The police are at the door.
“Open up, ma’am!” they shout. “It’s over!”
You grab your notebook and start reading:
“Here I sit
By my window
Just a bit
Of caramello”
You can hear the screams outside in the hall. They’re struggling to put on headphones. You keep reading.
“I remember our kiss
Your face in the rain
Now when I think of it
I only feel pain”
The blood is puddling on the hallway floor and seeping under your apartment door. You can still hear some rustling of limbs. Time to finish them off.
“Go west cloud!
Thunder red! Thunder loud!”
One last death rattle and they’re nothing but a pile of bodies in uniforms. You grab the bag, open the window, and climb down the fire escape to avoid ruining your shoes with cop blood. They can come for you, they can try to silence you, but your poetry must be free. It’s not your fault that it causes people to bleed from the ears and die when they hear it. If they want to press charges they can go and arrest your muse.
Happy Your Poetry Kills Day!
