This is told in the perspective of a young boy.
When I look at my mother,
I picture her grave, Untidy and old, Covered in mold.
I picture the knife ,
Used to end her, The pool of blood, She slept in.
I picture the cops,
Circling her body, Searching for evidence, And just about anything.
They’d find my prints on everything,
But what scared child wouldn’t , Hold their mother.
But what they don’t know,
Is they found the killer, But who is to believe, That little o’l me, Could do such a thing.
Now that would be just plain evil.
Humane words about Assumption Gracious thoughts on Mother Grand poems about Murder
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i'm 14 and i live in phoenix Arizona. also i have an account on poetfreak: just.A person
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