From a bush in a place where it doesn't belong

hides the bearer of rationalized violence,

poison darts his weapon of choice

viscious tips dipped purposefully

in jagged jabs and jibberish

stolen from a real artist and

turned into trash, slung onto walls

like mad men fling their dung,

only to roll in it like a dog,

shake it onto their own yard,

and sniff out the dead things

and gorge.

Fool!  All know you catch more flies

with honey than with vinegar, unless,

of course - you're a corpse.

Foolishly self-proclaimed genius,

king of nothing but his own defeat,

for in his unsolicited attacks on his neighbors,

he has isolated himself in a spotlight of shame

and bought a one way ticket to

a self-created hell,

for hell is isolation.

Empty is the man whose pleasure depends

on the degredation and unprovoked

violation of another.

ASSassin, indeed.