering eyes.
He smells the horror by the way people keep their distance.
And all that took
was the bitter taste of
a few unkind thoughts,
words spread by
the people we call "friends"
and by the strangers
who twists them a little deeper
with a dagger of pain that
you can't clutch with your hand.
You see, we’re all murderers.
Change the way you think of others because your negative thoughts and assumptions are killing other people. Every time you think horribly of a person, remember you just threw a dagger by that thought. Some people don't know they're being judged when all they do is throw a bucket of nice and happy thoughts your way but little do they know, you think ill of them. Give people the chance to show you who they are before your mind starts to program them as monsters.
learning once more
of innocent people killed in the name of whatever
some psychopath’s personal crisis
a violent protest against other cultures
or an abuse of some religious creed
the motivations may be different
yet the results are all the same
the wanton killing of women men and children
who do not know that they are ‘enemies’
of someone whom they also do not know
the murderers may have been led to think
that they are heroes for some glorious cause or god
fact is that they are simply murderers
and I believe
they will not even receive
their 72 raisins when they face their gods
because to ****
in the name of any god
is always wrong
Apropos the massacre in Nice, on July 14, 2016.
NOTE: The often propagated notion that DAESH martyrs look forward to 72 virgins after their suicidal attacks has been revealed as a mistranslation of that passage in the Quran.
I know why God is there
When nights blow cool wind
Onto the stringy hair of paupers
And on streetlights along purple roads.
When eyes are dimly lit
By the moonlight’s grace
Under a sky full of magnetic tears,
There is God, and he’s there
To deal out soap bars
To ***** cheeks
So that, for once, dust can go
Back to dust
Without leaving behind bodies
For wolves to feed on.
I know why God is there
When the hungry lie down to die,
When the restless beg for sleep,
When murderers beg for forgiveness,
When beggars dip their hands
Into pools of holy water
On sidewalks of sleepless cities.
I know why God is there,
And the reason is at the end of a long rope
Hidden somewhere deep underground,
Dangling above the fountains of prayers.
Once, far away, Andalusia of time.
Was I, this dreamer, this student of crime.
Devouring textbooks with a gluttonous glee.
Of masters I conversed with, with lives like movies.
Faces carved from paleo-lithic stone.
The hearts of sailors betrayed by Triton.
Their ill-fitting suits an anarchists cry.
Oh blessed hearts long since buried in the plots,
of victims whose killers would never see man’s courts.
Who knew the world and hoped to teach I,
this fresh young prey with a predator’s eye.
This fresh young prey with a predator’s eye.
Sat I with the masters, in those secret little rooms
where the dead are shuffled to have chosen for them a grave.
And it’s never more real than when the beast sits still.
In the agonising ordinary glow of the halogen buzz
that shines on guilty and innocent alike.
To reduce us all to such pathetic things.
That if not for the debt, this creature’s crimes
one could pity being on such obscene display.
If it were not known to me, in great detail
the river of misery and depravity he had left in his wake.
As a mugshot robs the aura, so too the well lit room.
And I understood why it took a much colder mind.
As even though I possessed all the faculties which
could follow and track and trap the prey;
the predator must also ****.
And being in those secret little rooms
I knew I could not see it through.
I left it to those stronger than I
and leave my mark through other designs.
A poem on reflection of my time at uni studying a double degree in science of psychology/criminology and criminal justice.
"My children were mascaraed with blood spurting in a disarray,
a nightmare flashing freshly with every passing night,
and the man's blazing eyes ignited with inevitable
pure evil --if there exists such a thing,
and my faith in humanity subsides,
my heart snatched out of my aching body,
for I am an unsuspecting, wounded mother."
for a fraction of a second,
her lips quiver in glee.
"It was beautiful;
their screams of agony,
my control over their lives,
and sweet fear
reflected in their eyes--
The case of Diane Downs inspired me; her interviews were so chilling to watch.
Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.
They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.
They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.
They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.
These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.
They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.
But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.
I wish you'd stop whining
I really don't like that
And honestly no one cares
Don't you get it?
You're done for
And no one will save you
I really don't mind to hear you scream
To think that we actually cared
It's all we know
So say goodbye
So say anything
Go ahead and cry
No one will rescue you
So say goodnight
To the rest of your life
— The End —