deepundergroundpoetry.com
Kitchen Fork
I feel sick. Full of sorrow. A fork was all that was needed, all that was used. A kitchen fork. It sliced through the air. And now she’s dead, on the floor. Her heartbeat.
1
2
3
4
And she died. They killed her. But it wasn’t me. It was them. The voices in my head. They did it, not me. Not me. I stroke her head, oh how I miss her. I would never do this.
But the fork is in my hand, her heart is beating in my brain. The smell of the blood running through my nose.
1
2
3
4
And she died. They killed her. But it wasn’t me. It was them. The voices in my head. They did it, not me. Not me. I stroke her head, oh how I miss her. I would never do this.
But the fork is in my hand, her heart is beating in my brain. The smell of the blood running through my nose.
Published 27th Sep 2021
Author's Note
a 100-word poem, inspired by the song Kitchen fork by Jack Conte
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0
reading list entries 0
comments 2
reads 338
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
29th Oct 2021 00:28am
I am confused if it was them who killed her, or truly somebody else. Was it the person's fault or not?
7th Nov 2021 6:30pm
It is their fault, but their mind is twisted and they place the blame onto someone else! Thanks for reading <3
