I once was kidnapped by Dracula,
He took me to his castle in Transylvania,
Which, by the way, is in Romania,
In case you didn’t know.
He chained me to the wall,
Slapped me, cutting me with his claws,
Before he decided to withdraw,
And sit on his throne.
I said,
“I think there’s a misunderstanding between us.
This bad blood isn’t anything serious,
Sure, I was wrong for being too envious,
But, please, don’t do anything heinous.
I’ll apologize,
Just spare my life,
Is this quarrel worth a fight?
Let’s rationalize instead.”
Dracula laughed,
Lightning cracked,
Followed by a thunderclap,
As if the world were terrified.
He walked over and held my face,
Squeezing it tightly, causing me pain,
He smiled, showing off his bloodied fangs.
I started to cry.
He said,
“You think this is just bad blood,
Like when a loving couple breaks up?
You’re tempting me with that smell of strawberry,
And I’m fighting the urge to feed on your blood.
This isn’t some game you play,
You said some awful things,
But when I bite back, you claim an attack,
And suddenly I’m the one who’s deranged?”
He laughed,
I didn’t talk back.
He was right, I was wrong,
I had been all along.
And now I was face to face,
With the monster I created, due to my mistakes.

i knock on the door
my knuckles raw and bleeding
only to find
i did not survive the weeding

the blood drips from my fingers
meets the blood on his palm
i hear the voice that whispers
behold- here i am

You staggered through the double doors,
a trail of red on bleached-out floors.
The night was humming, wet and mean,
your busted life in Trauma Green.

I clamped your vein, soft as thread,
and dared the gods to count their dead.
You lay there broken, no ID,
just blood and ache and urgency.

Your heart fell quiet
inside my hand,
as if it paused to understand.
Then breath returned in stuttered moans.
your chest arched up to meet my own.

The wound was sealed.
Your sigh came slow.
You could have left.
You didn’t, though.
The sweat still clung.
Your gaze went slack.
You pulled the gown and turned your back.

I saw you later, checkout nine:
frozen dinners, boxed red wine.
You seemed like someone death forgot,
barely awake, missing the plot.

You looked right through. You didn’t know
the hands that pulled you from below.
You don’t remember. I can’t forget
how thin the stitch, how deep the debt.

My blood is rebel red,
So if I bleed,
They can't keep me down.

I stay strong,
Running till I see the sun.
Back against a cliff,

This isn't the time to slip.

When the Red Death held sway over us all
There is no pain
There is no remorse for life
Only blood flowing down lucidly
And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

When he jumps off the 13th floor
Does he feel the wind
Freeing him
Or does he see blood oozing out
As his flesh slumps in it
Like a sleeping infant?
And he seeks refuge in it
Every time

When he cut his ear
Did the blood rush to his head
Or hands first?
Did he pour it into a cup
Or let it speak lazily?

Do you bathe in the very blood
That forms you
Or eat yellow paint instead,
Van Gogh style?
Do you let the waves brush you
Or build another door
That doesn’t tower over you?
Do you let the shadows watch you
Or do you sip your drink
And wait for all your hallucinations
To come alive?

And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
A crown of blood, of love, of frown.
He fights the demons, in and out—
Such is the man who soars with doubt.

Provider, Protector, Pontiff, King—
Each role a weight, a stinging sting.
The price is steep, the path is grim,
It strips the soul and hardens him.

Parallel lives now blur the norm,
Behind calm eyes, a quiet storm.
Smiles conceal the tears they hide —
Each man must pay, with self and pride.

"Be bold," they say. "Be strong. Be brave."
Yet none can see the toll it gave.
The pain, the shame, the silent cries—
That is all that is left when honor lies.

In mirrors cracked by time and years
He sees a face he can not revere.
A man of strength, yet worn and torn,
By battles fought since he was born.

And still he walks, though limbs may shake,
For others’ peace, his own he will break.
A living myth, a silent vow —
But who will crown the weary now?
~Kngblaq