...
...
...
                                                     ­                     you never saw me
finding comfort in liqueur
nicotine
and your empty promises

                                                       ­                   a walking hurricane

vengeance and fury
my niche
love was weakness

                                                       ­                    the things brewing under

ruthless sphere's of words piercing
you
                                                    ­                       like a crack of lightning
never knew you feared thunder
my pretense
                                                        ­                   till my skies turned
grey
                                                     ­                      a color you created
                                                         ­                  i became
the storm
                                                           ­                your fears
                                                           ­                your torrent of bad dreams

I am here to see you burn
to see you choke on my pain
to make you see my broken body

Regret blinds you
as my vengeance finds you

Buried beneath a heap of torment
you suffocate as I laugh

Too bad you killed me
Now these are just wild fantasies

She was vengeful.
But against whom could she retribute her vengeance?
The rich guy who ***** her and ruined her life?
The police for harassing her in the name of interrogation?
Lawyers who tormented her and ***** her all over again with the twenty questions?
The inconsiderate jury who were bent on paying their children's school fees?
The lab assistant for lying to the jury that she had absolutely no sign of being ***** and she was making this up only because she got pregnant in the act?
The parents and teachers of the evil vandal who made him that way?
The media who were more interested in making it to the front page rather than sympathizing with her?
The government for taking safety precautions so lightly?
Neighbours who looked her down with contempt?
Or herself for not being strong enough to protect herself.
Whom could she blame?

You put me down next to the others

Let the soft wind blow my ash

You’ve been known as a bad lover

But I was a fool to let that pass

Smoked me in, I’m in your veins

Now I own you like no other

Go and try, exhale the pain

My vengeance cigarette burns forever

And we both know, you’ve tasted better.

You can take what I have
You can hurt me into nothingness
You can speak about me in that foul way

Use me, berate me
There's no one to inflate me
You can grab my hand
And tell me you hate me

That I'm unworthy
That I should be dead
That my birth was a mistake
That I should go to church and pray
That I'll die today

But let me tell you something
You are a piece of dirt
Would I stoop to your level?
To get trod upon?

I think not.

But you will never be better than me
You will always be the filthy person who,
Untrue to their words,
Will never be something great

I will rule a nation
I will organize a society
I will be recognized.

You, however, will be the beggar on the ground
Begging for scraps
Your wild hair specked with mud,
Your hands covered in dirt.

You will remember when you treated me like I was the dirt beneath
Your expensive shoe-clad feet
When you thought you had me beat
You thought your insults were sharp spears
Ready to impale me,
To **** me.

You will look at yourself
A ***** person with puffy, ****** lips
Tattered rags that hang on your body and show what is under them
You will cry,
And it will be a bath.

You can tell me I'm not good enough
You can tell me I'm a spawn of some horrible creature
You can tell me what you want.

But there will come a time
When you look at yourself.

I do not write words of passion or sorrow, I write them for thoughts who won't see tomorrow. For she was my angel who fell from grace, ice to my fire she left not a trace. I am Able, Electra, shadow and fire. I come for thoughts who evil inspires. The fire in my belly is quite literal. my friends are the 4, there are worse things then death, and worse things than war. 7 sins and 9 ways to hell. I will be there as well. I will becon you here as a angel on fire, I will carve a path in your blood to my little hell.  And we will rest here forever. Now isn't that swell.

The words come flowing out  when the blood is boiling under.  That is when vengeance comes to rescue your soul
longing to fulfill our thirst .
I just want to strike him with my rage
and want to literally burn him into ashes just so that I can roll into those, deathlike corporeal ruins
leaving soul frenziedly lust of mine to satiate .
I want to hold some of his powdery residual remains
as the rest
just scatters by ;
staring at my ascendancy.
Till then let another par of anger pile up and
get that load off
with my bare hands ,
bathing in the
pleasant sight of his blood stains .
My vendatta would be eternally be lasting even in afterlife .
After all it is a fight of a soul to get his righteous stand someday and may that be by ,
                            
                             A
                        DEATH
                            OF
                           THE
                        OTHER
                          ONE

If both despair and anger
were in your soul placed,
In the heat of your battle
would you fight them...
or their lives spare?

There was a man broken inside,
asking that question to himself.
He lived according to his own desire,
a disregarder of life's precious breath.

Would you fight off deep hatred, if in your soul placed?
Would you fight off sour vengance?...Right then would you care?

This man was stubborn and real cold of heart,
unable of loving since the day she departed.
Asking in heartache if she's ever to come back,
He obtained a clear answer from one Heavenly Father.

"If you battle resentment when in your soul's placed?
Why linger?, it's simple...we both know the way:
Choose to be humble, their flaws quit to look,
I give you your heart back, the one that anger took"

He then ended a life when he heard that firm voice,
Yes...the wicked man in him, was the life that he took.

I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”

11-07-11.