He’s a killer wordsmith
but never shares the inner hurt that lurks beneath the surface
verses may seem blank at first but paper cuts are dangerous
a blade waits to strike inside spaces in his stanzas
in horn rim glasses he comes across as anxious
alliterates an altered state to mask his pent up anger
he’s just a Ken Barlow character, an everyday Clark Kent
but Hydes with Jekyll in plain sight to disguise his main intent
cos his sonnets with assault you, his limericks inflict some pain
the lines he breaks are designed to marginalize his prey
He punctuates his victims, ends their lives with full-stops,
tortures them with pauses from the commas that he drops
a dash in to their drink entrapping with enjambment
then cracking with a claw-hammer in back of their skullcap,
hack up with Haikus with arsenal of vile tools,
contorts at their form by defiling all the style rules

Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will


An asexual predator, self-presenting as a nerd
edits out his enemies leaves them still with sparse words
Speaking at nightly readings, never bleeds his inner soul
voice wobbles as an orator, but he’s a killer in control
Most don’t know his poetry makes them take final breaths
at spoken word events scoping who he should choke next
breaks necks stretching syllables in surreptitious septets
stressing out his listeners with most malicious of intent.
He’ll waterboard your senses with deplorable conviction
and Wall to wall smorgasbords of rhymes equipped with diction
Forward slashes with assonance - the vowel’s hemoglobin
Disembowels your last gasp, only left with semi-colon
impales your entrails on a note that he just wrote on
inserts it in a journal where he keeps his kill list quota
and plans the next attack when pen will meet the reaper
repeat the same feet to the sequence of a metre.

Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will

The onomatopoeic slayer is getting caught bang to rights
They’re saying he gave up his pen and pad and held his hands up high The writer retreats to confinement in an uninspiring cell
To go and lose the plot device as he twists insides a shelve
As his story takes a turn, now he sees the hurt he’s made
By reflecting on his worth in verse releases by refrain
Or just Imagining empathy cos its what we want to hear?
Conning us with couplets of what a Croc of tears
Or maybe he can’t confess to what a mess his stream of thought
of a novel disposition of want to cut your story short
damaged by perception that’s he’s deafened by his demons
no page left to turn when the mark he leaves is burning
he goes and does the big reveal by hanging from a ceiling
this isn’t poetic justice for the damage to the grieving
their narratives are abandoned as they lost the ones they love
who felt his every word as he closed their covers shut.

Poetic license to kill,
the target sight fires the ink from the quill
Poetic license to kill
His pen supplies a poison to commit to ill will