Written Murders

The pages in my mind are folded,
Unreadeble to others.
I got my book and murdered
The ones who made me stutter.

The pen is my weapon.
It cuts its way in the blanc surface
As a great white shark attacks it prey, with fashion.
Words pour as blood on the whit paper, creating a maze.

No one to describe
The feelings that fall on my book.
The pain is relieved in every letter I write,
And I look at them as if I, at my victims, take a look.

The bullets ended,
My wrath temporarily disappears.
I lay down my book
And try to sleep quietly as their faces silently appear...