Charles Grisham Poet I do not know?

It's True

With eight swollen, broken knuckles
At the top of my lungs' last scream
I'll take one last swing to prove I'm not the only one
Who cares enough to mask the immunity with putrid hate
No this is not a threat, but a vow of biblical proportions
It can't be denied, the right to die
As the clock pulls the hours away he is closer to my grip
To jerk the had back and break the neck
Is meeting the same fate as the throat I slit
OIf I drench my hands in another's blood am I sick?

I've been dreaming about the horror of my future
Carts with two dead bodies and one hanging on a hook
But they all have the same face
Sear the fles, cauterize the wound
Slice the stomach so the bodies don't float
The maggots have eaten through his face
 And when the suffering come back to haunt me, I'll kill them too

Despite this incubus my hands are still clean for now
But next time I see his face
I won't stop until I feel the conrete through his head
And the fourth tally is etched in my walls

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