My hobby

I kill people for fun
What else is there to say
Everybody has hobbies
So why not this one?
If you ask me why I do it
There is no real reason

Many killers get caught
Go to prison
Behind, they leave trails
They all have something
For what they have fought
But I, I have nothing
No agenda, no feelings
That restrain or restrict me
Or expose or reveal me
No desire to be found
Or attain recognition

Lately, I have been worried
About my mental health
So I went to a therapy session
I have a job I don’t like
And I do not need wealth
So maybe one day
I’ll turn my hobby
Into profession

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About love

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I’m tired of poems about love
Don’t you have anything else to think about?
Isn’t there anything else you could devout
Your life to than having endless discussions
About feelings caused by some crazy compassions,
Delusional, flimsy, unpolished, pejorative
Then suddenly rousing, appraised and arrogative,
Maddening. Deprived of logic, appalling, enraging
Subject, which for millennia has been aging
And long since has ceased to provide satisfaction
Or being engaging
In any way whatsoever
In its public endeavor it has lost all attraction
And here I am writing a poem about love
Trying hard to comply with my worn out repulsion
As I engage in this self-sickening act

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