Torture as a Past-Time

Posted: March 9, 2011 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I suspect
when you were young,
you liked to play God;
withering insects
with a magnifying glass,
under hot summer sun.
Watch them writhe
and curl.

I think it made you feel
to hurt other living things.

I am willing to bet
that you nailed live frogs
to trees;
watched them squirm
in mute agony.

I think it made you feel
less alone;
less a lonely little pawn.

Your turn to be the sadist.

It seems not
much has changed
in the last five decades.

You still amuse yourself
impaling fragile things:
beings incapable
of sound.

You suffered abuse
in silence too.

You had the choice
to tell someone.
Animals lack that option.

A childhood
littered with dead things,
slowly killed by you.
Your soul
was dying too.

First, mauled by abuse
that left deep, hidden scars;
later, by a programmed choice
to trade yourself for gain;
be it drugs, cash, or property.

You still long to repay
the indignities suffered
at other hands –
Your own self-betrayal
of accepting a life
you abhorred.

Too old, now,
to burn insects
with magnified heat,
or nail frogs to trees.
Laugh while they struggle
against the spike
in their guts.

You satisfy
the urge to torment
with emotional cruelty –
physical too, if a hapless
victim wanders by.

Spider can’t resist
a fly.
Inject just enough venom
to paralyze.

Take your time.
Extract all hope,
potential –
any sense of self-worth.
Savor the power
to annihilate.

Turn them into
the same empty shell
you are:

Hollow, Heartless Echo.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s