Poetry is like a bullet. Hits straight to the heart. Fill it with love and watch your target flourish. Fill it with poison, and they’re done for. I have written a total of three really harsh poems. I mean REALLY evil. Those poems differ from the others. When I put down my pen, there is no sense of accomplishment or pride. More like shame and a nervousity that I should hide what I wrote for fear of it being found and hurting someone. But I want to share it with you, partly because it is pure raw emotion and partly because it took me a whole 120 seconds to write. The best kind.
If I Could Write Your Future
If I could write your future, I’d fill it with torment.
Have you marry a beauty, wake up to find her dead.
A wee note beside her pretty little head.
“Should’ve been you instead.”
You’d have a Merc, the biggest and best.
Speed for the prestigious, hot seated for rest.
In-built voice-typer to scribble the shite in your head.
Until you crash into a house.
Full speed. Now shreds.
Funny thing, looking down to no legs.
Alas! A wheelchair!
Praise God you’re not dead.
Lucky for you, this pen writes my fantasy for you.
It’ll take no action for it’s not seen what you do.
You don’t do much, he does it for you.
Now you won’t tap on someone’s door bearing the gift of pain.
But I know you better than to think you’ll refrain.
If I could write your future,
You’d not walk away.
I’d make you live inside this game you play.
Call me bitter. It’s not for you to say.
I was happy once.
You made me this way.