To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim

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To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim


  To Whom It May Concern – Letter to a Victim

 

To whom it may concern, I plan on making you mine,

you will have no choice, you’re so beautiful in the sunshine.

I will watch you as you play,

wait for the right moment, then take you away.

You will kick and scream, but that will do you no good,

I will rip you from your roots.

Little one, I will own you,

you can bet that’s true.

Mommy and Daddy will be very upset and anguished,

as I help in the search for you, while the mystery of your fate left to languish.

We will do things that you won’t like, so take me by the hand,

as long as you remain quiet, I wont hurt you, understand?

To whom it may concern,

my lust for your charms flashes and burns.

I will take everything you could possibly own,

your spirit, your trust, your fearlessness, at six years old.

You will live years in the moments you spend with me; you are my slave,

but I can’t let you go, I must carve your headstone and grave.

The only witnesses will be the stars in the night sky; your screams will not be heard,

I wont give you that chance as I tighten the rope around your neck; your new resting place

a shallow grave in the earth.

To whom it may concern, listen carefully, because this will not be repeated,

you will be taken, tortured and killed, defeated.

So, precious one, you will succumb to my desires and we will engage in the dance,

a dance that will frighten you, make you cry and finally put you in a lethal trance.

Your parents always told you to watch out for strangers,

the lost kitties, the money and, candy promise dangers.

And you were out walking alone, no wonder I found you,

I will teach you a lesson that will astound you.

To Whom it may concern, little one, why do you torture me so?

Pure sexual desire for you runs from my head to my toes.

Little one, you will teach me lessons too, like if I don’t kill you, you would be able

to talk about this,

I can’t allow that to happen, I must play God, without mercy, I must end your childhood bliss.

To whom it may concern, this is your grim reaper speaking,

only I will reap the rewards from the seeds I’ve sown.

Missing posters will be distributed, but it will be too late,

you will have already met your deadly fate.

Precious one, your casket is all picked out, just your size,

I dug it deep, to avoid the insects and blowflies.

Little victim of mine, I love you so, believe me,

the pain won’t last long, I promise, if you bravely receive me.

To whom it may concern,

your ashes in a beautiful urn.

Just let it come naturally, sweet one, your death is my dance of desire,

you walked out by yourself; that’s why you’re the gun for hire.

I hope you told your family that you love them,

because they will never see you alive again, after all my mayhem.

With all the undying love, desire, depravity, and deviance, I impose,

hundred’s attend a funeral for a little one they didn’t know…..

casket closed.

©2006 Karen M.Seith

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Will28 commented on To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim

06-16-2009

holy crap! awesome poem... I can't even think like that in order to write somthing similar. You have unique perspective in all your writtings I don't have time to read them all right now but i will later for sure.

4everboom commented on To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim

05-22-2009

Damn girl, that was riveting I feel for the young girl more so now because I have two young girls. this was a great poem disturbing but great.

Panaramicpoet commented on To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim

05-22-2009

WOW .. .intense . . . its scarry . . . I hope this didnt happen to you. thats a hard subject . .just be yourself always

TamiG76 commented on To Whom It May Concern - Letter to a Victim

05-22-2009

I can't speak. I literally cannot speak. my chest is tight and I have both goosebumps and chills and there are tears streaming down my face. How you wrote this and got through it without breaking down astounds me. You are so much stronger than I am.

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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