Sicko
Sharpen your blade,
And let its wicked gleam
Illuminate your desires,
As doomed as they are.
Polish your firearm,
And let its metallic menace
Frighten your victims,
As fatigued as they are.
It's all about the thrill,
Isn’t it?
The raw rush of feeling,
Everytime the knife sinks
in?
The utterly orgasmic
sensation,
That comes with
suffocation?
By taking lives,
You feel revitalized.
You snatch up little ones,
And bash their horizons
onto the floor,
And as their vitality leaks
out,
You give a little youthful
giggle.
Couldn’t you have had a
mundane motive?
One that involved a simple
little monetary greed?
One that caused the
reporters to turn the other cheek,
For fear that it wouldn’t
be sensational?
For you, it had to be the
theatrics.
You took a sick thrill in
your clean little games.
You are cruel,
And your sheer
lackadaisical nature is horrifying.
We all are just a way
For you to get off, huh?
All the bodies beneath your
crawlspace,
Meaningless, for the sake
of your orgasm?
All the names you’ve
blotted out,
And tainted with your
image?
When someone thinks of
their beloved,
They’ll instead think of
how you slaughtered them.
You brute.
You utter brute.
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