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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It had begun again the terrorist threats at first right at the height of my writers block leaving beautiful gems surfaced from my minds eye that was when the head lights parked baring strange death threats plastered on license plates interesting I closed my drapes shut my blinds shutters when a red dot began dancing all over my living room it had been two decades since my stalker fatal attraction arrived with her gunman committing home invasions in my townhome scattering a few poems an yet this resulted in this man dying at my feet he was sent to end my life over my own American poetry there I was desperate with only the notion of the federal bureau of investigations realizing I was this confidential human source who wore wires pregnant because the FBI told me my life was in danger on the count of this madman had committed an arson murder killing nine elderly person in hiding broken frightened expressing myself through prose never knowing this arsonist wise guy faked his death to get away with the murders and decided to latch on to my American poetry a score to pay off corruption to extort my American poetry racketeer my life hence my death for sport attempts on my life sending domestic terrorist to enter my room ripping pages on my night stand I can't imagine the bureau's reaction receiving my desperate call of home invasions please help I screamed thieves are after my poetry you see for me poetry was this healing coping therapy for the panic attacks the fear the anxiety the ptsd of surviving being a confidential human source I could still hear my fetus heart beating decades later seated on my bed this red dots bounced off the wall landing on my chest the killers were back enraged basically forcing me to continue writing to fund organized crime and corruption I peeked through the blinds face to face with an assault rifle pointed at my bedroom window could poetry really be worth killing the writer how do one survive domestic terrorist I close my eyes I see the gunman coughing up blood odd I see the arsonist parked with my stalker a fatal attraction literature is America's fine culture poetry is a gift from God
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