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Murderous
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Dark Poetry I have died, I've realized, the saints have kept the sane.
The views have overtaken and left obsessions for the grave.
Not just the thought of death, or the dreams of suicide, but fantasies of taking life from the ones who gaze inside.
I couldn't make it clear enough.
They would see my broken seams—the thread that stitched me steady and the wounds that I still clean.
This filth seeped in my system, pulsing through my veins in floods.
And in my fevered mind it leaves a rapacious thirst for blood.
Evil now moves with purpose, to take reason bit by painful bit.
Erasing all the common knowledge and sanity, fit by manic fit.
Ropes are meant to tie them.
Knives are mine for play.
Chains are there to make them beg, to whip across their face.
Metal claws, I bear to maul, to hunt and kill my prey.
Humiliation and mutilation.
I love how they scream and pray.
With a smile and a scalpel, I slice the flesh with need.
Claret now upon my hands, I'm laughing as they bleed.
Ring around a razorblade.
Their life begins to fade.
Bloody—
pieces.
They all fall down.
