The Making Of A Psychotic Sexual Killer Poem by James McLain

I grew up in North East, Southern Florida.
Even as the child were we?

We started wildly out, the other's coming in.
Peeking through the windows, holding hands.
Finding each one by the scent they left behind.
And yes we peeked inside.

She likes those yellow milk stained panties.
I smell the tinkle musky from their worn out panties.
What she does with other bodies no one knows.
I keep certain hidden parts beneath my pillow.

I am still a human being.
There mostly little sleeping ones that make no noise at all.

But as it was, was it as but?
The secret of the spoken word is simply as
one speaks it.