I got revenge but it was a hollow victory.
Instead of getting pleasure, it horrified me.
Last year, a man raped and murdered my little sister.
The pain is unbearable and I sure have missed her.
That punk got off because he's related to the Kennedys.
His underhanded lawyer convinced a jury to set him free.
When he came home last week, I used a knife to disembowel him.
I leapt out from behind some bushes and his death was grim.
I thought his death would make me feel really good.
But killing him didn't please me like I thought it would.
It shocked and horrified me, I feel even worse than I did before.
What I'm feeling on the inside is just too much for me to ignore.
I'm going to turn myself in no matter what punishment it brings.
I've learned the hard way that revenge isn't a good thing.
(This is a fictional poem.)