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Poems On / About MURDER  7/25/2014 6:22:38 AM
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Best Poems About / On MURDER
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Was Anna Nicole Murdered?

So many dark Hollywood secrets
So many dark Hollywood tragic events
Money and never ending blood feuds
Shattering lifes
Breaking hearts
Maybe even committing crimes?
Maybe ever leading to murder?

Will we ever truely have the answers that we seek?
Will a cover-up ensure?
Will a starlet's saddened soul ever be able to rest in peace?
So much we may never know
So many terrible mistakes
Could someone out there in Hollywood land really have been so
Desperate enough to kill?

One innocent woman
So very trusting
Maybe just a little bit too trusting
Now she's gone
Forever more
6 feet under the ground leaving all her many fans to wonder
Was Anna Nicole really murdered?

No matter what the autopsy reveals
Always for sure
There will remain a shadow of a doubt
Constantly questioning
Who, how and why?
Was Anna Nicole murdered?

2007 Ramona Thompson
Ramona Thompson

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Little Harry

Harold was an evil child
Conceived on a stolen train
Born in a sack from a prostitutes back
He had murder on his brain

As a babe he took the greatest joy
In spitting on his Mother’s breast
He would wait till she was near asleep
Then scream to break her rest

At Two he strangled an alley cat
And orphaned all her kittens
At Three he murdered all of those
With blood he felt quite smitten

Four and Five were dreadful years
As Harold only worsened
To become at the tender age of six
A most formidable person

He’d wear his knickers day and night
In a knot atop his head
By day he’d make up murder songs
At night his mind burned red

For blood this little chap did thirst
He yearned for life to cease
He killed his mum, his dad, his aunt,
His little brother Reece

And finally, the little sod
Climbed the house’s highest shelf
The final act, the curtain fall
Little Harry killed himself
Ashley Hawkes

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I think of murder
And I think,
Am I above it or just far away?
Is it beneath me or just not in me?
Or perhaps I’m mistaken
And murder is well within me,
Lurking in my being
Like some skittish imp
Hovering nervous as a finger
A hairs breadth over the trigger
Of a chain reaction of circumstances.
Or instead of this and me being above it
Is it somehow above me,
Like some club of heroes
I cannot join for lack of courage?
I guess all I know for sure
Of my location
In murders great divide…
Is my cringing scared reflection,
Of a victim in your eyes.
Kay Vitter

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White Flag

Lo my past, all I breathe is you;
We dine together, drink wine,
Curse the present which is all but mine;
Thee the thought, I murderer, blood the carcass you call new.

‘Body lives, body lived,
You sleep, you die, you corpse in the grave;
Soul dies, love dies, a victim never brave,
Murder it, murder it, it is all what Homer did.’

‘No soul to eternity, is it so?
Soul murdered then or now, is it the same thence?
Isn’t the present I was here to live, O I know it whence?
The seed of guilt will harvest my grave, when nescience in all I sow.’

Sun is out, the dark on a climb,
Know I not whether to live the soul or bleed it to death,
Greenness, the dark, she now hides my path, should I choke the breath?
Never will I know, to live life, O soul, my eyes, or kill them both, turn as well as blind.
Damanio Grewalli

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Poems On / About MURDER