13 Poem by Ocean Myranda

Friday the 13th,
So much superstition,
It's just bad luck.

I'd watch who you're with,
He's always watching,
Awaiting his 13th victim.

Reporters talking about him,
He gloats in his evil fame,
Knowing they won't find him.

He stalks, like a black cat,
He is hidden in the shadows,
Stalking his victim.

Knife in hand, rope slung over,
What better way, than torture?
Laughing to himself.

No clues left behind,
He takes pride in his work,
To him, it's an art, to us, it's horrible.

Each cut, stab, and slice,
Knowing where and so pricise,
Watching the fear in their eyes.

Such terror, makes him crave more,
Screaming, crying, and then silence,
He can already hear it.

He grins his wicked grin,
A black cat crosses a lady's path,
Watching her reaction, he chooses his victim.

Awaiting the darkness of night,
Where the full moon is the only light,
He quietly stalks his prey.

She walks by an alley,
Another black cat passes her,
She freezes, he takes his chance.

Coming up behind her,
Covering her mouth with his hand,
Dragging her to his car, his 13th victim.

Gagging and bounding her,
He laughs at her fear,
Planning her death in his head.

He takes her home,
Ties her to his bed,
Leaves her there, waiting in fear.

An hour later, he comes back,
With a knife, sharp to the point,
She squirms and screams.

Laughing with pure enjoyment,
Stabs her 13 times,
Blood stains his bed.

Wrapping her up, careful to hide himself,
Throws her in the trunk,
Takes her to the dump site.

Friday the 13th,
At 11: 59: 59pm,
His 13th victim dead,
His laughter haunts the people.