In “Murder He Wrote,” I’m not talking about harming anybody—this is a spoken word confession about the death of me. I’m tired of me… tired of not walking in my Christlike identity, tired of wrestling with this old rugged flesh. So I use extreme, graphic imagery on purpose—chains, graves, cases, “homicide”—to show how serious this internal war really is. It’s I versus me, and I’m done making peace with the version of me that keeps running back to pride, lust, envy, greed, and the enemy. The turning point is this: the “me” that has to die is the me “born into sin and shaped in iniquity.” I can’t rehabilitate that man with willpower. The only way I put “me” to death is to crucify me with the One who was crucified for me at Calvary—Jesus—who shed His blood for me. This poem is my reminder that freedom isn’t me becoming stronger; it’s me yielding to Holy Spirit daily so I can finally be the man of God He called me to be.