Waste Induced

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This poem is actually a metaphor for the destruction of the environment and the ignorance towards it, because of globalization shrinking of our world into a global village.
Nursery rhyme time score.

Submitted: December 02, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 02, 2011




I grew up in a small town of 2000 or so, where neighbors no

each other high and low. I was the good boy, the little angel boy. The neighbors

called me the towns pride and joy. But when I grew up and left things became

more relevant. My features seemed much less elegant. I was a hot head at most,

but it didn’t seem at all to those small town folks. I became an outsider at

the big city school. I learned of the worlds tendency to be cruel. I felt

betrayed by my small city peeps, so humbled in their village they forgot about

me. I flunked out of school that very same year as I became my very own worst

fear. My mind flocked as I grew toward evil thoughts. Grooming became a thing

of the past as I flunked class to class. When I returned to my small town ways,

villagers began to make their says: “you’re not a little boy anymore”, “when

you hit rock bottom there’s nowhere else to fall” as I began to deteriorate,

nobody paid attention, so it was time to make my move without stall. As the night grew young my stench grew thicker, but I couldn’t have completed this mission quicker. You see I planned it all out. I was really a mastermind, a genius in a way; my school should have been about. You see I called Mr. Collins out saying it was Mr. Glen. I invited them to town central; they could not refuse as you see they were the best of friends.  I told one to be by twelve, but the other at eleven thirty. Why so late well you see it seems the two had been getting flirty. As Mr. Collins arrived I snuck up behind him, before he knew it the world seemed dim. I bashed his head with my boot, he feel to his knees before he could say shoot. I became the artist from here on in cutting his body super thin. The blood entrenched, but I did not make a sound. It was like he was the prey and I was the hound. Using my knife I cut through his forehead. His skull was thick, such a euphoric; I soon pierced through to his brain with little strain. And, as I finished his brain soon spewed to the floor as I quoted “I’m not the little boy anymore”. Using my knife I took his tongue; no longer could he pollute the world; with his breath of dung. From there my smile grew thicker; it was a shame it was about to end, but Mr. Glen was about to enter. As ten drew closer I could smell Mr. Glen coming in. I could sense his ignorance, and unknowing grin. As Mr. Glen was about to enter he soon spotted a corpse of his lock box lover. He crouched to all fours to tend to his lover, but I then punted his head; he fell over. The blood poured out from the back of his head; it tasted so smooth as I put it to my lips running down my chin the colour of red. But, I was not done yet as I cut out his spleen piece by piece. I then grabbed his stomach out, and tossed it as it slide like Greece. As blood flowed I realized I had not finished my art; soon then a witness drew to be my last part. As he dawned closer to see what had transpired, I snuck up behind him to wrap his neck in a wire. Pulling it tighter and tighter I could feel the air stopping through his air puffer, but I was far from done he had to suffer. I drew out my knife and pierced through his muscle; ripped open right through to the bone, there was little tussle. I could feel my knife scratch through his bones, he was ready to scream, but there was no point he couldn’t breathe. As the witness faded I slit his throat, saying “I just needed you to finish the quote.” Almost done my smile grew, my work seemed almost lewd. I stood by the witness legs, feeling proud of my work I ended my life as my head feel to the pave. The next morning I’m not sure what exactly transpired. All’s they saw was blood, a knife, and a string of wire. But that’s not all, as they received a reminder of what they induced, the symbol of ‘W’ for the waste they produced.


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