Bad Poetry

I don't consider myself much of a poet, but yesterday afternoon, I got a very disturbing image in my mind as I was thinking of ideas for a story I've been working on. It had no place in my story, but somehow my imagination kept fleshing it out until it was all I could see last night as I tried to go to sleep. So I got a pen and wrote the images down. If that's a poem, whatever.

Reflections on Watching an Eight-Year-Old Boy Kill a Crow With a Baseball

Crimson splattered
Little toy
Twisting in his eager hand

Broken wing
Snapping beak
Fearful eyes and hissing squawks

Feathers stained
Struggling legs
Useless claws and frantic jerks

Crunching skull
Bleeding head
One for sorrow, now it's dead.