Some people think I should be in Alcatraz. Others want me to stay right where I am. What I did, it was for a purpose. I didn't kill them for no reason; or just cause I felt like it. I actually don't remember doing it. I remember the indignation inside me festering up. I remember the chambré ichor on my arms afterwords. I remember the resonance caterwaul of them being bayoneted. I remember the way their wails didn't phase me. I also remember the why; which, of course, sounds vacuous now. I remember the way my fingers seized the blade. I remember the window with the beautiful stain glass, that kinda reminded me of an eye; with the blue-ish, grey-ish, tiny however. I remember it's beautifulness being blinded by the ichor being shed onto it. I remember the bodies piled up behind it. I remember the way they pleaded for their life as I held a knife up to their neck. The way they said, "I'm sorry" over and over again. None of them ment it. They just wanted to do it again, maybe not to me but to someone else. I can't let them do that. So I don't. And they stay behind the stain glass window. Still bellowing and weeping to be let out. And I wish I could. Because their screams suffuse my thoughts. Making them coalesce. I don't know who's who. They're all helping at the same time. But I'm okey.
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Poems that I write
ŞiirI write poems and I put them here and some of them I don't write myself but if that happens and I know it I will say that they aren't mine. Also just so you know some of the stuff I post is about suicide so if you are sensitive about that then I wou...
