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Or a lack there of

I sit by the fire's side
watching the lonely embers die.
I finish up the last few drops of tea
and tap my fingers swiftly on a book I meant to read.
When far off church bells slowly start to chime
and a new masterpiece bursts into my mind.
I must bring my art to life, I chuckle,
or, perhaps, a lack there of.

I wander out into the city
where people show no pity
for my inspiration.
What a waste of canvas.

She doesn't know that i'm behind her,
I cough, she turns, a grim reminder
I'm but a shadow
until i'm beside her.

Then with a simple slash
she falls...

A quick slice and peel back the flesh
to be my work, she must be blessed.
Something for the world to see
something that she gets to be.
Dance the tip of the blade around
as she bleeds onto the ground.
Faster now and bending over
not to concentrate but, to admire
The wisdom of my macabre lover
and the art she has uncovered.
It won't be until tomorrow that they'll seek me out.
For I am nothing without my canvas...
or a lack there of.

A contest entry

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Comments


  • skyviewexpress
    December 13, 2007

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    Wow... I've been waiting soo long for someone to write something on these lines. Serial Killers, Murders, their killings can be so artistic. Some people are too fixed on formality to see what grace some muderers but into thier killings. This reminds me of the quote from Ted Bundy,
    "When you work hard to do something right, you don't want to forget it." Art is beyond pencils and paper.. These lines just speak to me and add to that artistic view..

    I must bring my art to life,

    What a waste of canvas,

    and the art she has uncovered,

    For I am nothing without my canvas,

    Thank you so much for entering this poem in my contest, it is truly beautiful. Not that you must, but sometime you should re-vise this poem with more detail and drift away from the restrictions of ryhme. More detail would be extravagant. Thanks again, and good luck.


  • EdenAnarchy
    November 26, 2007

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    very nice...

    i always enjoy reading from the killer's point of view, and your poem makes me feel kinda like i'm reading the diary of the killer after the fact... very nice...