Grab a knife, grab that fucking knife.
Let the sunlight scintillate on the blade, it's so clean. Run your fingers across it.
Metal feels so good.
The ball gag won't let him talk.
Plunge it in, let the body convulse.
He's drooling, he's mad, he's a mad dog.
Bitch.
He's gasping, and the life is leaving his eyes.
Twist the blade, pull it out.
His chest is still.
Kick him, kick him, kick him.
Cur. Scum. Die.
Pour nitric acid on him.
It's slowly changing, into a grotesque thing.
He was never what he wanted to be anyway.
It's an it, don't call it a he.
He got himself into this position by subterfuge.
You're a hedonist, and that's alright.
You matter more than him.
Tell me, sing to me, how did his fear feel?
He pissed himself, you can see the stains.
If I was you, I'd be hysteric now.
You're so calm.
What are we going to do with it?
Pour him into the drain.
No one ever cared about him, he's just another faggot.
As I retreat, i hear the fuckin' scream
you're losing control of yourself
you wanted to hurt so bad
and now youre looking into the mirror
theres a knifewound in your chest
and. acid on you but youre nothing
more than an it
and god knows where youll be buried
except the tick tick of the clock that whispers,
"hail hail
the suicidal
hail hail
the homicidal
hail hail
me"
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of Riddance
PoetryPoetry isn't the telling of a story; it's getting rid of the emotions that long plague you. These are my emotions; they are raw. These are my stories; And this is who I am.
