(Dark Thoughts Series, Book 1)
by Innocent Mwatsikesimbe
A Criminal Is Born
Copyright © Innocent Mwatsikesimbe, 2016
Image Credits: Knife image sourced from Wikimedia (uploaded by ProjectManhattan)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The crimes in this book are meant to entertain, and are not encouraged or endorsed in any way.
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and it may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a collection of 10 poems that tell the story of how a doctor loses touch with the real world and normalcy. He transitions to being a criminal and assumes a new role in life.
A Criminal Is Born was inspired by curiosity for the most part, and so was the Dark Thoughts Series as a whole. I was curious to see if I could mix poetry and crime fiction together in a way that gives a unique reading experience. If you like reading poetry and crime fiction then you’ll enjoy this book.
I titled this book “A Criminal Is Born” because it expresses the origins of this particular criminal; how he chose to be the way he is. When designing the cover, I wanted simplicity as well as a gripping and memorable first impression.
The most challenging part about writing this book was to put myself in the mind of the criminal, and say and do things in line with his deviated character. Writing this book also taught me the extents to which our minds can be distorted, in terms of thinking and doing evil.
I am venturing in uncharted waters with this book. I’ve written crime fiction and poetry separately before, but mixing the two genres is a first for me. I must say that I am enjoying it and I am excited about the follow-up books in the series. I hope you enjoy reading this book.
Even doctors need doctors
“Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten… Now you’re in a deep sleep.”
I breathe in and out, calmly.
“So tell me, what do you see?”
I see a bed
And a young lady is on it.
She’s tied to the bed frame.
A face in pain.
Getting louder with each stab.
He snaps his fingers,
And snaps me out of it.
I can see it in his eyes:
He’s shocked, terrified even,
Of the evil I think of.
Downright rattled and concerned
About the fallout I’m on the brink of.
Dark thoughts creep
Into my mind.
The devil’s venom seeps
Into my veins.
And into my brain.
Of a warped mind.
Of crying, and bleeding,
Of dying and
Is it because I’m a doctor
And I see death and blood so often?
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it’s not proper.
Maybe I should go out and have fun more often.
Why do I like it when my injections hurt?
Why does a patient’s suffering make me hesitate treatment?
Why do I dream of sinking boats
And people leaving bodies behind?
Why do I enjoy their helplessness and despair?
Is my mind broken, in places you can’t repair?
I find my life’s purpose
Shrink says I should come back,
But I doubt if that’ll change anything.
You can’t change nature.
A sheep is a sheep
And a lion is a lion.
We can’t all be meek.
Some hide while some seek.
That’s how the game goes.
It’s survival of the fittest.
The hunted run,
The weak prays, but
The hunter preys.
I mean, where’s the fun
In living together in peace, as the preacher says?
I eat meat,
And my meat eats grass,
And the grass eats of the earth,
Which will eat me when my time is up.
That’s the cycle of life.
I’m tired of pretending to like grass.
Tired of fighting the urge to bite some bloody meat.
I can no longer smile and hide my teeth,
And bate the desire to bite the hand that feeds me.
I roar, deep and
Birds fly away.
I feel the vibrations throughout my body, and
I feel alive.
The hunter is unleashed.
It feels like coming back to work after a long vacation
The weekend is over
And it’s back to work.
Old job, but new job description.
I creep up to the door,
And peep inside.
He’s in there, all alone,
A Bible by the bedside.
I go in, and
Close the door behind me.
The room is quiet,
And his breathing loud,
I pick the Bible up.
“So which verse should I look up, sir? Any last words?”
I flip pages,
And shut it.
The God of all ages
Put you here for a reason.
Some take a bow,
And some get booed of stages.
You’ve now come to the end of your act;
The end of your season.
I extend my hand
And flip the switch,
And close the curtains
On the son of a bitch.
The room is now silent.
No longer on life support,
His body dies like his mind has.
I marvel at the genius debut that this mind has
Concocted, and switch the machine back on after a long while,
And then creep out of the room like nothing happened.
I feel good, not bad.
No remorse, and no guilt,
Yet I’ve just killed.
His death is my birth.
The beginning of my new life.
We hear it everyday, all the time, yet most don’t get it
Saving lives felt okay,
But taking a life is an addictive high.
I used to work all day
Doing all I could to delay
Helping people to avoid saying goodbye.
I don’t know why
People wish to stay.
It’s a messed up world, beneath the sky.
There’s always a price to pay,
To live some more today
And pretend you’ll never see the day you die.
The fuel tank has a hole
And we fill up the gas at every stop,
On a journey to nowhere.
Like rats on a wheel,
We run and run.
Running to the end, and
Running from the truth.
Life is a joke
And I seem to be the only one with a sense of humor.
I sent someone to his grave today.
He probably gets the joke by now.
Watch the crowd pave the way:
Hoping they get it somehow,
I am the comedian, sharing my humor
With unfortunate souls.
Taking it to the next level
It’s time to recap.
There’s the man on life support,
The operation that “failed” to fix a heart,
The kidney that “wasn’t” compatible,
The inexplicable death after “successful” treatment.
I’m getting tired of these safe murders.
These legal kills.
I want something that gets my blood pumping;
Something that thrills.
Just like a child done with learning how to ride a bike,
It’s time to take off the safety wheels.
I should stop preying on the helpless
And go for something that puts up a fight.
I should take whatever little hope is left in the hopeless,
And take a whole lot more from those who think they’ve got it right.
It’s time to go for the real hunt.
It’s time to go for the real deal.
It’s time to go
For the real kill.
The six year old kid abducted from the park
“Please help me find my son!”
Arrgh, it makes me sick.
Nothing is ever ours, dear.
Nothing but death and fear.
These are things no one can take from you.
That no one can save you from.
I go down to the basement.
He’s still hogtied.
He looks weak and pale,
He’s very tired.
I force him to sit on a chair,
While whistling a tune, without a care.
His face toward the camera,
He sits and stares.
At my hands.
It’s early morning.
I beat the sun to get up.
Mrs. Smith and her worried face haunted me all night.
Baseball bat in hand,
I beat her son up
Just to hear him cry.
Just a little cheering up
Before I let him die.
I give a smile to the camera
My mouth showing out a mask,
And I give it all I’ve got:
One blow to the temple.
His skull fractures with a loud crack
His blood splatters all over my back,
As the swing’s power had me facing the other way.
I stop the recording, clean up and send the video his mother’s way.
Who knew that sound can bring so much pain
My latest victim is a teacher.
For one who teaches other people to be smart
You sure are dumb.
I bought one drink for the teacher,
Told her she looked good and sounded smart
All her senses went numb.
Literally and figuratively.
Now she’s waking up to my voice.
She keeps hearing it,
She has no choice.
Playing at near maximum volume,
Is a minute long description
Of how I’m going to kill her,
And it’s on repeat.
Her eyes are blindfolded
And her hands are tied to her feet.
Used it for music practice,
So the room is soundproof.
Yell and scream all you want,
But no one is going to hear you.
No one except me of course,
I love the pain in your voice.
It’s day two of the torture
And she knows the recording by heart now.
Every word and every nuance in tone.
I take a knife and wave it near her,
The look on her face says she knows what’s coming.
I turn the volume up, so I don’t hear her,
And do as I said I would, thousands of times already.
When prey fights back
The teacher is finally dead.
I put the knife under the tap
And the sink fills with red.
My heart fills with joy
As if I’ve done a charitable deed.
I feel my lust sink.
It had been a while
Since my last fix.
Cops had been too expectant,
Ever since the mysterious disappearance
Of Mrs. Smith’s kid.
So I had to lay low.
The teacher taught me something:
The hunted isn’t always meek.
She put up quite a fight,
Even though the stabs had sealed her fate.
Fifteen to her upper body and
About the same to her lower body.
I’d removed the hogties,
And the blindfold.
To see her squirm.
To see her eyes
When she realized
That her life was slipping away.
Like the eyes of
A person falling twenty stories to her death, or
A person tied to the tracks, watching the train coming.
The fear of death.
The bitch scratched my arms,
And peeled my skin off.
I put the wounds to my mouth:
The lion licks his wounds.
I put her wounds to my mouth
And lick some blood off.
Taking care of unfinished business
I study his routine.
He goes home to his wife, everyday after work,
He calls booty in,
Sits on his patient’s couch, and watches her twerk.
That’s his Friday.
And my day.
What better chance than this?
When no one knows his whereabouts for sure.
So I intercept, one Friday night.
Just as he arrives,
Before his call girl arrives.
I knock and tell him it’s me.
He opens the door and lets me in.
For a shrink, he sure can’t read minds well.
I stab him in the heart, twice, and well;
Let’s just say his DNA will be found on every item in his office,
Even the ceiling fan and the bottom of his small fridge.
I left a simple hide and seek game for the police.
I want no loose ends,
For police to pull at,
So I steal my files:
For they expose my “loose screws.”
And I destroy all the others,
To make the crime’s motive less obvious.
And leave it to the girl to notice
What’s left of his body, and call the police.
Just the mention of my name should bring fear
If there is a creator,
There must be a destroyer.
Black accompanies white,
Hate coexists with love,
Pain contrasts with pleasure.
I am in the shadows
Of graveyards and mortuaries.
I’m the quickest ride to
The end of the road.
The shortest breath to
The final breath.
I am the darkest of all dark hours.
Hearts stop and eyes close when I flex my powers.
They buy coffins and shop for flowers,
When I strike.
I am like…
What am I like?
Every villain needs a name
And my name is…
That’s a keeper!
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