#pentagram - Hello Poetry

Grief is a cyclic spell. It loops. It spares none. It's inevitable. This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell— Untamed. Unbound. — The First Stage — Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep, Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs. Should I care about them? I don't feel the need. I am not in the deep! I am so close to the... To the conclusion! To the retribution! Indeed. I know what I'm talking about. For I'm not weak. I do not bleed. — The Second Stage — Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic, Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory. Craving the caves as they cave in melancholy. Framing the phrase as they phase in verbally. Adding the daze as they laze in physically. Blaming the place but they can't pace gently. Desperate to bridge the gap so they race profusely. Virtuous? Why should I care about them? I don't feel the need! They never did care for me anyway— even when I was drowning in deep!! But now when I am so close to the... To the destruction! To the retribution! They care? ***** Indeed. I know what they're talkin' about. I am not weak. And I refuse to bleed. — The Third Stage — Knowing the taste of fear they made a note mentally. Faster they ran to master it tactfully. Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently. Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity. Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity. Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy. Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity. Myth or not, this bizarre journey will lead to a dark ending. But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency? Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy. If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve? I can no longer swim this deep. Almost there... For the happiness. For the redemption. Away from the slip. Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I'm doing great. Tell me I'll be okay. Tell me I won't bleed. — The Fourth Stage — Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy; Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity. Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery. Surviving Curates pray for mercy. The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building. The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims. They heckle at him and start grumbling. Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings. Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety. Whatever should I ever care for, for nothing holds a meaning. Am I drowning? Am I swimming? I'm lost in the deep. So close to the... To the silence. The oblivion of reckoning. Wish I was strong enough to change a thing. But I was weak from the beginning. Thus, I bleed. — The Fifth Stage — Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting— The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing, Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies. Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding. Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing. "Verily, must it be prompting? Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?" You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching? In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing. Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked, emotional wrecks, Reaper's back, falsehood's flag, regrets that drag, weaker to help. Yes, I care. Care, because I know what it brings. Care, for we all swam through the deep. Care, for I am so close... To the end and the beginning. Care, for now I know the meaning. Care, for I know what I have become. Neither weak Nor strong. Care, because I must bleed. For— Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep... -Asher Graves

0

Sep 1, 2025

Sep 1, 2025 at 9:11 AM UTC

the_little_bystander

De-evil’s Pentagram: Cyclic Grief

Grief is a cyclic spell. It loops. It spares none. It's inevitable. This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell— Untamed. Unbound. — The First Stage — Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep, Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs. Should I care about them? I don't feel the need. I am not in the deep! I am so close to the... To the conclusion! To the retribution! Indeed. I know what I'm talking about. For I'm not weak. I do not bleed. — The Second Stage — Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic, Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory. Craving the caves as they cave in melancholy. Framing the phrase as they phase in verbally. Adding the daze as they laze in physically. Blaming the place but they can't pace gently. Desperate to bridge the gap so they race profusely. Virtuous? Why should I care about them? I don't feel the need! They never did care for me anyway— even when I was drowning in deep!! But now when I am so close to the... To the destruction! To the retribution! They care? ***** Indeed. I know what they're talkin' about. I am not weak. And I refuse to bleed. — The Third Stage — Knowing the taste of fear they made a note mentally. Faster they ran to master it tactfully. Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently. Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity. Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity. Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy. Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity. Myth or not, this bizarre journey will lead to a dark ending. But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency? Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy. If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve? I can no longer swim this deep. Almost there... For the happiness. For the redemption. Away from the slip. Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I'm doing great. Tell me I'll be okay. Tell me I won't bleed. — The Fourth Stage — Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy; Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity. Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery. Surviving Curates pray for mercy. The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building. The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims. They heckle at him and start grumbling. Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings. Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety. Whatever should I ever care for, for nothing holds a meaning. Am I drowning? Am I swimming? I'm lost in the deep. So close to the... To the silence. The oblivion of reckoning. Wish I was strong enough to change a thing. But I was weak from the beginning. Thus, I bleed. — The Fifth Stage — Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting— The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing, Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies. Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding. Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing. "Verily, must it be prompting? Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?" You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching? In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing. Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked, emotional wrecks, Reaper's back, falsehood's flag, regrets that drag, weaker to help. Yes, I care. Care, because I know what it brings. Care, for we all swam through the deep. Care, for I am so close... To the end and the beginning. Care, for now I know the meaning. Care, for I know what I have become. Neither weak Nor strong. Care, because I must bleed. For— Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep... -Asher Graves

115

I don't understand, but your tone incites. Is this ignorance or bravado Is love and hate the same when the day of fated relations stays mocking on the morrow Are the planted dead standard Pentagram repenting it's whistles to the waifs Who captivates plenty yet scrape for their dinner pennies like dog scraps. Why am I still beneath this lake?

0

Nov 4, 2020

Nov 4, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC

BattyHatter

Cliche poetry is ********

I don't understand, but your tone incites. Is this ignorance or bravado Is love and hate the same when the day of fated relations stays mocking on the morrow Are the planted dead standard Pentagram repenting it's whistles to the waifs Who captivates plenty yet scrape for their dinner pennies like dog scraps. Why am I still beneath this lake?

7

Draw A pentagram Cut your middle finger $ay $ay $ay "₩elcome" here is your ****** Messiah

0

Sep 1, 2020

Sep 1, 2020 at 11:06 PM UTC

imehsahdehahs

Ramirez

Draw A pentagram Cut your middle finger $ay $ay $ay "₩elcome" here is your ****** Messiah

7

take me. to where the grass is not green show me. things that the naked eye has never once seen.

0

Apr 17, 2020

Apr 17, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC

meysa

third eye

take me. to where the grass is not green show me. things that the naked eye has never once seen.

5

Salut—welcome to Madam’s little fortune shop Where you can see your own fate within an incense drop My horns shimmer with necklaces that defeats all hexes And my weapon is a skull of luck for both of the sexes Now come and rest your left palm on this pentagram I assure you that this is not a satanic scam Cards shall give out a tale born from your consequences As well as the horoscope that’ll mess with all five senses I can pin a previous life and death within a single scar I can name all your relatives as far as ones in alcazar Withdraws are The Sun, The Moon, The Lovers, The Fool, Listen to the revelations of storylines on your stool With the Debut of Temperance, The Devil, the Hierophant, Listen to the ways to avoid a man who is a sycophant Pick a number from any of my twelve golden coins To reveal a former lover that one day you shall rejoin Now kindly look past the glimmers of my crystal ball And you’ll see just how much your fortune can rise or fall

0

Apr 26, 2019

Apr 26, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC

zoomertry

Norocului

Salut—welcome to Madam’s little fortune shop Where you can see your own fate within an incense drop My horns shimmer with necklaces that defeats all hexes And my weapon is a skull of luck for both of the sexes Now come and rest your left palm on this pentagram I assure you that this is not a satanic scam Cards shall give out a tale born from your consequences As well as the horoscope that’ll mess with all five senses I can pin a previous life and death within a single scar I can name all your relatives as far as ones in alcazar Withdraws are The Sun, The Moon, The Lovers, The Fool, Listen to the revelations of storylines on your stool With the Debut of Temperance, The Devil, the Hierophant, Listen to the ways to avoid a man who is a sycophant Pick a number from any of my twelve golden coins To reveal a former lover that one day you shall rejoin Now kindly look past the glimmers of my crystal ball And you’ll see just how much your fortune can rise or fall

18

Holding a pen in hand, preparing pitch-black ink for a blank paper, I begin with gentle, delicate movements, letting it slide over it. One line follows another, one without any bother, any care to it. A regular starshaped polygon, surrounded by a simple circle has been made, one which holds meaning to it, hidden underneath ink. Some might gaze at it as a sign of a greater evil, heresy or worse, Others might watch it in awe, a sign of protection a symbol of hope. A maze with two ends has been made, each with its own belief. However, my tired eyes, which have been worn, gaze at it and see beauty, the connection of each line contains grace, closed by the circle. Thus a smile has been cast on my face, as I look at it another time, Noticing how the black ink has taken the papers purity my cheering sight perishes, saddens in an instant, what I had drawn had become unrecognizable, as the paper spread the ink and distorted this image. The broken in the light, moist and now fragile, drops through, in wonderous, ominous distraction, leaving a great hole in the middle. Unable to be ever repaired the paper finds its trail into the trash, A puddle left of what it was, mixed with the pitch black, had to be cleaned up, so that another attempt could be made, another try. So I pick up my pen once again and connect the lines with a smile. ~ Umi

0

Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC

UmiofLove

The Pentagram

Holding a pen in hand, preparing pitch-black ink for a blank paper, I begin with gentle, delicate movements, letting it slide over it. One line follows another, one without any bother, any care to it. A regular starshaped polygon, surrounded by a simple circle has been made, one which holds meaning to it, hidden underneath ink. Some might gaze at it as a sign of a greater evil, heresy or worse, Others might watch it in awe, a sign of protection a symbol of hope. A maze with two ends has been made, each with its own belief. However, my tired eyes, which have been worn, gaze at it and see beauty, the connection of each line contains grace, closed by the circle. Thus a smile has been cast on my face, as I look at it another time, Noticing how the black ink has taken the papers purity my cheering sight perishes, saddens in an instant, what I had drawn had become unrecognizable, as the paper spread the ink and distorted this image. The broken in the light, moist and now fragile, drops through, in wonderous, ominous distraction, leaving a great hole in the middle. Unable to be ever repaired the paper finds its trail into the trash, A puddle left of what it was, mixed with the pitch black, had to be cleaned up, so that another attempt could be made, another try. So I pick up my pen once again and connect the lines with a smile. ~ Umi

15

Pencil - ****** - ***** - Penalize -Pentagram - Pentagon - Pentagonal - Penitentiary -Pensive - Peninsula - P....... ....Plagued. What is it to be plagued? Haunted? Seiged by an inescapable force? Haulted? IMMOVABLE. ability to move, yet achieving no valuable distance. A struggle writhing within ones self. Pen -Pent- Pent up- P... ....Please, no more.... ....more miles high..... Stakes, In the ground..... Great stakes..... High, So very high. Unreachable. Unattainable. Pen-Pensive-Pacing- to pace back and forth down a narrow stretch of newly carpeted hallway. A door. Adoring..... Adorable.... Sweet. Innocence left? May be none left.

0

Sep 30, 2014

Sep 30, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC

madzq

"P"

Pencil - ****** - ***** - Penalize -Pentagram - Pentagon - Pentagonal - Penitentiary -Pensive - Peninsula - P....... ....Plagued. What is it to be plagued? Haunted? Seiged by an inescapable force? Haulted? IMMOVABLE. ability to move, yet achieving no valuable distance. A struggle writhing within ones self. Pen -Pent- Pent up- P... ....Please, no more.... ....more miles high..... Stakes, In the ground..... Great stakes..... High, So very high. Unreachable. Unattainable. Pen-Pensive-Pacing- to pace back and forth down a narrow stretch of newly carpeted hallway. A door. Adoring..... Adorable.... Sweet. Innocence left? May be none left.

24