Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kenneth Gray Nov 2020
The evil in my mind, ya see
Eviscerates the light in me
It clashes with the fight in me
I'm trying to break free

The evil in my soul, ya see
Devours all the life in me
It harbors all the strife in me
It must be a disease

The evil in my heart, ya see
Inhabits every thought in me
It loves what it has wrought in me
And now its filled with glee

The evil I will purge, ya see
discovering the might in me
Dispelling all the blight in me
For this I have the key
Just gotta deal with it I guess.
annh Nov 2020

”Stood I where you, now starry and new,
Brylcreemed and cherished, view those who have perished;

The collegiate adorned, on Founder’s Day mourned,
Old souls with young dreams, bright plans and mad schemes;

Three from the left, that’s me with the clef,
A musician’s award, bestowed by the Board;

Prized above all, before the Great War,
Took hearing and sight, an aesthete’s blight;

For a whisper apart, is the end from the start,
What remains of the day, nowt but shadows that play;

On this side of the glass, through which you will pass,
At the lone piper’s call, when dusk it doth fall.”

“A cabinet of clowns dressed up in their gowns.”
Inspired by the gallery scene from Dead Poets Society -

‘O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.’
- Walt Whitman
the walk through the dark forest,
with these trembling legs full of fear.
the fear of hissing coming from a height,
And the rumors of a living giant bear.
the crying trees suffering from blight.
hands start shaking, whenever I try to write.
the experience was honest and real,
that roar if lion I still can hear.
Again we had a fight
In his view like always,
he was right.
But what does actually matters,
to be right or to feel right?
With all this dilemma in my mind
I uttered...
No, I don't wanna be one with blight
Now this is the height
with these last words, I left that place
In search of a new light to be more bright.
when one person takes others for granted this is how things turn out to be at the end.
Eloisa May 2020
My ink rarely rhymes.  
And I write words
even myself
can’t understand.
Daily ink spills
and splatters
on my tangled sheets,
sometimes I’m ashamed of.
The empty, naked
mosaic of love letters,
you thought.
My canvas of colorful illusion,
dim and chaotic,
you said.
The words I write to you,
for you.
Words that always land
on your silent, unappreciative lips,
unseen by your darkly unsympathetic eyes.
A poem you wouldn’t want to read,
A poem you wouldn’t want to hear.
A garden you wouldn’t want to tend.
And now that the teardrops
have ceased,
the birds in the cages
have been freed,
the plants unwatered and flowers are left wilted,
the winds have begun to blur
the memories,
the ink has run dry,
and no more thoughts of you remain.
I have nothing more to say.
    I have nothing more to wish.
There is none to plead.
    My ink and my love for you
    have now rested in peace.
Ken Mears Nov 2019
Death rides at midnight

Filling the land with blight

He casts a frightful image

As he rides through the village

His frightful scythe gleams

Wet with the blood of unrealized dreams

The cold, hard metal

Is uncaring enough to unsettle

Beneath his dark hood

Lies nothing good

Only the husk of a man

Who signals the end of a lifespan

His skeletal horse

He rides along his dutiful course

Whinnying as he stops

To **** the farmer's crops

Solemn is his duty

To take away life's beauty

Unbearable to a living man

The underworld's ghastly helmsman

The pistol is his herald

In his black cloak appareled

Weapons of war

Bring him to the door

His job is made no easier

Nor and breezier

By mankinds love of violence

Or vile fraudulence

All the thousands of young souls

Lives lost without completing their goals

Brought to a swift end

By Death only to attend

Death rides at midnight

Filling the land with blight

He casts a frightful image

As he rides through the village

Searching for souls to pillage
Glenn Currier Apr 2019
I seem to lean
into my shadows, failures and faults.
That ***** too natural
and my downward leaning too easy.

What darkness have I learned?
What sullen seed has
merged into the deeper passages
to transform
into thorns?

Is it my repeated stumblings
or the sin of another
inflicted early
but now forgotten?
Maybe it’s so terrible
my mind has stashed it way way down
now a fungus still alive in the dark?

I feel too at home
dwelling in that cave
and I am in need,
I am sorely in need
of light,
enough lasting exposure
to **** the blight
scorch the itch
and set me leaning
into an upward pitch
to thwart the dark

Cat Mar 2019
Wars rage in my skull
I’m enraged and unfed
Constantly fleeing my debts of death and unsaid
I can’t make bets that they’re right, because they’re always right
They’re all definitely right
They’re shaken with fright
From the blight of my actions
All they ever wanted, Was to offer me gold,
Which percolated from deep within the cracks of their palms that were held wide open
They dressed in all white, while I dressed all black.
My insides are black and my eyes are magenta
You would never believe that my head has it’s own detailed corrigenda
And believe it or not, this whole time, my agenda,
Was only ever to retrieve an achievement of bliss.
pri Oct 2018
i should be listening to music,
while writing love poems.
but i’m busy,
and all i can manage is a short little note,
about something else.

my mind feels like clean paper today,
fresh and beautiful.
it’s been filled with the brightest colors
-someone telling me i’m beautiful,
someone loving my words,
someone whispering promises of heaven in a song.

it’s been filled with bright-eyed questions,
but always feeling oh so very right.
i feel oh so very right.

i ignore this small twinge in my gut,
my life is going so well,
that i do not doubt.
but i ignore that small twinge in gut,
when someone said i could be cured.

their face appears everywhere,
and their face is my mother’s inspiration.
does she think i can be cured?

i am the perfect daughter.
i study, i volunteer.
i am happy, i am kind.
i am in clubs. i am good with my friends,
reasonable and responsible.
but there’s a blight she doesn’t know -a blight that is not a disease.
but when your inspiration tells you so, would you dismiss it as an interesting view?
would you believe it if you knew my blight? or would you forget?

i, i can only describe my blight as bright.
i have been told i light, like every color in the world.
for once, i feel right.
i may not fit in, but i know the lines on which i walk.
or i know how to walk.

because you told me, to hear someone who said i was bright.
because you have always supported what i am.
Blade Maiden Oct 2018

This ripe darkness
this mourning dream
a wrenching weakness
fit for the guillotine

An arrangement made
sheer comfort prepared
the end of fate
and, oh, how I dared

This dry paper
this cold pit
an agonising vapor
that smells of blood and spit

'Tis my mind
my wicked flesh
a soul pined
peeled off and fresh

Dressed soft tongued
I raised Cain
being shunned
silenced I remain

This dawning fright
this nightly echo
here comes the blight
light, don't let go
Next page