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Aimee Phelps Oct 8
A sliver of sun scorching cerebrum
Whispers on the lips of an encephalic cloud
An old friend, whose company I keep
Warning against silhouettes and uncertain peril
Liberation is nigh from a skeletal prison
Beating on my skull and tearing at my muscle
I fear my old friend will return
As a siren, luring me to the bottom of a macabre sea
This is my first poem. I wanted to capture my recent, raw feelings about my mental illnesses in this little poem.
Eerie when it's three twenty-five
In the mornings of a nevermore
Fiendish powers dwelling inside
Awakened in a feverous implore
Darkness harkens souls to stay
When in an illuminating twilight
Subconscious turns ashen gray
Plants suffering a certain blight
Sleep had long not hypnotized
Nights, they pass in dry spells
No ravens come a tip tapping
Upon my mind's sly betrothal
Yet, the witching hour beckons
My brain has a way of knowing
Night, just half of it is passed
Rest half would be my undoing
Nik Bland Jan 21
First pleas
Red eyes
Dry riverbeds
Here lies
Buried six feet deep in regrets

Seconds pass
Out of time
Speak now
I’ve tried
Spelled out
Words repeat
Words first said as you fade to sleep

I call to you
Thrice more
Beyond veiled view
Same hour
Twelfth night
When fate took you from my life

Madness drives
To forefronts
Darkness arrives
Forever more
Your deathly dance
Unchained from mortal coil and my hands

Dark night
Fifth on same day
Answer me
In my dismay
Where she
Still alive
Would she stand to be my wife?

To demons now
Here I plead
Hear my vow
Disaster struck
Her voice I know
This pain in me only grows

Heaven now
At my back
Seventh cry
Into the black
Driving words
In my mind
Wond’ring how she left me behind

On the hour
When hands turned cold
When life turned sour
Thoughts careen
Into the fade
Twelfth night bereft of the day

Knees, you bleed
Heart is torn
My love, a corpse
With child, unborn
Words I read
Pure sacrilege
In hopes to breed words from the dead

Both hands dig in
Fingers trembling still
Hear my plea
Unsacred will
If she would speak
These words to me
Maybe I could finally sleep

All attempts failed
No price to much
Gouge out these eyes
Hands go untouched
One this wicked month
Short of a dozen years
I drive myself to bring you here

Oh Twelfth Night
What terror you bring
As words arise
From Hell’s opening
The inferno rains
Words burned in my head
“With this wedding ring, I thee wed”
M Grant Teague Dec 2019
Breaking bones
A cough
Shrieking stones
A laugh

Boiling blood
A scream
Freezing flood
A dream

Churning curds
A shudder
Burning birds
A stutter
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
One thousand six hundred and sixty six
none: a salesman, a noble, or a cook
Macabre swam the sea of ****** Bay
In a fleet, the Dutch, French and Britsh he took

A crimson tide soaked the sand to a stain
Great reefs, he made, floating stench of maim
The more Macabre swam for lust of pain
More life, to the vast ocean floor, he claim

Now, three hundred and twenty three years on
Under a full moon in the depth of night
He, Macabre, still swims a ****** Bay
In search of an undaunted soul to fight.
A Personification of Macabre
blackbiird Oct 2019
Love’s dead.
Love’s dead.
I’ll say it again.
I’ll sing it from the rooftop
'Till these old bones stop breathing.

I’ll take a knife to
My pulmonary arteries and watch
My undeserving heart lose its ruby-colored dressings.
Before I let love
Fool me again
With its deceptive tactics.  

Am I a product of my environment?
Or do I just
Lack the basic capacity
To understand love’s cruel semantics?

Only time will tell what becomes
Of this defective love
That plagues my soul.
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