#undead
We live in a world of pain and suffering
Our cries are silent and our bodies are numb
The lights dim by the second
But it’s not blind dark
I see your face
And I see your scars
We hide but are found by the guilt of our past
Why do we live like this?
Why do we live?
When you look up at me
They cover your eyes
We live as though we are dead
We are
The undead living
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 11:47 PM UTC
The Cold speaks to me in whispers,
A voice from the depths of the grave,
Echoing through the lifeless expanse,
Where justice has long since decayed,
I do not feel regret,
Nor the pulse of living flesh,
As the frost gnaws at my hollow bones,
A numbness creeping through my skin,
This world is a tomb, cold and barren,
Where the dead do not dream.
The Cold's embrace is all that shields me,
A shroud against the world’s cruel gaze,
In this endless void,
The Cold's embrace is the only truth left.
It is the only thing that lingers,
The only thing I still crave.
Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 11:28 PM UTC
Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
And hath been, lo! these interstitial years!
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that sinks (Byron's a punk)
As love and fame to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The creeping moon observes the downy owl
That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and obscene,
Is sobbing, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 12:59 PM UTC
Old will be my bed,
But
Memories will be undead.
The moments will be sensual,
And
The love we make will be consensual.
Oh my good girl,
Come to me,
Into a happier world, you I shall pull.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 5:32 AM UTC
Walking up the rickety stairs,
Patchouli and cigarette smoke
combat for supremacy
Before I even reach the door,
and I step through to see
The everyday undead scattered on the thick carpet like so many corpses blown out of Wednesday Addams' haunted dollhouse.
Maybe it wasn't wise to come.
A cd player informs me that, indeed,
Bela Lugosi's dead,
And I cautiously move into the living room.
Ruby lips and ivory faces emerge from the gloom,
Incurious glances marking my progress
As an acolyte guides me to the Queen of the festivities
Holding court in a corner of the living room.
Her waist-length silver-gilt hair and damp skin like fresh camellias gleam in the candlelight,
A studded black goblet brimming with Jack Daniels
Is handed to her,
A token of homage she eagerly welcomes
while nodding me forward.
Whispers behind me tell her story,
Of how she's seen a thing or two in her time,
And why her flat stare and Theda Bara smile give glimpses of her bottomless occult wisdom.
As her slim fingers play with a knotted black necklace,
She considers me long before finally declaring,
--"My God, you're an old soul"--
And she pats the cushion next to her,
An invitation to drink deep and close of her dark knowledge.
A cup of something unknown is pressed into my hand
and I sip, hanging onto every arcane word she utters.
Night slowly fades into dawn
and I wake cold and stiff from a kitchen floor sleep
only to see the Queen buttoning the cuffs on her white poplin shirt.
Smoothing her tweed skirt, she steps into her pumps,
Grips her cup of coffee,
And with a cheery wave, leaves for work.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
Pondering existence itself:
mere deadweight for "success"
this narrative of the times
must be upheld as sacred
absolute!
The religion of modernity is that
of willful blindness taken
as a virtue
Benign
harmless
or so we are led to believe:
that it is the mark of a healthy man
to never use his brain!
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:52 PM UTC
The night whisper it's languid melody streaky by the screams muffled by the distance.
I’m panting while I walk through the putrescent streets adorned with decaying corpses
Feast of parasites and carrion birds
The tinkling of the stained glass announces the arrival of Death. It’s scythe touches the delicate glass of the churches, forming a funeral melody that freezes my bones and consumes my mind.
How many times I begged on my knees like a weakling for Death to take me along, how many times I killed to alleviate my sick thirst; waiting, wishing that the punishment of the God they speak of would fall on my cursed existence and remove from me the eternal non-life.
The hot taste of blood still pulse in my mouth
Repulse
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 7:18 PM UTC
A noite sussurra seu lânguido canto entremeado pelos gritos agora abafados pela distância.
Arquejo enquanto caminho pelas fétidas ruas decoradas com cadáveres em decomposição, festa de vermes e aves carniceiras;
O tintilar dos vitrais anuncia a chegada da morte. Sua foice esbarra no delicado vidro das igrejas formando uma melodia fúnebre que gela meus ossos e consome minha mente.
Quantas vezes implorei de joelhos como um fraco para que me levasse junto, quantas vezes matei para saciar minha sede doentia; esperando, desejando que o castigo do Deus de que falam recaísse sobre minha existência amaldiçoada e retirasse de mim a não-vida eterna.
O gosto quente do sangue ainda pulsa em minha boca
Repulsa.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 4:45 PM UTC
O the woe that lay upon the streets
of the foggy town of London—softly
masked in the air of excitement, the
lives, the deaths, the things, O
their beauty, everlasting beyond them;
white wisps that decorate the edges
of the sordid streets
Vision is illuminated in two, four eyes
One looking, one staring towards it, O
the magnificent ocean in its might;
the destroyer of worlds lay with it,
the creator of the endless night
The sun has lost its battle to the stars;
O, those stars that sing, that cry at the
wreckage below—
“We weep,” they say in its weakened glow
The wisps forming now over sacred clouds
“Begone, O light!” cries the creature below
“Begone, O thing of death upon me, glowing
upon my translucent cape, begone!”
Away and away, the sun mourns its loss
of the sweet ivy that grew upon those walls
“Begone, thing of the night!” it cries in
its post-apocalyptic voice—O a cry not
to be reckoned with in any time nor place
There lay the victims below the bereaved
and lower and lower live they—O, the
horrid undead, the undead that stop
that force of time, beyond the pavement,
beyond the stench, they lay
“Get hence, vile animal,” say they, carrying
their voices over the sound of the wind
O that sound that leaped over the mountains,
A word that shall be the last sentiment of
the living dead, a word spoken from beyond
the milky clouds: “Begone!”
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 3:11 AM UTC
Disobedient in life
Defiant in death
From Sheol escaped
On Earth to roam
Rest for me the fearful wished
But no peace to them
Till my wrong avenged
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 9:16 PM UTC
The chilling darkness with a fright night,
dawned a labryinth with a dead sight,
the roof of the world falling on the wattle huts,
and tremors created, shaking up the earth's crust
The catastrophe occurred without one's conscience
the lightening struck, rocks crumbled,
as the banshee waited with bated breath,
to ask, O God, " cui Bono" ?
The lush green fields flushed, dancing the lullaby,
thou, who curdled and nurtured us like thy baby,
asking " why thee destroy us, who created you"?
That the graveyard left no place for burial,
the earth created a grave for undead,
I ask you, "O Mighty, where shall I find peace to lay down my soul"?
As the mothers womb evacuate to parturite,
the devil of krakatora arose from the earth,
and created a black hole as smooth as silk,
my heart cried, thinking"Holy Aborigines, cui bono"
with richer dreams slept the human mind,
their thoughts fulfilled, by diversified montony swinging into action, I ask,"Is these flesh worth only to be crushed by stones"?
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
The necromancer danced on her grave. The ground shook with every step the witch took, rumbling the ground beneath and making the corpse she had planted cling to the cool dirt for dear death. And then, the dirt began to give.
Sunlight burned on the girl’s blue skin, turning it a ghastly shade of porcelain like Wednesday Addams. She rolled over in her grave, and closed her eyes, refusing the inevitable fate of the undead. But her wings started flapping, and she rose up, the witches hand clawing into her back and dragging her back to life. And as the screeching of the megalomaniac forced her wide eyes open and the dried ancient blood away, she wished she were dead.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
Leather suits you
because you, too
were alive once
and are now dead;
and the bright red
— oh, sweet bloodshed! —
vanishes on black
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
night just wants some sun and the sun wants to sleep
but neither can get either with being alone every week.
some people sleep all alone every night
and that's what scares me to death.
am I one of these fools,
or can I follow these rules.
and that's why I'm so scared of my bed.
the monsters in the closet are just my memory's in deposit.
so I can sleep like the rest of the dead.
i know i'm not one
to laugh or complain
but weirdly my pain,
is the only thing
that wants to keep me sane.
for better or worse, we all have a Cain.
who would stick us in the heart.
if only he could remain.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
In your sun I know I'll drown.
So, I rise when it goes down.
Add all my years, I am so old.
Yet, I'll never feel your cold.
Your punctured skin are signs you're dead
but that to me means I am fed.
I'll lure you in with fake romance.
The lies I'll tell, you'll take a chance.
Allaying your fears, I'll promise you years.
Then, muffled screams that no one hears.
So what you see as silver and gold
in reality, a death so cold.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
Off to battle again.
Another day, another battle, another day to amuse one’s self.
Looking out into the shadowy forest, in search of an acquaintance.
Wolf howls signal the return of the Princes and all is well.
The war has been won and the undead soldiers have been demolished.
Moonlight hovers over the home of the Elves
And inside the forest I find myself,
Hunting the hunter; under darkened skies.
A wolf dives at me and I open fire.
The arrow strikes its head and it falls down dead in the snow.
Its companions will be here somewhere, so I will be ready to fire again.
An elf appears from the mist, so I lower my bow;
It’s good to see you again, old friend.
He tells me of a quest to the undead hordes lair
And after shopping for provisions,
We head off with our band of merry friends.
The healer is annoying, but he will be needed when we get there;
So we allow him his flaws and his errors are not mentioned.
Once more into the darkness; we head into war
And all around us, the skeletons fall.
We grow stronger with age, before, during and after.
At the end of the day, we are new to this no more.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
When a relationship dies
The victim is not always
The one left behind
Sometimes the better half
Innocent and naive
Is the one holding the blade
After being stabbed
Countless times til nearly dead
They have the right to live
When both brutal options
End in blood and homicide
Their forced decision is life
Only one heart remains alive
To bear the shame of pain on the knife
It wasnt the good part who deserved to die
He was selfish and suffocating
She stayed true always stifling
Screams that swallowed her soul
The inflicter of secret wounds
Now has his own cuts to bear
Fatal yet deserving
Murdered by the angel
Too scarred to be recognized
By wounds he readily dealt
Changed into a phantom, only choice;
**** what caused her death inside
Her best friend, a beautiful corpse
His undead body moves
She put out the fire in his eyes
Though both ghosts stopped breathing
They unwillingly survive
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
It’s quite a thing for us to have
A beating, working heart
To inhale, exhale, inhale again
As you fall spectacularly apart
For when you die according to
Any book I’ve read
Your heart goes still, your lungs deflate
To be considered dead
You shouldn’t feel the pulsing blood
Flow warmly through your veins
You shouldn’t walk and talk and think
Or feel such intense pain
There’s something so poetic
In being the walking dead
To be murdered so profoundly
On such an inconsequential bed
As dignity fell to the ground
Like a ***** takes of her clothes
Your body somehow betrays itself
And completely and utterly froze
So while you lay there dying
Your heart remains so strong
Your lungs- they keep on breathing-
It’s as though there’s nothing wrong
When the killing is finally finished
When the deed is finally done
The world slowed and hastened all at once
Into confused, oblivion
For how can you be breathing
When your life has come to an end?
When you’ve been so completely broken
There’s nothing left to even mend
But get up and walk you do
And inhale, exhale you must
Because, unfortunately, your heart must stop
For you to turn to dust
Like a ghost without the benefit
Of being properly dead
You inhale, exhale, all the while
With that memory in your head
Being undead hurts and numbs your
Senses simultaneously
And your wounds bleed out in places
No one else can feel or see
Wake up, inhale, exhale, sigh
Pretend the same you still exists
But that girl is dead and gone
Even though her ghost persists
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Sonya's house society's yearly sunlight
goddesses tree modern buried **** in
Queens radio ground grandmother Eli's
invisible table breath kissing daughters
stranger lightning friend standing her
Jewish tongue on end on Jewish dawn streets
where Barbie lights her farts on fire w/
witch teen angel teeth car on the beach,
cute brain shadows of quantum paradise
turning free unknown Korean shaman's
forever wind gold & lucky calling hairy
bathroom Bibles peeing straight uphill;
understanding why sacred temples are
burning virgins alive who are not dying
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
Twas a dark day, a dark day indeed,
The day the dead doth come forth and feed,
graves upon graves and miles upon miles,
suddenly you'll be bombarded by evil grins and sinister smiles,
At dawn you might fawn,
as the dead ***** the lawn,
but your pride might subside,
it is best that you hide
Oh mark thee a fragile mind,
for my humanity has left me along with the time
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC