Murdering Poem by Michelle Asswit

A dead body is on the floor
Limp looking, cadaverous
His eyes are staring right into my pupils
Mine are dialating, his are not
A gun is in my hand
The blood is splattered like paint
All over the floor is red fluid
On my other hand is a phone
the numbers sticking out
Like a red roses thorn
Should I do the right thing?
We all know it's too late for that.
Should I frame someone else?
I don't want to
I'll just run away before the fuzz arrives
Too late I'm caught, this is my goodbye