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I made my way
finally
to Point Pleasant
I crossed the Silver Bridge
and walked the blood soaked fields
where the Battle of Kanawha took place
I walked the streets and absorbed the energy
that hovered like unseen clouds
I approached an older woman walking her dog. She was very sweet and made me think of my Mom, God rest her soul. I knew there would be no harsh words or anger from this gentle lady.
I asked her with a friendly smile if she had a story of the Mothman she might share.
'Not the Mothman, she said...but I do have a story.
One from childhood that I've yet to tell anyone, not even my parents. I was maybe 11 or 12 and walking home after playing and it was getting late. I caught something out of the corner of my eye. When I looked, I saw a large plane losing altitude. It just came closer and closer until it leveled out and passed by very close. So close that I could see the passengers in their seats looking straight ahead, silhouetted against the light behind them. I could see their faces. It went by and then gained altitude again. The strangest thing is that I never heard a sound.
I'm not sure why I told you that story. I always felt that people would think I'm crazy. I suppose I can see that you are truly interested. So there you have it.'

I saw the museum, the ammo bunkers and TNT plant and went back to the hotel. I awoke the next morning to find two odd looking drops of blood on my pillow...still fresh. It startled me and I got up to see if it may have come from my ear. As I headed to the bathroom, I noticed more blood on the foot of the bed. In the bathroom there were 2 spots of fresh blood on the floor. I checked the mirror and found no blood in my ears. No nicks from shaving. No nicks on my arms, shoulders, neck or head. I have no idea whatsoever where that blood originated. And here's what really spooked me. They look like 2 very strange faces.

There were no phone calls from Indrid Cold. No prophecies of planes crashing or bridges collapsing, but I left Point Pleasant, West Virginia with a distinct and clear sense that I had tapped into an energy, peeked behind the curtain of Oz and maybe, just maybe I got their attention.
true story - forgive me if it needs editing. I'll get back to it and review later
Despair Jun 15
Weather I erase myself now or later- does not even matter.
For I bear the burden, of someone who is loathed by their creator
All this time- I have tried
To bend to your whims, apologize and cater
Only for you to remind me- how the world would have been a much better place if I had just
Died.

My pen will not form words no matter how hard that I press
Until the ink bleeds out, and all that is left is a mess
The empty paper burns into my eyes, rotting into my brain like its own empty husk.
My words are soft and flowery,
But I do not feel like attempting to discuss
How I should be the one to impress, with my pretty, petal-infused words.
Words that people simply overlook and cast aside
as “stupid poetry” or “redundant detail”

I want it to end.
Are these words blatant enough for you?
I will end it.
Is this clear enough for you to understand?
I will end it myself, by myself.
And there is nothing that anyone can do to stop
Me.

Because my screaming was never loud enough, was it?
Not to father, not to mother- not to god
who wouldn’t bother.

I know how to do it.
How?
Because I’ve never stopped dying, not even now.
I close my eyes,
Red is in my writing so much, because
I lean upon it like a crutch, as it is the only consistent within my life
Covering me in its bloodied, feathery ******* like a thrush

The things that love me, truly, do nothing other than
Tease me with the thing that i
Want more than anything.

Anything that I wish to do fizzles beneath my hand
And withers within my chest
Until it has dried itself throughout my eyes.
Why can’t you let me cling to just one thing-
Why is it so hard to do this?

I have felt what it is like to have electricity volted throughout body, to where my brain has burst and my eyes have popped like grapes out of my skull.
How can they explain disembowelment you ask?
Because I am sick, and have felt it multiple times enough to decipher that one does not have enough nerves to feel the inside of their own stomach
I’ve died in pools of my own blood more than once. Tasted it, even
Given birth. Watched the child I loved died.
And done this all through other’s eyes, too.
I have been shot, maimed, skinned alive- had my ribs cast open with my organs peeled out, just enough to keep me amongst the living.
All within dreams. Where the sensation of pain is so real, I wake up wondering if the reality I am living is the ‘real’ one.
I meet friends that I shall never seen again, and most importantly
I love someone that does not exist.
How I love them so dearly, I love them for all it is worth existing for
And so my rationale behind dying- is that I do not want to live in this world without them
Anyone else would stand to be nothing other than a substitute
All I want is you
In my dreams
To tear my heart out and devour it, like a shattered, forbidden fruit

Since the age of four, I’ve experienced visions in bouts of sleep paralysis
No matter how hard I’ve tried, they’ve found nothing within the
psychoanalysis
nobody believes me, and my words rang on deaf ears
of my visions just being dreams that must’ve reflected my fears

but I’ve cried tears that aren’t mine
and drank poisoned, velvety wine
I believe my birth has been plagued by an incubus
But it’s not *** they feed off of,
But raw, unencumbered fear.
And somehow, I’ve fallen so deeply in love
Hopelessly addicted
Because the nightmares in my walking life are scarier
Than the ones beneath my bed
And for me? It is the only thing

That has truly been ‘here’.
Please don't read if you're sensitive to dark content.
Kailey Jones Apr 4
"Make me!"
she cries
"Make me feel again!"

I can't help with that at all
Her frail ghost has suffered so much

She has traveled the world and seen any and everybody
Every single grave except her own
For she can not bear it.
But yet she can't feel

There's no happiness
There's no envy
She sees people living and loving
But with a poker face, she stares at me

But my emotions are not gone
And the pain she yearns to feel embodies in me
As if life has been taken from her and now resides in me
But I still feel lifeless
(This isn't about me...
It's about my nameless friend.)

I want to reach out to comfort her
and she doesn't even know she needs it
This **** ghost that finds comfort in my room
Haunts me forever
ironically enough
But I can't reach out to her and I can barely hear her
Her voice is a whisper
Even when she yells
(She should be glad she doesn't have a real throat since she yells so much)

"I know!"
she cries.
"I know you hear me!"

I can't answer that anymore.
I need to tune her out to escape my turmoil.
Nothing here :) Oh I forgot lol. This is going to be a series
Shadow Feb 8
Shifting shades that lack precision,
eye evading, vaporous vision,
fleeting flickers underexpose
ghostly glimpses that discompose.

Shadows speak in trembling tones,
mumbled murmurs, cackling crones,
bated breath while overcoming
stifled screams but not succumbing.

Befrozen blood stills hammering heart,
senses separate, perceptions part,
lost lucidity brings indecision
face or flee this spectrovision.

Shuddering skin turns pearlest pale,
hairs horripilate, portents prevail,
cold creeps craze a mind affrighted
spooky spectres come uninvited
hannah Sep 2019
The weather has gone back
To pretending to be a tsunami
And my heads filled up
By all the grey clouds
It's not that bad, though
Because the magnets on my fridge
Keep spelling out love letters
The taps on my wall
Are to the tune of
I'm in love with you
And all the voices in my head
Want me hitched, not dead
The shadow in the corner
Is down on one knee
And the Grim Reaper
Keeps bringing me bouquets
So who needs a girlfriend
When the undead wants me?
I'm getting married guys!
spine tingles
and cracks
a Goddess
somewhere
finds me in
a crystal ball

i howl at the
empty sky
hoarse scream
into a single
star

some meaning
must come of
all this

or i'll just be
a yowling
ragged
cat
in the yard.
working on my word flow and word choice specifically. might edit soon.
Thera Lance Aug 2019
When you run your fingers through his hair,
They burn as hot as the orange strands
That streak through the red of his locks
Which are too warm these fall nights.

You’re not sure when you realized that
He wasn’t like you,
Human and soft enough to be pricked by the knife’s edge
That he playfully dragged across his tongue
While looking at you with eyes that refracted the amber light of his soul.

He’s not sure when he realized that he’d stay,
Far past the summer when you met
On the sandy banks of the lake that swallowed light
Until it was the same deep blue of your eyes,
Binding him to your side long after the sun set
And the rays upon the bed’s sheets had faded
Into a warm glow in the dark.

When he runs his hands over your toes,
Cooled by the coming winter
That wraps you up in wool sweaters
And leaves you huffing as he walks by in only jeans,
He realizes that he dare not leave
You to grow cold these coming nights.
A few years ago, I did not think I would be writing paranormal/fantasy romance poems.
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