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Marla Jan 15
When I retire,
You haunt me,
Like a nightmare
That chases people through
Their dreams,
Depriving them of rest.
Foul demon,
Be gone from this earth.
Leave us alone to wallow
In the ashes of our youth.
Your mind could just as easily be a mental asylum with a nice boring name if you can't find a way out of its winding hallways and avoid the disorderly orderlies.
Where is the consumer of the words unpenned?
Lurking elsewhere, its muted giggles
grotesquely mocking me
before crawling to some dark
and well-frequented balcony
over the stage of my sanity and sentiment...
The thing shivers, sneers, and points
to the boy in glass slippers
that are strong and warm for perfect feet
All of us would be better off with poor fathers
shrieking miserable curses
like the old codger
feeding the stray cats that spit at him.
The mind frames visions
of shattered windows along empty streets
where we killed the kind cats
and now their cousins are stray.
In a world of frail light,
we welcome the meat
without questioning
the work of the slaying hands.
A Reverse-Invocation of the Muse with some new themes.
michael Feb 26
my head is attached by a sliver-string--
swinging, like the tires in spring,
it scrapes the floor beneath heaven harshly--
leaving bruises and marks drawn darkly,
and like Dumpty, the doctors tried to cling
head to body, but it never wished to be a whole thing,
so it dangles below knee ever so tiredly--
collecting scars as if lying beside a howling harpy;
inside me, i can feel the dirt begin to sing,
somber melodies of an ancient and rotting king;
he stands beneath me seeking a heart-beat--
whispering of dreams now sunken and obsolete

for now he wears worms for rings,
and I'm forever cursed with this sliver-string.
spooky scary skeletons
Euphie Feb 13
I find beauty in the most macabre places.
Mary Worth, Mary Worth, Mary Worth... they've called to you.

Through the looking glass as the shadows grew.
With the candles lit, young people they stare.
In a fit they call to you, but you're never there.

Or are you... Mary Worth, sitting behind the glass, brushing your locks as the church calls to mass. They call to you... three times it's said, yet you never appear, at least not before bed.

You sit and you stare, with your hateful eyes, if only they saw you and how you despise; each of the children, the girls and the boys, who call out your name, in a dark room, with their toys...  You're ready for them, You could get them tonight but instead you just wait until the moment is right.

But I know the secret and I have the charm, You can't get to me Mary, You waited to long!

A hair from the devil, who's a long tailed fellow.
A ribbon on a bone from a wicked old crone.
Add a pinch of dust from a vampires bust.

I have it all in my little silver box and it's shut up tight with three shiny locks.

Now I am protected. I know the way, but watch out children or you'll be spirited away! Make sure you take heed of the galloping steed for it's death herself coming for you with a spider's stealth.

She'll wrap you up in a blanket so cold.

You'll never wake up...

You'll never grow old.
A little poem to go along with this children's Mary Worth ceremony
Lottie White Jan 29
a black mass
grows at the base of my spine,
venom dancing along the vertebrates,
spreading to my brain,
rotting the pink ***** into a pile of mush
held together
by the glued fusion
of my skull.

swallow my hate like a thick, vile tonic
that slides down the throat,
slowly killing you from the inside out.
love is much too tender a
thing for my hollow
walnut shell heart.
and i, i am not tender enough for it.
i am made for far ruder,
rougher things.

i can never be a saint
for saints never burn as i do.
in the depths of my despair,
strike the anvil of my blood
and hear me scream.
This one is rather old, written a few years ago.
Sara Kellie Dec 2018
Could I have your shoulder
when I need to cry
and not be worried
when I can't say why?

Would you offer your hand
when I am ill,
feel weak
and cannot stand?

Would you lend me your ear
when I am troubled,
worried and shaking
with fear?

Will you offer me your arm
when I'm upset
or shaken
and make me feel calm?

Would you ever suspect me
of collecting
body parts
and call the police?

Poetry by Kaydee.
Twisted poetry by
the twisted poet.
Pauper of Prose Nov 2018
The depthless darkness
Sighed as it seized
The hairs of greybeards
The cries of newborns
Seeing them as funds for a festival
In the district of destruction
Hosted by hollowness
And all of agony would attend
Enjoying endless examples of extinction
Melancholy would come bearing a broom
Sweeping up the sea of scattered skulls
That this crowd had dropped as mere debris
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