The smell, thicker and heavier than rot, Seems to corrupt everything unfoul in the air, And I crouch in the corner of the room, Wringing my hands, tearing at my hair. The blood, curdled and drying in patches On the walls, on the floor, on my hands, Stands stagnant until it seeps into the ground, As I watch them in their last dying dance. I hate to hear their shrill, pained voices; They beg, they scream, they recoil in fear, Trying to reason with me, psychologically, All I can say? Your death is near. They push away, rattling their chains, Their throats vibrating sorely in screams, If I were to bother and release them, They would still hate me, so it seems. If I were to show them any mercy, To even pretend I might slightly care, They'd slip between my fingers. No… I'll keep you in that snare… Then they learn it's hopeless - And then they sob, oh! They cry! So I keep them in bloody torture Until their bitter tears run dry. Once they're lost beyond content, Shelled of any emotion but pain, I grind their bones to powder And liquefy their brains. You'll never laugh at me again, I realize as I watch them dying, You won't question my sexuality With your endless prying! Oh, and you won't sneer at me, Or point at me (or even stare!) All you'll see is a coffin roof, And I really couldn't care! And then I bury them in my yard, Like the hopeless things they are, And I lie back on the grass, And witness the arrival of the stars. Oh, tranquil night, I ruin you, With a medley of blood and gore, But I suppose without this bloodshed My life would end up a bore. So I sit there, staring at the sky, Then get up and finish the burial, Thinking to myself, to the sky, That… I'm not happy.
Yeah. That sucked. Review anyway, since you wasted your poor eyes with having this poem scratched into your corneas, and all.