PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

        The air was cold on this morning of February; the hoar frost hung nicely upon the dead trees of this frozen desert.  The snow; soft and fluffy from the freshly fallen  vast sea of whiteness that hung above this man.  Plunging his shovel into the Earth once more infront of the dead elm tree; he crawled out of the hole he had prepared.  Smirking to himself as he pushed the tattered remains of his love gone wrong.  Obsession, greed, and adrenaline pumped through his icy vains, as he pushed his final victim into her eternal slumber; forever frozen beneathe this sumit.



         "For all that I yearned, I saw it in this one the most... this pitiful creature." He remarked before defictating on her twisted corpse.  Half rotten, half cut up into a tasty treat that he would later consume when he returned home; to his lair.  A darkened room, a place of peace from society; a place that no ignorance nor pain could find him that he didn't want.  He returned to his mind, warming in the bath of blood of his fallen, his guilty souls.  



         Guilty...guilty of the crime of a broken heart, guilty of breaking of mentality... the shattering of his once proud humanity. They all deserved what they got, he told himself in his now deformed mind; warped from reality and perception, too much stress from his over caring heart had caused it to stop beating after the cracks began to fall apart.  Torn flesh and muscle began his sudden pain, as the eventual blood flow; this was the feeling that ran deep into his core everyday.  Unable to be nor feel accepted burned within him, and just as lighting a candle, life began a new inside of his shell.



          His heart became whole once more, frozen together in time to unlock his rage; his hatred for all those who had hurt him. Those who cut a deep wound without the aid of a blade.  Revenge, it seems, became his religion.



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*Texas, 2 years ago*



          Working the graveyard shift was never a fun idea in Derek's mind, but with the need of overtime and to escape the ever-growing wife; he decided it was all he could really do.  Even if he hated how many "weirdos" he would see.



          From the tweakers, or druggies, that would come in to either shoot up in the bathroom; to the simple, ordinary people who would request coffee, but turn into raving lunatics that freaked out if there was no ice for it - which never made much sense to him - it was always a challenge everynight. To kill the time, and to block out the tiring times, he would day dream about his college days.



          Education had always been overrated to him.  To Derek, football was a way of life, a passage to manhood.  Nothing was more exilating than winning the home game by running the last point in, except for picking on those that were smaller than him.  Derek would relive every moment that brought him happiness, until his fatal injury that forever removed him from sports.  



          Last game of the season, fouth quarter, third down, with 15 seconds on the clock, and only five yards to go.  The snap came to him, and he ran; even though it wasn't the plan.  He thought he would be even better to run it in while no one knew what was going on; his fate was sealed.  One yard away, a defensive line-man clipped him in mid air; the side of his knee met his helmet, and snapped under the strain.  



           As he fell to the Earth once again, upon his wings of lead, he noticed that the bone had cut through the skin.  The pain of the injury was not what made him scream, nor cry; he knew that it was all over.  His dream was gone.  



           But instead of remembering that instant of such pain that almost collapsed his heart, he thought of the kids he bullied around; one in particaular, his favorite play mate, as it was; especially a night after a night of drinking. Oh, how much fun he had had with him; he always thought the kid deserved to be maimed, to feel pain that no one else should.  He made sure of it, by taking a razor blade to the kids chest; cutting and cutting, the blood flowed everywhere from him.  Derek, of course, vagely remembering every detail from the drunken fantasy, snapped back to reality in a cold sweat. For infront of his face was a dark figure, with a pistol to his mouth.



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