Yes, we are.
Earth's cold-blooded killers.
Deny it all you want; oh, but we are.
We all are.
And a liar I shall not be;
I shall cleanse not my bloody hands
just to please thee.
A killer, that's me.
No, I didn't just try—
I did the deed successfully.
Killers, you and me.
I killed happiness in their twinkling eyes,
even one residing within me.
I hated glee for some time,
so I killed hope, not once nor twice.
Some yours, the rest mine.
Regret I did, and did not most of the time.
Killers, yes we are.
Lie all you want; denial is quite fine.
But know this:
the blood of a bleeding wound you cannot hide.
Crimes acknowledge crimes.
Oh, but we are.
We all are.
******
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.
