Yours
#11 of Poems
Content warning: Angry, vicious imagery.
I originally wrote this back in March when I was extremely angry. I'm extremely angry today, too, but this seems like a good time to finally release it now that I've had some time to sit with it. And for any agents reading this, no, I have no designs on harming anyone physically. This is just an anger vent.
Pitter patter, drip and drop
Can you see them? Can you not?
See them spatter, see them fall.
See them sprayed upon the wall.
See those that your knives have cut.
See their hearts and ripped out guts.
See them fall beneath your sword,
all of them, across the world.
Tiny rivers, crimson red,
flowing from the endless dead,
join together, break your wall,
drown you, drown them, drown us all.
See the field to which they fly.
See them stagger, shatter, die.
See their parents mourn with grief,
for their children, killed like sheep.
See them stagger; see them cough.
See one, then another, drop.
See your vic'try shaded red.
See them all, your endless dead.
Doff the flags and ev'ry light.
Hide the colors, oh so bright.
Hope has left these lands, forsook.
Burn them now, our hated books.
Kill them all who'd raise a hand,
every one, across this land.
Scythe them down like wheat and chaff.
In your office, oval, laugh.
Know that when your thugs are through,
they will cower, black and blue.
Some of them will cling to god.
Spoiled, you'll not spare the rod.
All of them to you are toys,
little girls or little boys.
As for those now in between?
Beat them senseless. Make them keen.
Heed my words now, sharp as blades.
Take this shovel; dig your grave.
For though you are last to fall,
still your blood will paint that wall.