He Gets His Kicks

From fabricated stories

He lusts to tell,

He lifted them all

Straight from Hell.

Sure, he is the Devil, but

She will never be

Satan's spawn.

My horror, my rage...

My conscious, subconscious brutally enslaved

Shackled to a despicable renegade.

If for my memory's sake

I could erase


Unspeakable atrocities, Oh-Woe-Is-Me,

My P.T.S.D., and nightmares,

Sayonara Sandman!

Every body but me dreams.

Cartooned unconscious

Faster than the Road Runner,

I race, gasping for breath

Legs sprinting in place

He's always down for the chase,

Wylie Coyote- damn ugly-

My ghost, indeed,

Yet never to concede

Haunting me.

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Afzal Shauq's picture

love your respect o your friends as you did.. its a good and sweet poem