I’m not very poetic

it’s probably genetic

my meter‘s so frenetic

that most Proser’s cannot get it.

Inevitably, I predisclose it

every gist to predispose it

no poetic sense controls it

so I’m better off to prose it.

Dear Reader, I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this,

But I cannot. There are two of you, after all, with whom death must confer.

The you that has grown from a dribbling child to the damned adult, and the you that was born of mistreatment and neglect.

You're two equal halves. Who is awarded competency, when you are both undeniably real, and the same form of fucked?

It is like having an ornery twin- they do something awful and you must amend for it, simply because you share the same coat.

You may survive. If you can live with the scratching cat with sharpened claws battering at the door of your consciousness.

Or perhaps the world will take pity, and run you down with a school bus.

Who knows, after all I am just another shade of you.

Dear Reader,

I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this. The letter you just opened was filled with a heinous monstrosity of a fart and sealed. As the stench of beans, onions, eggs, a tinge of garlic all mixed with a spice mix from hell continues to waft in the air, I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I made the mistake of making friends with Neanderthals who threatened me with farts of their own if I did not perform this prank. I was terrified because they seem to have stomachs of steel, able to digest even the most unpalatable cuisine. If what they ate smelled bad going in, I shudder to witness the smell of it going out. Again I ask your forgiveness for this erroneous violation of your person. I truly hope you will someday regain your faith in humanity as well as your olfactory capabilities and once again be up to smelling the flowers.

Yours Regretfully,

Stinky.

Dear Reader,

I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this, but, that would just be polite, kind even, and though I am frequently polite, I am rarely kind. Would I have lured you to my lovely lair, enticing you with words you longed to hear, caressing your fragile ego, filling your already cluttered mind with vague promises you construed as you wished to believe what you would, just to set you free willy nilly? Decidedly not, dear Reader. Look around. Would I have led you oh so gracefully to this widowless room, locking the door gently behind you (Did you drop the letter to check the door, or let it dangle, forgotten, from your hand, numb with shock or, shall I say it?, fear?) Would I have left you here awaiting what fate has in store, to dwell upon what must to you be my loathsome decor, of blood spattered walls and floor, if you had even an infinitesimal hope of seeing the dawn?

Did you drop the letter to run screaming to the door, banging your fists till they bled? Or did you simply sink to the floor a huddled heap, to weep?

However you react, know that I am licking my lips in acute anticipation. I am the spider, you are the fly.

Tonight, you die.

Listen closely, dear Reader, in the stillness of the night. As the shadows draw closer, press in, the game will begin when on an impossible wind near your ear, you'll hear my voice as I whisper your name.

Till soon...