A Hostage Forced to Write

Rain on an old tin roof, 

potent coffee, hundred proof, 

lightning cracks the sky

as raindrops fly, 

wind gusts a howl 

my shutters can't deny, 

I sit writing with 

thoughts on overload, 

as thunder booms, 

I'm thinking murder a la mode, 

what sets the perfect scene 

for a mystery today? 

Time to grab the red pen, 

bloody ink on paper 

jousts my senses thin, 

maybe a knife, 

or no that's cliche, 

a prison shank maybe 

I pulled out of the safe? 

It's ironic, isn't it? 

Writing poetry to plot 

a murder scene of thought, 

this mind is ticking, 

hurry, write! 

Before the bomb explodes, 

write what I want 

before she comes too close!

she's always taking over, 

writing is my obsession, 

but her deep inside, 

my brain reaps manic depression. 

She's crazy and clever, 

but knows no boundaries, 

if I don't lock her up, 

she scares every part of me, 

so back to my writing... 

Is this me, 

or is it her? 

Hold up now, 

she's finding the words... 

Rain on an old tin roof, 

Irish cream coffee, 

a hundred proof, 

the window cracks open, 

she hears the commotion, 

he's climbing in 

but in slow motion. 

She sicks the dogs

to come and feast, 

then unlocks the safe 

facing towards the East. 

Calm and collected

like any other morning, 

she chokeholds him 

into deathly mourning, 

shank cuts the apple 

held in the man's throat, 

but rolling him over, 

a familiar face to cope. 

she can't call the cops, 

can't disregard the taste. 

Marrow cracks like a whip 

as canine mouths become bloody, 

dining on his flesh, 

why not? Before it's muddy. 

She grabs a tarp from storage, 

rolls up the red carpet, 

blood stains like camouflage, 

the hogs will devour him. 

Out to the pin,

throwing his butchered body in, 

hogs howl and squeal 

with a gourmet grin. 

Rid of the body, 

now to cover up the crime, 

nothing but a medium

for her sadistic mind, 

This isn't the first murder,

she just can't behave. 

but she has all the fun, 

I'm left filling in graves. 

The plot was mine, 

but the twist is hers, 

why can't I write a story 

using my own words? 

Clever ideas, 

on your toes action, 

but I'm left cleaning up, 

creating a reaction. 

Maybe I'll try again tomorrow, 

that's if she sleeps, 

to finish this story 

for my own keeps.