The Essence of his Psychosis

When I think of him I wonder if he can possibly understand
the unbearable pain to have all that you know taken away so abruptly,
all due to a psychotic, crazed, waste of flesh?
To wake up one day,
just as any other day,
unknowing that only a few hours later,
he could be fleeing the ferocity of a fire
that threatened to succumb him.
I wish that he too,
could experiance the night terrors,
the cold sweats,
the silent tears…
I believe he has no heart,
only a black mass of rotting,
diseased flesh in its place.
And its not blood that runs through
his veins, but more likely a lethal mixture
of toxins that seeps out of every pore and
orifice of his body,
the color of onyx,
his skin glistens disgustingly,
his own putrid fumes can’t even handle
its own stink…
He is like an infectious plague,
destroying everything and anyone that gets in his way.
He is so repulsive, I bet death would reject him.
Unfortunately though he will never feel the wrath of me
A dead soul is all he is
and forever shall be.

© Sasha Nova Platz All Rights Reserved.

Notes:
As you can see, hatred runs deep in this one. This was written for the asshole that set my house on fire.