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Sam Tate Feb 7
Jack wakes up in a panic, he’s manic.

He convulses on the bed,

His arms swinging in defensive manoeuvres,

Struggling against violent illusions in the night.



He’s tired, exhausted.

The nightmares had come again

And laid their cold grip on his skin

And now he has to begin again to forget.

His bed’s soaked in sweat,

His head’s pounding and drowning in the sounds he feels surrounding him.  

But there’s only silence.



He shakes his head

And tries to dispel the blaring sirens

And the flashing in the back of his eyes  

But the light and sound won’t quit.

He reaches for the tabletop to his side

And grabs a bottle empty of a bottle top  

And downs it.

The sharp taste of cheap whisky

Burns his throat and helps to dull the conflict in his head. If only for a moment.



Taking a look around  

He notices

He’s naked.  

The clothes he slept in

Were swept off in the night

And thrown to the side.

His white skin is bruised and ******

Marked by the copper claws  

Of the nightmare spawn  

Trying to break through his form

And escape.

But the dead skin and red rings around his fingers tell a different story  

Of blood and gore  

But not from the paranormal  

But more of an internal war.



See, Jack’s not sure what’s real.

He can’t quite distinguish the line between fiction and fact.  

He sees it every morning like a crack running down his mirror separating his heart from his head.  

But when he reaches out and tries to touch it  

The green slithers of reflection withhold any consolation.  

The jagged glass pierces his skin  

And he bleeds.



He bleeds the way his mum used to sing whilst she rocked him to sleep.



He bleeds the ink from the love letters he wrote to the girl who he gave his first kiss.



He bleeds the tears that gushed from his eyes when she gave his first kiss away with a laugh.



You can see it, dripping down his palms

And painting the floor  

In a mosaic of blood.

Each panel a Scarlett red petal  

Coming together to form  

A twisting flower

Sprouting out from the ground and wrapping its vines around his legs,

Trapping him in this  

Labyrinth.



His head’s not right.

There’s something twisted in the cables

That’s left him unable to think.

He can’t see the world like everyone else;

In his head, it’s a game

But the pieces don’t match up

And the board is aflame

And it doesn’t ******* matter

Cause everyone’s cheating anyway.



So, there he stands,

In front of the mirror,

With the ground creeping up his legs

And slowly dragging him down.

His weight teetering  

On the line of intrusive light  

Refracting off the silver glass

And turning the cuts and scars into gold.

Around him,

Flowers are bursting out of the floor

And cradling every inch of his skin

In a massacre of colours.

For a second, his body tenses,

And then relaxes into the aroma of Spring.

He glances back towards the mirror

And can no longer see himself.

He has been encompassed in a coffin of life.
  May 2019 Sam Tate
BR Dragos
the last time he went out of
his mind he liked it
so much there
that he never came back

not even after the
alcohol left
his blood

he keeps writing to this day

addresses women with 'sweangel'
a combination of sweet
and angel, I guess

but never spends more
than a matter of weeks
with any of them

some take pity on him
and some morbid curiosity

but no one loves him
truly
only his insanity
Sam Tate May 2019
She
You see,
she does not live
on your planet.
Or exist
in your world.
she
is the black
on a butterfly’s wings.
The tickle
on your neck.
she cannot die
she does not live.
She
is everything
and nothing
The last
raindrop
in the
storm.
The impulse
behind your eyes
that says
yes.
She is love
and lust
and passion.
She cannot be
contained.
Her kiss
is life
and death
a beautiful
deadly
poison.
She
is the siren
when she calls
you will
answer
and it will mean the end.
Sam Tate May 2019
It is far too long

since I’ve tasted lust

and passion.

Let me breathe

your curves and

taste your thighs.

Softly

then sharply.

Remind my lips

of the sweetness of

Your sweat.

As we lay

together

vulnerable and

honest.

Our bodies

contorting in

ecstasy.

Euphoric and

connected.

I’ll whisper

secrets

in your ears

and you’ll

trust me

with your tongue.

Let’s forget

our names

and exist

forever

in that moment.

Paint

my back

with your

scratches.

Tease out

the blood

with your nails.

Let my lips

draw a masterpiece.

Let my words

compose

a song

and we’ll

end

together

breathless

intoxicated

delirious

in

a

final

violent

crescendo.
Sam Tate May 2019
The crystal ball grows dim

And shadows being to form.

Swirling into darkness,

They slowly **** the light.

The prophecy is broken.

The chosen one is gone.

Fallen prey to Hades urges.

We are now alone.


Tread lightly with your mortal soul.

Don’t let temptation break you.

If you submit to their desires,

Salvation will forsake you.
Sam Tate May 2019
Sometimes, the words don’t come.

The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.

I am left with nothing to say.

There is a beauty in the broken mind.

Like an abandoned building taken by nature.

It is not that my mind does not work.

It is that it works too fast,

And I am left behind,

Scrabbling in the dust,

Desperately seeking a connection,

In the discarded fragments of thought.

I am fighting a losing battle.

I fear the white flag will soon arise.

And signal the end.
Sam Tate May 2019
A crystal brim,
of molten sand,
reflects the sin,
held in my hand.
The bottle top.
A bubbly fizz.
The gentle trickle,
loves first kiss.
But love has gone,
Or doesn't exist.
A burning throat.
No longer bliss.

On occasion,
I deemed a bottle,
a bit of fun,
a little trouble.
The occasions gone,
but not the bottle.
My hand is cold,
the neck I throttle.
A tiny tremor.
A gentle slur.
It's time to go.
I hit the curb,
I make a move,
trip and stumble.
Stagger home,
alone, lumbered,
The bottle follows.
It always does.
A crown of thorns,
cut with blood.

I beg it to go,
I implore it to leave,
The bottle laughs,
The bottle's me.
A drink in the morn,
or the afternoon,
the nights as good as any,
under the moon.
I'm an addict.
Addicted,
to feeling,
a little less,
of anything.

It's been a month,
I've got my chip.
The flasks gone,
from my hip.
The damage's done.
My heads a mess,
but maybe it's not,
quite too late to impress,
a sober sensibility,
upon me.
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