Of crows. They flew, no, swooped, crying their caws, down the onto the rooftops, through the trees, landing with soft thuds, branches swaying. The grey skies full of crows, black shapes oily bright shimmers, following each other, understood where each was to go, to do… I stood there, watching, hypnotized by the sheer dark magic of their number.
the warm blood pushes out from her eye sockets, her screams are no longer legible, the things I have to do hurt me so, but I must continue, her eyes so beautiful must take the place of the holes in my head, my mind is something to be afraid of, but only because of the last person I stole eyes from, her visions so ugly…
Most foul. It’s one of the 10 things we are told not to do in the Commandments God handed down to Moses on the mountain and yet, it happens thousands of times per day, perhaps per hour across the globe. Murder is the action of ending someone else’s experience on this earth. Why is man driven to do this? Is it because we cannot control our own lives that we must control another’s?
You’re like a storm —
Lightning eyes, and rough cheeks
Soft sweep of lips
And a golden glow that peeks out
Between jeans and shirt.
It’s this constant fight
To keep my fingers to myself
And your lazy smile
Leaves the fastest beat,
Squeezing the air from my lungs
With a suppressed gasp. A stutter.
I’m drowning and hoping.
Murder…..was it really murder. What were the chances of that. Everybody loved her. But all is fair in love and war I suppose. Murder…..is done. Over. It’s over with thats all she wrote.
It was murder they say, murder that took my childhood away, murder that killed my innocence, taken by the numb society, by the boys who took what they what they wanted, they got their jollies, but were disgusted with the leftovers. It was murder.
There is murder in these streets. Watch, as the crimson betrayal drips down our brick walls. The white-hot flash of weaponry steels out a rhythm, being dragged against the flagstones, slowly approaching the doorstop. Watch, as murder echoes, a bell in the ears of the not-so-innocent.
murder is viscous and bad. it can be done in many ways. it is scary and nasty. one shouldn’t murder. ever. ever. but some people still do. these people need help. they are bad. there is always another option.
we used to play a game called killer.
we would give each other clues and only the killer knew who he or she was.
it was. Popular game in our set but then we just stopped playing.
the thought has crossed his mind many times, it was solely the fear of getting caught that stopped him. He wouldn’t be burdened by his conscience, after all, she deserved to die.
the thought has crossed his mind many times.. the only problem is the fear of getting caught. He didn’t think his conscience would be a burden afterwards, after all she deserved to die.
I saw it happen on Brooke Street. I wasn’t really paying attention, Mrs Potts had knocked over some potatoes and I bent down to help her. As I stood up and brushed myself down, I noticed a figure about two yards away. His face was covered by a dark mask, but I knew his identity.
The case was closed, but there was sill something missin gin the case. I just didnt understand how Eliie couldve gotten off the train so fast. Nobody realized how she couldve. But she did. She admitted. Unless….she was lying, to cover up someone. I pondered the thought for a moment, then quickly discareded it. The case was closed, but I couldnt help but think, if she was innocent, we still have a mad man running around on a killing spree.
There’s a light at the end of the hall way, show casing the scene. The scene of fabulous OCD techniques. Red colored and splashes, here and there. Act one is murder.
That’s the color she wore on her nails—a blue so deep that it became the static black of ceilings on sleepless nights. She kept them precise and unchipped.
Every night a new victim. Anyone from a stranger who smelled too sharply of liquor, to an acquaintance with an eerie habit of staring a beat too long, to past lovers she had outgrown for some reason or another.
Always only after midnight. She’d write their deaths, how she imagined each one would die—exquisitely without her.
she slits throats like a crayon drawing
and stabs bellies like a sewing machine
she knows all poisons in the world by name
i think i love with her more and more each day
Murder is what murder is thought to be. Anarchy. With murder comes great resentment, and resentment brings choice. You can go forward as someone the public will vilify, or you can atone for what you did by showing your remorse. Your choice.
its not good itts ba and illegal and i dont know why i happened to get this wrd it seems a bit morbid and i believe its stupid to murder people. and my murer i am including execution i think although i havent mae up my mind n that ocmpletely yet do that is all i ha
Murder is crazy. People killing each other, and the point of taking another human beings life, is an interesting concept because it tears at the fabrics of what were actually about as humans. Freedom, intrigue, and cooperation. While freedom is what defines a human’s ego, murder wipes that slate clean.
A murder of crows caw in the tree outside my window. It seems they’ve just arrived. Nevertheless their presence does nothing to fill your absence; it is an irony in this world of constant comings and goings. I would not have traded you for the world.
Everyone has had some kind of murder in their life, everyone has heard of it, talked of it. But not everyone has thought about it. Sat down and not thought about a certain person, but just the act of murder. How to do it, how to keep from being caught, how it would feel and sound and taste. Regardless of if it was being done to another person or to them self. Not everyone thinks like that.
You’re a murderer, you’ve killed all thoughts of hope and happiness. You stopped the joy I had, you’ve turned this wonderful situation into a chaotic mess. I dread to see all those faces that used to make me smile. This murder is unforgettable and impossible to reconcile.
There are lots of songs about murder. And TV shows. Why are we as a society so obsessed with stories about murder? Does it feel some sort of ancestorial need?
I’m looking at the word and I cannot make myself imagine it. The act of taking life, the act of ending something that was in your way. Not in a peace loving way, but in the way of experience that waits to be lived, but you don’t want it to be.
There is a murder of crows outside of my apartment and they are hovering in a way that makes me think the garbage man will be here soon. He is in his scruffy 20s and has a cartoonish tattoo of something and I’m not sure why I’m still home right now when I could be going to the store already. I wonder if he has a wife while I sip the drink in my hands.
She didn’t think of it as murder. It was protection. She was insuring the wellbeing of her children. That wasn’t murder, was it? It couldn’t be. It’s instinct to protect ones offspring.
She fell elegantly into the code/space, a single key tap signifying her landing. Algorithms reacted to alter the surroundings in accord to her DNA, digital lifeforms murdered and their substance rearranged into more relevant formats, rouletting through isotopes of fauna till a soft neon moss carpeted the tiles. She fell back and the ground rose to meet her, an ecology of her comfort fluctuating along her circadian specification.
Murder was a sin most coveted when all there was but frustration. The scene was an everyday routine: serve, an envious imagination, grovel, porcelain smile, purposeful bow or shake or nod. Though culture and religion outlawed the act and the people had to let their souls be cut down.
There’s something about the deaths she sees on television. Like, there’s something more out there. Something more that could be done. And it’s not just the fact that, for some reason, there are a lot more murders this month than the last. It’s the fact that somehow, something seems amiss…
He murdered her with pride. She didn’t even saw it coming. Love and blood altogether rushed out of her veins, draining her body dry. He smiled yet tears run down his face like there’s no tomorrow. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror; she’s free.
Of crows. They flew, no, swooped, crying their caws, down the onto the rooftops, through the trees, landing with soft thuds, branches swaying. The grey skies full of crows, black shapes oily bright shimmers, following each other, understood where each was to go, to do… I stood there, watching, hypnotized by the sheer dark magic of their number.
the warm blood pushes out from her eye sockets, her screams are no longer legible, the things I have to do hurt me so, but I must continue, her eyes so beautiful must take the place of the holes in my head, my mind is something to be afraid of, but only because of the last person I stole eyes from, her visions so ugly…
Most foul. It’s one of the 10 things we are told not to do in the Commandments God handed down to Moses on the mountain and yet, it happens thousands of times per day, perhaps per hour across the globe. Murder is the action of ending someone else’s experience on this earth. Why is man driven to do this? Is it because we cannot control our own lives that we must control another’s?
You’re like a storm —
Lightning eyes, and rough cheeks
Soft sweep of lips
And a golden glow that peeks out
Between jeans and shirt.
It’s this constant fight
To keep my fingers to myself
And your lazy smile
Leaves the fastest beat,
Squeezing the air from my lungs
With a suppressed gasp. A stutter.
I’m drowning and hoping.
Murder…..was it really murder. What were the chances of that. Everybody loved her. But all is fair in love and war I suppose. Murder…..is done. Over. It’s over with thats all she wrote.
It was murder they say, murder that took my childhood away, murder that killed my innocence, taken by the numb society, by the boys who took what they what they wanted, they got their jollies, but were disgusted with the leftovers. It was murder.
There is murder in these streets. Watch, as the crimson betrayal drips down our brick walls. The white-hot flash of weaponry steels out a rhythm, being dragged against the flagstones, slowly approaching the doorstop. Watch, as murder echoes, a bell in the ears of the not-so-innocent.
murder is viscous and bad. it can be done in many ways. it is scary and nasty. one shouldn’t murder. ever. ever. but some people still do. these people need help. they are bad. there is always another option.
we used to play a game called killer.
we would give each other clues and only the killer knew who he or she was.
it was. Popular game in our set but then we just stopped playing.
the thought has crossed his mind many times, it was solely the fear of getting caught that stopped him. He wouldn’t be burdened by his conscience, after all, she deserved to die.
the thought has crossed his mind many times.. the only problem is the fear of getting caught. He didn’t think his conscience would be a burden afterwards, after all she deserved to die.
death. destruction. taking lives. jail and imprisonment. vengence. aggression. injustice/justice. envy. money. dexter.
I saw it happen on Brooke Street. I wasn’t really paying attention, Mrs Potts had knocked over some potatoes and I bent down to help her. As I stood up and brushed myself down, I noticed a figure about two yards away. His face was covered by a dark mask, but I knew his identity.
The case was closed, but there was sill something missin gin the case. I just didnt understand how Eliie couldve gotten off the train so fast. Nobody realized how she couldve. But she did. She admitted. Unless….she was lying, to cover up someone. I pondered the thought for a moment, then quickly discareded it. The case was closed, but I couldnt help but think, if she was innocent, we still have a mad man running around on a killing spree.
There’s a light at the end of the hall way, show casing the scene. The scene of fabulous OCD techniques. Red colored and splashes, here and there. Act one is murder.
murder is a crime. movie name. sequels
That’s the color she wore on her nails—a blue so deep that it became the static black of ceilings on sleepless nights. She kept them precise and unchipped.
Every night a new victim. Anyone from a stranger who smelled too sharply of liquor, to an acquaintance with an eerie habit of staring a beat too long, to past lovers she had outgrown for some reason or another.
Always only after midnight. She’d write their deaths, how she imagined each one would die—exquisitely without her.
she slits throats like a crayon drawing
and stabs bellies like a sewing machine
she knows all poisons in the world by name
i think i love with her more and more each day
Murder is what murder is thought to be. Anarchy. With murder comes great resentment, and resentment brings choice. You can go forward as someone the public will vilify, or you can atone for what you did by showing your remorse. Your choice.
its not good itts ba and illegal and i dont know why i happened to get this wrd it seems a bit morbid and i believe its stupid to murder people. and my murer i am including execution i think although i havent mae up my mind n that ocmpletely yet do that is all i ha
Murder is crazy. People killing each other, and the point of taking another human beings life, is an interesting concept because it tears at the fabrics of what were actually about as humans. Freedom, intrigue, and cooperation. While freedom is what defines a human’s ego, murder wipes that slate clean.
Murder is a very very bad thing. It is usually caused by deep emotional unstability. Usually results in death.
another life was stolen
in the night
the vile creature
tore it away
then it was overcome
by the light
A murder of crows caw in the tree outside my window. It seems they’ve just arrived. Nevertheless their presence does nothing to fill your absence; it is an irony in this world of constant comings and goings. I would not have traded you for the world.
Everyone has had some kind of murder in their life, everyone has heard of it, talked of it. But not everyone has thought about it. Sat down and not thought about a certain person, but just the act of murder. How to do it, how to keep from being caught, how it would feel and sound and taste. Regardless of if it was being done to another person or to them self. Not everyone thinks like that.
you didn’t just break my heart
you murdered my soul
and i was too sad to
pick
up
the
p i
ec
e s
murder
a murder of crows
murder your cousin
a murder
is it a mob, a crime, a vacant thought
depends
on how you view
mur der….
You’re a murderer, you’ve killed all thoughts of hope and happiness. You stopped the joy I had, you’ve turned this wonderful situation into a chaotic mess. I dread to see all those faces that used to make me smile. This murder is unforgettable and impossible to reconcile.
There are lots of songs about murder. And TV shows. Why are we as a society so obsessed with stories about murder? Does it feel some sort of ancestorial need?
I’m looking at the word and I cannot make myself imagine it. The act of taking life, the act of ending something that was in your way. Not in a peace loving way, but in the way of experience that waits to be lived, but you don’t want it to be.
There is a murder of crows outside of my apartment and they are hovering in a way that makes me think the garbage man will be here soon. He is in his scruffy 20s and has a cartoonish tattoo of something and I’m not sure why I’m still home right now when I could be going to the store already. I wonder if he has a wife while I sip the drink in my hands.
She didn’t think of it as murder. It was protection. She was insuring the wellbeing of her children. That wasn’t murder, was it? It couldn’t be. It’s instinct to protect ones offspring.
She fell elegantly into the code/space, a single key tap signifying her landing. Algorithms reacted to alter the surroundings in accord to her DNA, digital lifeforms murdered and their substance rearranged into more relevant formats, rouletting through isotopes of fauna till a soft neon moss carpeted the tiles. She fell back and the ground rose to meet her, an ecology of her comfort fluctuating along her circadian specification.
Why is a group of crows called a murder? It makes me think that they are constantly associated with crimes, death, blood and bad luck. It’s sad.
Murder was a sin most coveted when all there was but frustration. The scene was an everyday routine: serve, an envious imagination, grovel, porcelain smile, purposeful bow or shake or nod. Though culture and religion outlawed the act and the people had to let their souls be cut down.
There’s something about the deaths she sees on television. Like, there’s something more out there. Something more that could be done. And it’s not just the fact that, for some reason, there are a lot more murders this month than the last. It’s the fact that somehow, something seems amiss…
He murdered her with pride. She didn’t even saw it coming. Love and blood altogether rushed out of her veins, draining her body dry. He smiled yet tears run down his face like there’s no tomorrow. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror; she’s free.
with one fell swoop, one fell, drooped
over the shoulder of an opposing soldier