Fbi supervisor Leroy Heimbach the heartbeat of my American Poetry
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 bully 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
Copyright © Yolanda Nicholsen | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment