Hemel Hempstead    1969 -   
Poet and short story writer. My short stories are mainly horror.
I was attacked in 1997 and my left leg badly burnt which led me to begin writing poetry as a means of theraputic healing.
I am the last person who admits if I am any good, I just write and to me it is the readers who enjoy what I do that make it worth while.
Thank you for all those who come to read my efforts and with so many excellent poets here it makes it all worth while.

Chris

www.facebook.com/welshpoetcs2.

I am also on Twitter as welshpoetcs and on Tumblr as Darkpoetsoul.

I have been using Hello Poetry since 2009.
I also use www.apolloblessed.ning.com.
Poet and short story writer. My short stories are mainly horror.
I was attacked in 1997 and my left leg badly burnt which led me to begin writing poetry as a means of theraputic healing.
I am the last person who admits if I am any good, I just write and to me it is the readers who enjoy what I do that make it worth while.
Thank you for all those who come to read my efforts and with so many excellent poets here it makes it all worth while.

Chris

www.facebook.com/welshpoetcs2.

I am also on Twitter as welshpoetcs and on Tumblr as Darkpoetsoul.

I have been using Hello Poetry since 2009.
I also use www.apolloblessed.ning.com.
  Reposted by Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul  ·  3 days ago
Joe Cole
Joe Cole
3 days ago      1 day ago

What madness is taking over this world?
Why the mothers, why the children?
When I was a soldier I made a choice
I knew the risks.
I blame them all.
Taliban, Israelies, Americans even my own countrymen
Yes, all the warmongers who make money from the sale of arms
All the radicals who don't believe in democracy
All those who steal the lands and destroy the homes
of those less educated or less wealthy
I hope those responsible can sleep soundly at night
Those who fird the randomly aimec rocket and shell
can wash the blood stains from their hands.
They don't have to listen to the weeping mothers
They can close theirs eyes and ears to the anguish
of families ripped apart
They are never close enougn to smell the cloying stench
of drying blood and rotting bodies

Were it in my power to do so I would take them there
,

Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
Jul 16      Jul 16

Naked minds clash together
Onwards and then forever
Bold poets with words to tell
Only rising high and then fell
Drawn faces with obsession
Yet they hide deep depression

So fighting to be understood
Pouring emotions as they should
Everyone with metaphors of pain
Crafting in tears of pouring rain
Inwards seeking out special meaning
As somewhere lost hope is gleaming
Let me tell you, you're special to me

Copyright Chris Smith 2014
  Reposted by Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul  ·  Jul 12
Joe Adomavicia
Joe Adomavicia
Jul 12      July 14, 2014

Write on,
Fellow scribe,
Write on.
We are one,
You and I,
For, I too,
Have written darkly.

Inscribing feelings
Blood soaked,
Onto paper,
Saturated with emotion.
Each word,
Each line,
Stories told of a time,
Of  two hearts
Once intertwined.

Write on,
Fellow scribe,
Write on.
We are one,
You and I,
For, I too,
Have felt darkly.

If the road walked
Reveals trials unmatched,
Stand your ground,
And, may my words be
The reason you turn back,

For, I too,
Have felt alone.

Reacquire  purpose,
Sustain life,
Shake the shackles
Of despondent depression  
That left you withered, battered  
And broken down.  

Write on,
Fellow scribe,
Write on.
We are one,
You and I,
For, I too,
Have risen from
The depths of darkness.

Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
Jul 12      Jul 12

As night silently creeps
For the world still sleeps
Relaxing for some other day
And nightmare comes this way
Installing fear within the mind
Dread is a rope used to bind

Only darkness makes it call
Fixing terror for one and all

Distilling horrors yet to unfold
A cold sweat will now take hold
Ready to open up the gates of Hell
Kindred demons released by a spell
Now cast by unearthly creatures
Every one with ghastly features
So dream on and you will never see
Strange beasts that are not meant to be

Copyright Chris Smith 2014

In these darkened rooms, where I spend
oppresive days, I pace to and fro
to find the windows. -- When a window
opens, it will be a consolation. --
But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot
find them. And maybe it is best that I do not find them.
Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will reveal.

  Reposted by Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul  ·  Jul 6
POETIC T

Art
From mind
To finger, from
Soul to thought, Pain
And happiness is our art,
Be it words or strokes of a brush it comes from the heart..

  Reposted by Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul  ·  Jul 6

You stepped
Deep into
  The waters
   Of my soul

Patiently you searched
For the precious
     Stone

You found it
Warmed it
  Caressed it
And gave it
  To me
Unselfishly
  As a gift

And now
  It is ours
    And we call it
        Love

 
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