Young Writers Society

Corner of the kitchen
with all the lights off,
only the tip of his cigarette can be seen
as he sits away from the moon-beam

Loaded gun on his lap,
a glass by his side,
he sits and waits in the shadows,
sleeves rolled up to his elbows

It wasn't meant to end up like this
but that's how it always goes:
injection, addiction;
obsession, depression...

He's a Saturday night serial killer,
murdering all that he could have been.
He's a Saturday night serial killer,
agile, quick, pityless, mean.

Watching the boys and pretty girls
have all the fun he's missing out on.
"Fuck you for what you've done, society,"
he says, drunk on his anxiety.

He knows his end is near
but his conscience is locked;
some lives at stake - gun in hand -
he'll knock down all who stand.

It wasn't meant to end up like this
but that's how it always goes:
injection, addiction;
obsession, depression...

He's a Saturday night serial killer,
murdering all that he could have been.
He's a Saturday night serial killer,
agile, quick, pityless, mean.

He's a Saturday night serial killer,
murdering all that he could have been.
He's a Saturday night serial killer,
agile, quick, pityless, mean.