• The Vampire
    The next poem I write will have blood
    All over it, blood so dark
    And tasty that I will be more than tempted to drink it.
    My creator will stand back and say, ”Become the beast that you are.”
    The next poem I right will have fangs in it, too, sharp
    And pointy ones, and all the wrists of my companions in this small
    Room I stay will have two small puncture wounds; and
    A smile upon a face.
    The next poem will have, veins, torn open
    By my very teeth and bleeding out into my mouth. The veins will be
    Blue and purple beneath the skin and turn red by the touch of light.
    Ripped to shreds with the life of their owner.
    There’ll be a food chain in the next poem
    Where I reside at the top, a bloodline, it drags on forever.
    I will be hunting a frail human.
    Oh, the next poem will handle fear!
    But there won’t be any animal blood in the next poem.
    I don’t care for the taste.