Out of the joy of creation
Comes the beauty of destruction.
See me? I’m the Snipewriter,
That is my solitary function.
I can build things up,
I can tear them down,
I can have you killed,
By a circus clown.
Run Billy run.
See Billy run?
See Billy not out-run,
The blast of a shot gun.
Things will happen easily,
If I so will it to be.
I’ll create whole towns and cities,
And then burn them gleefully.
Being a Snipewriter
Is a stress free job.
I can tell tales of peaceful lives,
Then have them destroyed by the mob.
I can build schools and churches,
Add grocery stores and malls,
Them make the main character,
Paint his blood on the walls.
I can create haunted taverns,
With ghosts who want your soul.
I can make the townsfolk jump off a bridge,
Saving only the town asshole.
Does this make me evil?
Does this make me mad?
Killing off characters left and right.
If so, that’s too damn bad.
Because the life of a Snipewriter,
Is too fun to give up.
And if you don’t like the way I write things,
I just don’t give a fu—….
So you have yourself a nice evening,
And tomorrow please have a nice day.
Unless you’re a character in one of my books,
Then, “You’re screwed,” I’d say.

gun book.jpg

If you liked this, share it. Then feel free to check out these other great poems.

The Grand Show

The Grand Player

Poetry Classics: I Cannot Live With You, By Emily Dickinson


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