Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Emma Cheung Nov 2017
Ten times nightly it crawls beneath,
Five times sprightly it ruptures my peace.
Pale is its breath
When I open my legs
Waiting for it to go back inside.
Sometimes, when it sleeps, I begin to feel
Something close to love.
And slowly it moves, its endless wrath,
Extinguishing all warmth,
Coming back to its fat prey.

It opens its gall black shining eyes.

How dreadful,
The cold silence of waiting
For uncondensed hatred.
Corey Parsons Oct 2017
On Sundays the creatures
Ooze from their awkward dwellings,
Like fat worms after a downpour,
And rush the City.

They infect silently with their sick eyes,
They brush along your shoulder in passing,
They exchange ***** money,
They cause accidents.

They stare at you from across
Your favorite diners
With black coffee depression
And mutter underneath their breaths:
"This isn't real."
By Corey Parsons
To this day
I cannot conceive
How such a pure and beautiful soul
Would ever love a monstrous and grotesque thing as me
C Cavierre Apr 2016
Illogical, crystal clear--
this contradictory of fear--
I am caught for one precious moment by
the horrible visionary
of my grotesque fate
as promised, the continuation of Fear
Nora Feb 2016
How distasteful you are,
With your sundry splotches
and jarring imperfections.
Oh, you taunt me so!
Whether your anathemas
are reflected through the mirror or my own eyes.
Oh horrible, hateful, heinous thing!
I cannot bear to stare any longer.
How sickly your color is--
A pallid yellow, like one giant bruise
That has budded and blossomed
In some unnaturally grotesque fashion.
My blood boils, my pulse races
And I raise my weapons to fight--
Two talons--claws honed to perfection.
Be gone, you wretched scab!
And so I tear, scratching furiously,
Until no more of you is left.
The blood is stuck beneath my fingertips,
Or what is left of them.
My sinews tremble, ****** and bare,
As the last of my wallpaper
Is ripped from my bones.
A small tribute to Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Concept is mine, story and inspiration are not.
Baylee Sep 2015
The fingernail moon
Shinning through
my window
At night,
Brings light to my
dark and grotesque
As I lay awake thinking.

The junk I've collected
Makes great shaddows
on the walls
Of my room,
And the silhouettes
Of junk
Look like people arguing,
To me.
Äŧül Aug 2015
The VIP culture is the grotesque manifestation eating up the democracy inch by inch.

They are elected by us from among us and then they want to be treated really special,
They want to be treated as someone royal by everyone,
Do you get the joke?

It still remains a democracy!
My HP Poem #896
©Atul Kaushal
~                                              Preaching hate
        The audacity
                                   To say
                              in gods name
                                                          T­hat yours
    is the only truth
                                That way
                             *Lies madness
Sean Harbor May 2015
When you fell in love,
You realized how grotesque it is.
When tragedy struck,
You realized how gorgeous she is.
Next page