The Rats
The rats, oh the rats, are crawling on the floor, scratching, biting, bleeding,
They scurry and run, and they run, and they run
They bite and then bleed and then die and then fester
The stench of the rats sickens, the sweet scent of decay and rot stalks around them as cats do
They screech as they crunch under my boots as I walk to the door to exit my shed
And the rats, oh the rats, they stare into my soul
They stare into my black, twisted, withered soul
I scream in rage as I crunch on their bodies, leaving only mangled corpses to be seen
The rats, oh the rats, they know of my secrets, they know of my horrors, and lies and they know of my sins
They know of my many sins
The rats know what I have done
I hate them
Lately I've been noticing how dark my poems are and were. I've been copying and pasting them from my drive, where I hadn't re-read them in a while. This poem is heavily inspired by The Tell-Tale heart by Edgar Allan Poe. I hope you enjoy!
