Murder Poems | Examples of Murder Poetry

A circus act A puppet A clown When you think of these you think of a Performance Or even entertainment You think of Comedy You think of Jokes You think of Laughter So what happens When you become the butt of the joke Where they are not laughing with you But at you Not because you're funny But because of what's being done to you Oh you don't know Well...

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I'm born to kill. My name betrays brutality in each grim ton. I'm all my moniker portrays. I'm born to kill. But can I stop what I've begun as my great appetite obeys a blood urge? Can it be undone? Will once I learn to change my ways? Will I break through to see the sun, so, my genes won't say all...

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Calm entity entered in disguise, silence before the scream, walked in flesh and clotted blood. No empathy, no sympathy— only rage and a ticking bomb. Each slay, barbaric despair. Each pulse, a metronome of fate. Each breath, a ticking alibi. Invasion. Foul play. Mind occupied, inquiring around— an art of silent prayers no one understands. Lucifer commands, all in delusion. Garnished trophies to remember the names. No fumbling, no rambling— only mind-twisted monsters, carved...

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Is it a gaggle of geese as the sky turns red or skein of ducks flying overhead instead into the wild blue yonder and as the crow flies it's not a murder nor a tidings of magpies there's more than one (for sorrow) the question I did surely ponder as they flew into the setting sun with sparrows I have no quarrel and yet with the wisdom of...

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Be a still shadow when the void is smeared onto concrete walls. The void— a deafening drone— devours shadows that dare speak. It closes in, fast— in my head it whispers: Join us. You are hollowed enough to blend in without fault. I sit still— because I was told: If I move—If I shiver— I become the smeared void....

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They were my gentile friends, ones I could count on They stood by me when times were tough A pep talk here, a couch to sleep on there They kept me from falling through cracks Year after year, we shared the cheers and the tears ...

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They say we Jews are afraid that no one 'now' will come to our aid Murder of Jews in America is multiplying more and more hate crimes, innocents dying ...

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Tho' not with a dagger in the library nor candlestick in the conservatory someone done the dirty deed and yet of bodies none were found perhaps the evidence had been concealed interred deep down underground so no one's doing time it was eventually revealed for the heinous crime of thuggery and skullduggery terrible as it may be where the skeletons are buried only the gravedigger knows and after...

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Your Death You died way too soon Sleeping peacefully on an October eve The night was too quiet Then they came Hunting down people who harmed no one Shooting them again and again Men, women, children, and even babies It seemed that no one was safe Awoken, all you did was sit up on your bed The shots echoed through your house One by one, each...

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I can feel it crawling underneath, underneath my skin today. Why should I even care now? its murder in the first degree. You, you're not the person i thought you claimed to be. why should i even care now? Its murder in the first degree. Now i can hear it calling for me. From the land of makebelive. why do...

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chunks of dirt mingle with the bread. cinnamon wafting in the wind. a house of sugary bliss, a promising deal of sweet paradise. shoveling savories like a last meal-- bellies rising like dough, suddenly shoved into a scalding scene. outsides on fire, insides igniting-- charred little children, burnt sugar lingering on their tongues....

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I wonder, Little Eddie, hypnotized, can it be true you felt no pain at all? Ten years of age, a figure formed too small, and that poor Roadster, a gift you so prized… How could your brother have so despised your car? to pop its tires,—and on the wall— smash it, scratch it, do everything to maul that toy.—Is it true, you...

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Personal notes: - "How to make poison" - ...

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somber sullen clouds gray Acheronian sky day for a murder...

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Frozen by their artificial sun, all our training taught not to run. Monstrous figures pour from the trees, deafened by screaming tread and allies pleas, Would this not be done if you held the gun? Surrounded by the fallen dead, just waiting for your dose of lead. Our Earth a canvas, stained in red. We march, we fight, we die...

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