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EpiPen Oct 9
Follow along ...
the porcelain doll fell from the wall
And when she cracked...
It all came back!
escaped in vapors
Seeping into the wooden floorboards
Like oozing wounds
And **** from sores...
Putrid the smell
Straight from hell
Now loose from its porcelain confines
The binding inscriptions
Are Your worst fears
Your deepest convictions
Your frightened tears
Dollie’s secrets and admissions
She heard your payers and your childish wishes
Also your sins you whispered into
Her tiny white ear
Yes she could hear
And you had forgotten
She know your true black heart was rotten
Scary Toys   This was written from an image prompt  try it!
fray narte Oct 4
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;

one for each gravestone in my brain —

different dates
for a single name.

and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,

but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs

and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
Alex Sep 7
Sworn to silence
a sacred oath
never spoke a word
exactly as told

disease ridden
death bound doctors are certain
waiting behind a red oak door
beholds the grim reaper lurking

6 decades & this vow not yet broken
dragging this imense burden
debates reveling all the unspoken
as if behind a red velvet curtian

decision to tell came much too late.
frantic gasps; hands tight on throat
contemplation actually decided fate
saliva & foam; not a single word said
unintelligible noises is all he had left
both man & secret
officially pronounced dead

Trying out something a little bit more professional. Thanks for reading!  Enjoy!
Ivo Petrović Jul 16
My father dropped his careless seed where my mother wished she'd bleed.

You created what I breathe when your lungs began to heave.

I forgot what life unfurls when I heard your whirling purr.

I unveiled your place of birth when my gaze derailed from Earth.

In the stream above the hills, dreams the gleam your lifeblood spills.

Counting decades down your braids, I invade your rounded jades with a gaze you've made cascade.

How you drown my sunken tortures with a frown of drunken fortune.

My lies die between your thighs, in the sighs that close my eyes.

The violins of silver inns shiver hymns of our sins.

The privateers on piers of tears cheer our fear of nearing years.

You imprisoned all my seasons with a year of untold reasons.
__________           ____

We were forged where angels gorge to be carved where devils starve.

Why'd you dose your prose morose to the bard who tarred your shards?

From divisions of your lips, I've received incision's kiss.

With ardent hips of fervent current, the errant serpent grips her servant.

All I brought was thought for naught when your rot became outwrought.

From the pond where I abscond, I watched the botching of our bond.

Every breath deployed to drown when you left devoid of frowns.

For the throne of humming bones, I've condoned becoming yours.

I am sworn to mourn and scorn every thorn that had us torn.

I have claimed the maiming blame for games of shame that gave us names.

All my zest, betrayed and rotten, in a chest remains forgotten.

We transcend repentant lows to embrace resplendent woes.

In the pool that holds your tears, drools the fool who stole my years.
__________           _____

The violins of her violence weaved the bindings of my silence.

I forgave her what she lacked with the fervor of my ax.

She used to have me broken hoping till I split her forehead open.

I forgot to leave her soul where her torso's open cold.

Now she blends my lips serene with the hands I've cut off clean.

The refrains of all my poems, now engraved on bullets chrome, in her skull remain alone.

Derelict, her tongue disdains, with my lick on her remains.

I resent the way her scent invents consent to my lament.

My mouth consumes the fumes she tombs to spout the dooms that loom unwombed.

I've divorced the nasal morse forced to course from out her corpse.

Now the tree that held our names roots around her welded grave.

On the hill where we once kissed, she now sleeps beneath the mist.

Even now she laughs at me, with her shafts forever sealed.

Dark and darker, her darkened barker, marks her tomb a layer harder.
__________           ______

My bride rides the tired tide, where our breaths by death divide.

She enjoys the rhymes I ferry from our time to where she's buried.

I have drained all waters spent where her face could not reflect.

I still hide my drying cry where our prides would once collide.

I demand her lifeless hands to once again caress my tan.

I've repieced her fleeting fleece of the fleas that tease my peace.

Like a dog, I found my god, in the fog where she once trod.

I begin where grins of skin create the sins she used to sing.

I've become the barren baron
of a fortress with no forces
leading my stampeding legions
to find their feet in my defeat.
This is not a poem.

It is a diary.

A little story project of mine, in which the parts are separated by the straight lines.

The story is told through individual entries about her in his journal - individual thoughts describing a certain stage of the man's descent into madness.
Troves of rotting treasures
Marked the highest morning tide
Where the ocean’s foaming tongue
Left its print upon the land.
I trifled with the sea wrack
That was scrawled upon the sand
When a seaborne scent came wafting;
Onward sailing to the shore.

Pale, aghast, I stood in awe
To curse the wretched thing I saw.

Yet counting footprints from the scene
The vision haunts me all the more;
Forever sailing to the fore
Upon the winds of sordid thoughts,
Where my mind is ever stained,
Though one question there remains -
How a body, once alive,
Could be so full of eels.
hypnopunk Jun 13
damp hair - from the rain
with stray green vines
hanging down low
all over the eyes

and the shoulders - stiff
like an oak tree
softly whistling
in the darkest night

like found forest bones
of wolves or deer
that seem to shine
so dirtily clear

shameful, how the stones
will always stay
after bodies
all sweetly decay

i say: no more graves
let's become moss
eaten apart
tiny human loss

i say: let us wait
for the ill earth
to take us back
for what we are worth

grim sower planet
in green and blue
graveyard granite
gone without a clue

now we'll be statues
barely breathing
made to confuse
waiting for nothing

if this world ends
if it twists and turns
i will think of you
as it crashes
as morning dew
mixes with my own ashes
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
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