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Hey boo, I find it hard to keep you off my mind because there you're always been found. My lady, I'm so attached to you, what an emotional obsession. Baby I can't stop thinking about you, can't stop picturing your face in the mirror of my heart I see your reflection in my soul. I feel you swimming the ocean of my life. Your charm submerge my spirit. Engulfed in the Conflagration of love ablaze my existence.
Rachel Armstrong Dec 2021
O old Gods who wait in morrow, let me shine in sacred sorrow
I proffer, and offer, my marrow, bone, flesh, to thine altar borne,
lone in meeting, only fleeting, silent here for duty sworn
My old Gods who sit in waiting, might I power just to borrow?
Only briefly you must loan me the magic to sunder torn.
Weak and trembl’ng, weak to muster, I sought courage, but I crumble,
at the sight of just thy vision, for to me it seems e’er unseen
naught to know but thy own master ‘til I patient, sorely lumber
wondering if fear has stolen me to thine own sacred meadow
when suddenly, fervently see thine true shape and face and form and
terrible dreams enter my soul e’er to stay and e’er to fecund
for death I prefer to understanding the truth our Gods have shunned.

Yet little more did I then speak among the dead and too the meek,
falling towards an abyss so deep that makes my heart and soul weep
dying truly like a phantom lurking in the shallows creep
and yet falling ever faster and so overwhelmed by deep
my eyes and ears saw nothing and heard nothing, not a leap
from the darkness that consumed me e’er more did I fail to seek
that which cannot only reap the dead and tear them ‘til they so reek
so sharp and pointed so it was even I could witness and speak
“Who have I wronged in this place so awful that I am gaoled oblique?
Yet can still think and ponder the widow’s peak and in vain self-wreak?”
in sacred toil among the stardust that makes us shine so mystique.

What does thou will, O lord, my lord, of more than we can ever tell?
I know it is not my duty not to know. Ask I must, ask besides
the husk of my body is yours and yet I know little of thee
by whose authority do wield such magics and more asides?
it is not plain to me what sort of horror lies ‘neath the scorched ground
so why do I? Why do I scream? Why do I see the beast in me?
The hound that hunts for those who must be slaughtered despite what else they seek
the wolf inside that hunts, rips, and tears, taken apart piece by piece
the awful sound of howling that’s for me to not and never cease
the stars themselves align to my fate fear in mind and e’er besides
‘tis here that I myself sit alone and finally soon to die.
for death I prefer to the fate our Gods have brought to us benumbed.
practicing structured poetry. not very good at really understanding syllable stressors yet without a guideline. meter makes sense though. this is lovecraft inspired for a section of a novella i am writing.

this website doesn't let the lines work properly since they get moved down sometimes which is annoying, not wide enough for 1080p

gave a bunch of poems including my own here sunshine to support the website that lets me indulge myself on a pen name whence no one can find me.
Neelmani Kumar May 2021
Who says oceans are deep
It's your exquisite eyes

Who says sugar is sweet
It's your soft soothing voice

Who says nature is nurturing
It's your electrifying touch

Who says flowers are beautiful
It's your scarless smile

Who says rainbows are colorful
It's your exotic expressions

Who says nobody is perfect
For me It's flawless you

Who says dreams can't come true
'Cause mine is in front of me for sure
I wrote this for the girl I love.
Each word and sentence here is totally true and fully experienced by me when I proposed to her on the 7th of April 2021

Gradually I'm getting possessed, obsessed by thy love--craft, emotionally flew his heart reaching out to her's. He's intoxicated drunk in love.
Lost in the
lovesome thought of her's. His
heart is detained  underneath
the water of
her soul.
So we're
soul mates.
We met as 2 rivers confluences.
what these mean.
coulorfulSmoke Jan 2021
Fur of bat
toad-like grin
eyes of lazy gold
green in sin

Sitting on the edge of forever
croaking sweet lullabies
a tendril tongue spanning galaxies
devouring worlds like tiny flies

A slothful gluttony so boundless
a privilege to slip down his amphibian throat
let's spend eternity inside him
together churning, wailing, floating in the acid moat
sab ariana Nov 2020
in the void
the darkness
the sapphire shadows below
i have waken soon all of mankind will know
from the waters i rise
to bring you a cold wet demise
the tides they turn  the moon she burns
the great flood is here
the ground soaks in the oceans tears
oh my followers they wept
deep down in the depths
how long have i slept?
celestial dreams my planet of rings
judgment and their cries
"no one can escape her watchful eyes"
now that i am awake terra she shakes
man is five and yes i am eight
the tentacles from your nightmares
the dreams that you hate
the cleanse has begun
my song  is now sung
all hear my call
the great cthulhu brings you your fall
dun dun dunnnnn i was listening to the call of ktulu by metallica and idk i guess i got inspired
Norman Crane Oct 2020
I found the two-headed baby deer dying
on a bed of soft pine needles under cover of an overturned oak,
not five kilometres from my cottage,
Its lungs still pumped,
Its crimson heart beat weakly through a thin,
translucent skin,
that decayed before my eyes,
until there was no skin,
and all the organs lay warm and still,
in a heap upon the earth,
like waste.

A god evaporated.

It is human nature to disbelieve
that one may be witness to epochal events,
so I did not believe that I,
of all people,
should be witness to the death of time.

Epochal: the concept itself is dead.

How lucky we were
to know time at its cleanest,
and most linear!

We know now that such constant linearity
was the consequence of a living entity,
It followed the creature like stench follows a skunk,
and we basked in it
as if it was the natural state of the world.

No more.

Time no longer heals,
Things do not pass,
Or pass only to return.

At first we believed this would be manageable,
Yes, we thought, we will relive our pain but also our love,
Everything shall be magnified!
Welcome to an age of great emotions,
a new Romanticism!

Yet we overestimated how much we help,
failed to accept how much we hurt.

And we did not realize the nature of evil,
which accumulates in a way love does not,
To re-experience our love is to know it,
again and again,
at the same intensity,
but to re-experience pain is to increase its volume until it overpowers us,
deafening us to everything else.

I will never forget the creature's eyes,
full of hatred or hubris,
yet seeking aid it knew I could not give.

How does one save a dying god?

It was not my fault!

I was but a child asked suddenly to solve a deathbed equation
expressed in an undiscovered mathematics,
I had to fail,
yet in failing I have brought it all upon us.

I relive it constantly,
Every time its eyes are louder.

But it is the hour for my afternoon walk,
so I will take a pause and enjoy what remains of living.

I will go to my favourite spot overlooking the city,
and sit on the iron bench,
from where the view is magnificent,
Above me,
the clouds will form,
a tangle of pain and human corpses,
and I will sit and ponder until the first blood drops fall,
Then the screaming will begin,
the final storm will rage,
Beating, crimson corpse-clouds under a thin skin
of dissipating reality,
raining blood until we are left
warm and still upon the earth.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
On snow, his padded footfalls echo low
Heart beats: haste, fear
As none but its reverberations know
The ancient horror lurking near
A flash! Before the darkness rushes in
Not night but something deeper
Tentacles binding from within
Swift minions of a speaker
Whose very voice is sin
Whispering, listen, listen, in the language of the wind
Across what remains of summer's leaves
A murmured knowledge of the fate of thieves
And as the stolen idol drops
And the ancient one appears
His eyes begin to bleed
Discongealing the accumulation of his fears
Lovecraft-inspired narrative horror about a thief who mistakenly believed he was stealing from a human.
Zhavaed Haemaed May 2020
I am damaged goods
A corruption of heart
Up from abyssal depths,
Down to desolate clouds.
The fragment lying between
I am not the incessant air,
A rage of non awakening.
Culmination of all fears.
No words do then, describe
me; I do not conform to rules.
Exception I am; ambiguous
A regular consonantal fool ?
Decreed to consume it all
I carry a ravenous thirst.
Unchecked; I grow fervor
A demon, I am accursed.
Where, then, do I find home
Where does my soul belong ?
Whom shall I call my tribe
Then; what do I, thus long ?
I am damaged goods, get ye'
I do not conform to codes.
I belong to the nether realm
Let me lie, in my .. abode.
Do not then, exhume me,
I have chosen to slither in. And,
Lie dormant in the underground.
Where exist I may, in quiet
Lie hidden away, from the
carnal realm, I want none of it.
A monster of my own making,
A necromancer of the Undead.
An ode to both Dostoevsky and Lovecraft. I tried describing the existential pain of being in a world where you understand too much and thus are left, disappointed in everything, people.
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