A bed side table holds a book with secrets,
where I buried them...
a garden would tell if it could speak,
how they were slaughtered and scattered like seeds,
a soil fertilized by bodies and crushed bones,
such wonderful roses grow there now.
After every murder, I write a poem in their honor,
words formed by my thoughts becoming a reality,
actions done because I have a theory,
with every image that came to mind, an action followed,
I paint their faces, their emotions the last look before they died,
records I keep, but secrets I hide.
How long I keep these secrets I will never know,
but for now I keep them;
what was it like to murder those you loved?
A question I still can't answer - curiosity was always a bother,
and it always got the best of me, why was never a problem,
compelled by an addiction - once I started there was no stopping,
had to make sure no evidence, no witness's no way for me to be wrong - to be caught.
I guess I needed someone to tell, secrets can be heavy...
but failure was never an option,
the need for inner peace is great,
days are lonely with no one to tell my secrets,
but after I tell them I have to kill them - the cycle never ends it seems,
a drug so addictive that it controls you even when you don't want it to,
but it only seems right to keep me safe,
paranoia is now my god,
I am truly sorry that i had to do this to you,
but I could not let you tell them, i had to silence you,
this is the only way, I cry tears for you but what had to be done was done,
ssshhh close your eyes, don’t try to speak, it will hurt less...
I tried to spear you the pain, so I hoped I helped,
my dear friend, i am sorry i told you, but I realized that i can't even trust you,
with such a deep secret, and you have all right to want to tell or get help as you say;
but I couldn’t let you do that, i have to kill you now so please forgive me.