Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
tacet Apr 23
He says it was a beastie
Ever so big, in the woods
He says the beastie came in the dark
Came and went an’ came back
And wanted to eat him—
He was dreaming.

Beasts! Where from?
What does that mean but nightmares?
Fear can’t hurt you
Any more than a dream.
There isn’t a beast—how could there be?
You’ll be talking about ghosts and such next.
Be frightened because you’re like that,
But there is no beast in the forest.

There is no beast in the forest,
Just an ignorant, silly little boy.
A blackness within, a blackness that spread.
Pig’s head on a stick.

Fancy thinking the Beast
Was something you could ****!
Do you think you know better?
Aren’t you afraid of me?
This is ridiculous.
You knew, didn’t you?
You know perfectly well
Why things are what they are.
Close, close, close!
I’m part of you.
to my English teacher, for assigning a style of poetry I’d never tried, and to William Golding, who wrote the words that I had the freedom to rearrange.
Alec Jul 2017
Hearts rhythmically thumping
They have begun hunting
Splotches of green and brown
Defenders of their little "town"
Eyes become slivers in the night
They have no bark, but are all bite.
Mouths wide with Cheshire smiles
Minds swirling with and stabbing at random wiles
Stampeding through hills and over grass
Down to the ground searching for the scent of what was there last.
Coarse cloth draping off of the ****** sweating forms.
Hauling what deadweight "beasts" they can lift after their swarms
In their minds, a group mentality, they are yelling and chanting and screaming galore
But in the dead of night, only harmless creatures are ear-sores.
Slithering across the dirt
Will the night or the hunt end first?
Slivers dart across the hell-heated jungle
Salivating at the thought of flesh and the deliciously seductive struggle
But alas, the sky becomes a lightened hue
And the flesh, due to the morphing of slivers, narrowly escapes becoming barbeque.
Alec Jul 2017
An illusion in the mind
Twisting and turning through time
Endless hunt
Surroundings repeat, seemingly stuck in a rut
Running, running, running
This beast is too cunning
No tracks, no scent, no way to find where it hides
In the darkness it lies
Waiting for just the right time...
When will it strike?
There's nothing to do but wait,
Let a few tears roll down in angst.
Aside from that just run until you go insane...
For the Beast, it calls your name.
melli7 Jan 2016
think Piggy
in Lord of the Flies he'll
tell you what's up about glasses
(before he dies)
although Betsey Johnson could maybe say
something too judging by the frames
she wears to complete her hair 'do
myopia mangles sight but will
never extinguish
light
He Pa'amon Jun 2014
Running,

running away from the present moment in time
because you know the minute your feet
stop pounding the dirt below you
you have succumbed to the belief
that the moment snapping at your heels
is the last moment you will ever have.

Fear,

fear is the air you breathe, the blood
pumping through your veins, pulsating
at your temples, the only thing that
is keeping you alive. Fear that fear
is only temporary, a fleeting spark,
a false and empty hope.

Numb,

numb as your mind has disconnected itself
from your body, has shed its shield of thought
and is now an open soar of raw and exposed emotion.
but as long you keep running, keep
moving, you manage to avoid the eminent truth
that you are only prolonging the inevitable.

But until then,

you fly with the quickness of panic and denial,
because there is no escape but ultimate surrender.
Inspired by *Lord of the Flies* by William Golding
He Pa'amon Jun 2014
Freedom, unadulterated freedom.
Freedom to dig little toes in the sand and run as naked and
as wild as the wind.

A freedom so complete and vast and uncensored
that it weighs like chains,
and chokes like an iron grip.

And so little hands meld mismatched links of their own,
rules and laws, and should's and should-not's,
tying little feet back to earth,
away from the suffocating sky of infinite possibilities.

Little hearts yearn for shackles,
feeling utterly exposed without them,
for a free body is one that tempts oppressors
unless he dons crude metal adornments of his own.

And so with the imprint of unsung lullabies
floating in the night air, little cheeks
nuzzle their iron blankies and doze off
under the familiar weight of confines and conformity.
Inspired by *Lord of the Flies* by William Golding

— The End —