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On these pages: a story writ.
Not lines of love, near opposite.
With wicked words, bursting seams.
and pictures ripped from horror scenes.

This transcript: tallied tragedy
seemed clear, at first, of trickery
such that I said, with full belief:

“I simply bought a book,

simply bought a simple book

bought a simple book this early morn.”

Nary a choice did I resent
more than my steps up staircase bent.

Had I known what fate was in store,
I would’ve stopped short of the door
and listened to my heart’s retort
turn my back to oaken boards;
neglect to knock, proceed no more.

Alas, the wiser choice did seem
like foreign words I could not read
a weaker foe to curiosity.
Thus on the door, my knocks numbered three.

On portal’s edge, the wait did seem
a lifetime spent, eternity.
Heard racing heart, mistakening
its pounding pulse for echoed feet.

A lock’s release, my wait was for;
an unlatched, oaken, ornate door.
As portal opened to the store,
of echoed feet, I thought  no more.  


Creaking hinges, a'rust with age
made way for shopkeep's leathered face.
His cobwebbed volumes filled the space
and gave the air a smell and taste.

My steps were slow; I didn’t know
what book, which nook, my search was for.
So I walked the aisles, for a while.

‘Till a hidden book stood out

A hidden nook stood out

A hidden book’s nook stood out.

Into that nook, up to that book
my outstretched arms raised hands that shook.

But now I see that I was blind
to evil glint in shop-keep's eye,
and how my steps had crossed the line,
but like a fool who pays no mind,
I gripped book's spine, as chill gripped mine.

Alas, Where once I felt so free
that “simple” book imprisoned me!
Looking back, it's plain to see:
Text locked the door, and tossed the keys.

On portal’s edge, I sat a spell,
For front my eyes, world turned to hell.
Clocktower bells rang out death knells,
Mixed metaphor with sulphured smells.

A lock released, an op'ning door;
Followed by sounds I can't ignore
As I walked home amid the storm,
of echoed feet, I thought once more.


What harkened there, shadowed so?
It made no noise; I didn't know.
and so my steps fell soft as snow,          
heard silence then, and nothing more.

Was it the shopkeep, hidden there?
In darkness deep, 'thought saw his glare
and so I turned, searching, scared.

Nought, I saw, in darkness there

Nought, eyes spied, no shadows spared.

Nought, my cry left my fear bared:

"I face you now, as friend or foe!
Why you hide yours, I do not know."

So still, the shadow stayed its frame..
As if it played a hidden game.
Its outline froze; it seemed so strange,
Besot', I sought the shadow’s name
but to my ears came only rain.

Alas, light passed, lit up the space
where I expected a strange face,
but to my shock, in revealed place
was only water, reflecting face

On puddle’s edge, I searched the grass,
only found water, still as glass
Just as I thought, "This fog won't pass,"
my clouded mind came clear at last.

A calming breeze cleared my mind's haze.
To self, I said, "If blindly brave...
I'll sell tomorrow to yesterday,
risk retrospect of future fate."


Thus I thought a tale would end,
The book, or life? I can't portend.
Post-curse, I'm worse for wear, my friend!
Now words alone don’t serve to mend.

I turned a page into the book,
and as before, my hands, they shook,
The leaves were blank! Was I mistook?

No words were writ, the pages, bare.

No words to read, no lines to share.

No words to see, then one appeared!

A balked belief, before my eyes
That ghost-writ word was leading lines!

and so I read,  still scanning script
'scarce skipping stanzas, none I missed.
I turned more pages, teeth a’grit...
Falt’ring, failing to feel my  fits.                                            
I couldn’t stop; cease reading it                

Alas, time passed, still keeping speed
words filled white pages, enrapt I read
How does this work? What’s it all mean?                  
Why was the cursive cursing me?

On pages’ end, the words did seem  
a lifetime writ, for all to read          
Right from the start, text taunted me    
divined a doom, a destiny

Its pox perceived, print paper flat
I begged the book to take it back    
"Who’s words were those? Who’s fate is that?
Who’s life and death, in white and black?"


Delving deeper desperately
For I felt my future had passed, you see
Living life so longingly
Fearing fated folly, unfortunately.

As I read the book, I took
My final form, ‘spite balance shook.
Lapse living lie; won’t die a crook!

I blinked, unlinked, to weaker chain

I shrinked, to think, of lesser gain

I winked, on brinks, but not insane

So now, my friend, I’ll pen some prose
Dream up new lines; make up new words

Where once I thought that what was writ’
The rise and fall, all of it
Could not be altered, not one bit.
As if in stone, the letters sit!
Lines laying law, commanding it!

But now I face what fate comes forth
Leaving letters forming words with worth
My written rhymes give gallant girth
They sing a ballad; but say one verse.

I put down past, but faced it first
In breaking down, I found what works
I fixed my fate, and shed the curse,
Better for me, but for you, much worse.

The book, this poem share a name.
I thought that fact would make it plain
These wicked words hid horrid hex
now you can’t flee, for you are next!
Inspired by "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe
Valentin Eni Nov 18
These words
should scream out loud!
They should howl in pain
and weep with tears.

These words should run,
jump,
bend in half,
spit blood,
grind their teeth
and curse!

These words would kick,
grab throats,
bite,
scratch,
pull hair,
and gouge out eyes.

These words would want to curse
and hate.
These words could die
of venom,
only to rise again
and die once more.

These words would go mad...

...if only they could spring to life!
The poem explores words' raw, unbridled potential—what they could achieve if only they had life. It conveys the speaker's frustration and yearning, who sees words as vehicles of emotion and action bound by their inanimate nature.

The theme revolves around expression, emotional intensity, and limitation, portraying words as powerful and helpless.

Each stanza escalates the emotional weight, starting with screaming and weeping, progressing to physical violence, and culminating in madness and resurrection. This crescendo mirrors the speaker’s rising desperation and frustration.

The closing line, "...if only they could spring to life!" is both a ****** and a resolution. It starkly contrasts with the vivid, animated imagery preceding it, emphasizing the static nature of words. Highlights the ultimate limitation of language: no matter how powerful or evocative, it remains inert without human action.
Lizzie Bevis Nov 15
In the mind, where memories fade,  
A once-bright mind is sadly betrayed.  
A friendly face, but whose is unclear,  
As echoes of love dissolve into fear.  

Time, a thief, with a fragile hand,  
Steals pieces of life, like grains of sand.  
Familiar paths turn into foreign trails,  
Lost in a maze where confusion prevails.  

Each brief moment, an unfamiliar song,  
Ties us to those we once held, now gone.  
Though the curse may linger, love remains,  
In the hearts of those who bear the chains.

©️Lizzie Bevis
I can imagine that quite a few of us can relate to the misery that dementia brings, watching their loved ones regress through their memories, slowly forgetting their friends and family, eventually taking away their ability to function independently.

I feel for all those that have had to go through this awful disease.
Magda Nov 11
I am my father’s daughter.
His blood flows in mine.
I feel the cursed liquid run through my body,
with every beat of my heart.

It’s like gasoline,
slowly poisoning me –
as it did to him.
My clock reminds me,
with every tick –
“Not much time left!”

There is no escape.
The enemy is inside me,
hunting me down –
just another fallen soul in his way.

I watch myself in the mirror,
my father’s face looks back at me.
I hate what I see, just as much
as I hate him.

But he was just a child once too.
Feeling the same poison run,
through his fragile body.
I pity him.
But I do not forgive.
Some feelings on generational trauma.
Kai Nov 4
I'm your loyal dog
And you're my ruling God
I find it quite odd
It sends my brain into a bog
I can't stop following your orders
YOUR ORDERS
The curse, the spell you casted onto me to obey you
I'm your only servant
The loyal servant forced to be observant
I've been praying for you
Even if you treat me like trash
Even if you're the wind and I'm the ash

After a while, you grew tired of me
You abandoned me
You threw me away
Just so that way
You released that curse you placed on me
Just to be adopted by someone else
Just to get cursed by someone else
I barely got a break from all the abuse
From all the use
Yet, they thought I was so oblivious
Just like you thought I was so oblivious
They thought I was so cute - adorable, naïve, thoughts just like you
Why does everyone act like you?
My God?
It's so odd
I feel like I'm stuck in a time loop
Stuck in all the goop

I feel like I'm just a foot rest you can use
I feel like I'm just a puppet you can use
I feel like a young slave you can use
I'm over here working my *** off
Just so you can have work off
Just so you can have a vacation
While I live in caution
Scared of everything
Every single thing
A single curse that lasts forever. It's a curse that lasts for a long time. A tiresome curse I wish to end.
Made a bruised heart wait out in the cold
Had it sag down
On your streets where there were no justice
Only merciless dogs trembling in their skin
For so violent an unbelonging
Such a vain act of expelling
Came from your seat, your house
Cold hearth
The ones you bore waiting waif
Out on your streets, in concrete embellish
the ones you could not take home
Orphaned and fooled
Ding ding ding
Hearing of the death bell ring
And honor dies bleeding
But not a love lost
Naomi Fable Dec 6
The words build up inside like a tumor,
Ignorance will make them mean—
Spare my heart / spare my lungs
The song 'What If' is on repeat.
Regrets of the past / fears of the future / anxiety of the present
A tumor never leaves—
Healing is temporary.
Coughing up blood / letters interlaced in red
It’s a disease to keep it inside,
It’s a curse to let them fly—
I must write outside of my skin.
With these cold hands I write my symphony
With yours you've made yourself an enemy
And I sat and endured humility
Took the names and the liability.

I took it upon myself to curse and heal
I sat there and built a fever dream
Your words remembrance in my soul
A little fame from you I stole.

And perhaps I wanted you to be seen
In a light that was a little too mean
And I don't blame myself for the betrayal
Because I stood there a little too loyal.

And petty laughs I know you muffle
Ignorance in full throttle
We pray to the same deities but we do it differently
Are we to blame a deity
Or the society
For an unfair calamity
Id rather pretend to be
Almighty.
Ken Pepiton Jun 29
Esoteric, Edgar Cayce, yes,

a memory, a version, no known
reason weighing needful
to be told, proven, try
umphed past
to when now
becomes original intention,

to mention the crew involved
in building the stack of words
spelling all many ancient tales attest

as real significant events, once upon
this very point, where this many angels
once danced in tunes attempting to prove

the pastlessness of certain points
in time.
In to the cave with word from beyond...
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