My poetry is beautiful.
It is not driven by love
Or written by the hand of pain.
I do not write it with intention for laughter
Or thoughtful remarks,
Yet, my poetry is beautiful.

My poetry is written in the ink
That spills from my victims,
Their blood sweetens my words and
Perfumes my syllables,
Yes, my poetry is beautiful.

I pierce them with words,
Stab them with every drop of my pen,
Spilling tears and blood,
Heartbreaks and aches,
My poetry is beautiful.

My hand carves as if given
The job of God himself,
I am the puppet master
And this is my game
They have no power against me or
My beautiful poetry.

Magic rests on my lips,
Drawing curses and spells
Haunting them,
Governing them,
My poetry is beautiful.

No matter the tears of my targets
Or their begs as they read my work,
What I write on the internet is art,
My poetry is beautiful.