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Poem
I'm sorry mom, but I killed a man.
His daughter and newborn that was in his hands.
I'm so sorry because you raised me well,
but there's a demon inside
and I thought that I should tell.
I found pleasure in their weeps and cries.
I smiled softly as the tears rolled down from their eyes.
I told them hush, hush, it's for the best.
While I smothered the baby
and stuck the knife in his chest.
I felt an absence, so I contemplated.
On how to create a deathly masterpiece,
so that the media wouldn't be devastated.
I smeared the blood on the wall
and drew a smiley face.
I severed the man's arm
and stuck it in the fire place.
I heard subtle cries,
the man was still grasping for life.
I should have made those incisions with a sharper knife.
I laid the dead child beside him to see his reaction.
Then I stabbed him again,
while he focused on the distraction.
He's a brave soldier, he didn't die easily.
Sad it didn't happen more peacefully.
I bet his daughter would've been proud.
She would've survived,
if she didn't play music so loud.
I crept up the stairs and peeked inside the room.
She was teenaged, around sixteen I assumed.
She didn't even scream,
well that was until she saw me.
And the blood on my hands,
so she tried to brawl me.
Tough girl, I'll admit, she sure put up a fight.
But she swung with her left, I dodged and struck her with a right.
She fell to the ground, I raised my hands in victory.
Then I paused and realized there was no prize meant for me.
So I dragged the body downstairs
and laid her beside her family.
I bet this wasn't the horrid day they planned to see.
Oh well, I slit a vein and let the blood spew out.
I decided to tie her to a chair,
so she wouldn't move about.
I got bored and started to tear the infant from limb to limb.
Night began to fall,
outside of the window is dim.
I needed to speed up the process,
if I wanted there to be progress.
I nailed each limb to the wall
and for the head, I let it rest.
On the kitchen counter,
my art piece was starting to come alive.
The daughter's blood made a pool so deep that I could dive.
Two down, only him left to go.
I hung his body from the ceiling,
so he could be the centerpiece of the show.
I washed my hands and took pictures, this belonged in a gallery.
To be gazed upon by millions,
just the thought of it was flattering.
Blame the overwhelming aggression
or adolescent depression.
Don't think too much about it,
time never endures regression.
So mom when you come home tonight.
Try not to have such a fright.
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