Murder Me

How could a hand, a hand that is mine,

Have achieved such a feat as this?

Impossible – yet here is the head, cut and quite dead,

Here is the head in my fist


How could a thought, a thought so grotesque,

Get into my dreary old head?

Absurd – yet here is the corpse, bloated of course,

Rather at home in my bed


How could a mind, as tired as mine,

Come up with such ghastly acts?

Unlikely – yet here lies the body, twisted and bloody,

That undoubtedly backs up the facts


How could a person, as timid as me,

Perform such a grisly deed?

It’s possible – I guess, for here on my dress,

Blood soaks down to my knees


How could a soul, a soul barely breathing,

Have the strength to see this all through?

Yes – mine would be free, with ease you see,

I was made this way by you


Written in 2006


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