Forgive me, oh father,
I have just killed a man,
and I don't feel bothered
and emotions don't run.
Am I psychotic
with blood thirst?
Or a realist
simply dealing the hurt?
My contracts can run hot
with a challenge to my eyes,
I have scars where I've been shot,
but I fire back with no cries.
Blood frenzy, oh father,
A demon is within,
An omen to my mother,
Confessing my sins.
I like to write poetry based on the 90s bullet hell movies of mafia, hitmen, and deranged killers. Mostly Asian films.