The Art of Murder

To kill is an understatement.
I want to grab your insides through your stomach,
pull them out into my world
and let them taste the bitterness of the air I'm forced to breathe;
the life I'm forced to live.
I want to hold your heart in my hands and watch it beat and bleed
and hear you cry as the drip drop of
your blood falls to the floor.
I want you to know that everything you've done to me;
things I did not deserve,
hurt like the fucking plague.
And I want to walk out of that room without anyone ever knowing
I was there.
I'll cry at your funeral, tears of joy.
A father that left a long time ago has finally
buried himself outside of my mind.
Out of sight and out of reach.
You'll certainly be out of time.