Serial Killer

Never seen this profile on
America's Most Wanted
A killer that's been around
For as long as time
It's like a disease past
Down the generations
A serial killer that roams free

The victim is always helpless
Never asks for it
Never sees it coming
Too small to fight
Too young to be able to cry
Never to be what could have been

Life snuffed out with a scalpel and a vacuum
A scraper, a suction
Or poison to the system
No funerals, no burials
Just discarded carcass
The baddest serial killer of all time
Abortion

Cold feet

I’m scared to get up there
Having those people, artists, poets judge me
To get up there and speak my words and have people tell me
That I’m just a stumbler, a rhymer with no rhythm or reason
I want to step up and say my piece
But can’t even work up the courage to sign up my name
As each step up to the plate the feeling boils
Deep inside me I want these words to come out
But I’m not a poet and not an artist
I’m just someone with jibberish to say
And I don’t memorize heck I don’t even remember
The words I’m writing the minute they’re on paper
How can I recite and express and perform
Like those on that stage with passion and form
I can’t get up there this aint karaoke
Might as well tell me to strip and streak
And although no one knows me and I can
Step up and spit and leave
I’m scared to get up there

I don't get it

I know it’s deep and everyone in the audience is so captivated
By the flow of words coming from you and the passion that you spew
But I don’t get it

Your words a complicated mix of poetry and prose and beauty and roses and
I swear you can see the room sigh and even hear the breaths cry
But I don’t get it

Fingers are snapping homage to you and giving you all the props you’re due
You have the audience wrapped around your pinky and they would buy anything you’re selling
But I don’t get it

I don’t get what’s so special about what you’re saying
You’re using analogies that just don’t apply to me
Your humor lacks foundation and your story lack a plot
If you weren’t already famous for something else that made sense
I wouldn’t be the only one sitting here not in a daze
So like the lone soul standing in the museum staring at a block of colors from a painter that didn’t make a penny until he died, I figure you must be writing in abstract and maybe when you’re no longer here, I’ll get it.
But for now, I just don’t get it.