There are times when you need a shoulder to cry on,
A single assurance for you to rely on,
When emotion flows through your eyes,
And guilt builds up with every sigh,
You are vulnerable and you are weak,
When everything to you seems bleak,
A helping hand is all you need,
Without a wound you seem to bleed,
When fear has the best of you,
Shrouded by darkness you can't see through,
You try your best to succeed,
But in the end admit defeat,
A fight that doesn't seem to end,
No weapons you carry to defend,
What remains of a delicate heart,
A clinical organ, broken and scarred.

The Perfect Kill: #2 The Crime Scene.

I took out a cigarette, began to smoke,
It helped me to hear, as the crime scene spoke,
Two stained glasses and a bottle of wine,
A broken wall clock stuck at five past nine,
I walked over to the bookshelf, layered with dust,
As I stood there I felt a gust,
The windows all closed, and so was the door,
But then I noticed a paper on the floor,
Quivering gently at my feet,
It sat there, folded neat,
I picked it up and held it near,
“A gift for my dear Jay”,
Incomplete although it seemed,
Within me, excitement teemed,
I opened the folds, ever so slow,
What the letter contained, I wanted to know,
Slowly the writing began to show,
And I felt a stone in my throat,
“This is just the beginning.”, the letter read,
“If you don’t stop me, more will be dead.”,
“Consider it as a game of chess, and I have taken my turn”,
“I will not stop until you die, until I watch you burn”,
Taken aback I was although,
I did my best to not let it show,

“S.M.”.

The Perfect Kill: #1 The beginning.

Every detective has that one case,
That one case, that one elusive face,
Today I narrate, one such endeavour,
Of a culprit, Oh! So clever,
They called her the best, ‘The One That Got Away’,
And yet I remember her, like it were yesterday.

The trees whistled on this cold and windy night,
As I stood at the corner of a street, not a soul in sight,
The street lamp flickered and let out a sound,
And I kept thinking of the body that we had found,
“The body was mangled”, the coroner had said,
“It seems like someone really wanted him dead”,
Murder it was, but was it a crime of passion?
The corpse laid out in a peculiar fashion,
Stabbed in the back and laid on a bed,
A white rose petal placed at the side of his head,
I remained puzzled, the circumstances were queer,
Even in his death he had no fear,
The murder was flawless, not one loose string,
No camera footage, no fingerprints,
Just a cadaver and his face,
One which was complacent with time and space,
The victim was a John Doe, no record, no name,
Yet with his murder he rose to fame,
This is the story of that one case,
That one case, that elusive face.

The little girl

At my table I sat today,
To clear my head, get some things out of the way,
I stared out my window, into the pouring rain,
The evening sky dull, a dimly lit lane,
Across the street stood a girl, crying,
With each teardrop, a part of her, dying,
Her troubles seemed to push her down,
Once an innocent smile, now a frown,
Too young to understand the world,
Too young, just a little girl,
Even though she would cry,
She would still hold her head high,
She seemed to hope for a better day,
The rain soon stopped, and cleared away,
Her sorrow began to disappear,
And to me it was clear,
The troubles you have are yours only,
The reason you're sad or you're lonely,
Will only stay on in your mind,
If you leave your innocence behind.