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Feb 2020 · 336
Sam Tate Feb 2020
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  


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 · 891
Sam Tate May 2019
You see,
she does not live
on your planet.
Or exist
in your world.
is the black
on a butterfly’s wings.
The tickle
on your neck.
she cannot die
she does not live.
is everything
and nothing
The last
in the
The impulse
behind your eyes
that says
She is love
and lust
and passion.
She cannot be
Her kiss
is life
and death
a beautiful
is the siren
when she calls
you will
and it will mean the end.
May 2019 · 1.5k
Let's make a masterpiece
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.


then sharply.

Remind my lips

of the sweetness of

Your sweat.

As we lay


vulnerable and


Our bodies

contorting in


Euphoric and


I’ll whisper


in your ears

and you’ll

trust me

with your tongue.

Let’s forget

our names

and exist


in that moment.


my back

with your


Tease out

the blood

with your nails.

Let my lips

draw a masterpiece.

Let my words


a song

and we’ll










May 2019 · 442
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.
May 2019 · 15.1k
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.
May 2019 · 322
A Sober Sensibility
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.
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.
Apr 2019 · 502
Application for a Muse
Sam Tate Apr 2019
Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.

In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.

Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.

Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.

So please,
If you find yourself,
So inclined,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.

Yours forever,

Your humble admirer.
Apr 2019 · 178
Let go
Sam Tate Apr 2019
When I venture to speak your name,
The word is uttered with spit.
A sour taste of unforgotten blame,
Tattooed with abundant regret.

A name is said to reflect a person;
In your case, I deem this the truth.
An honest reflection, a candid reminder,
Of my wasted, corrupted youth.

To blame another for your transgressions,
Is commonly labelled a sin.
But my transgressions and faulted decisions,
Have your name to which they begin.

I accept my blame and my mistakes,
Responsibility, I do not lack.
But responsibility falters and becomes hindered,
When poisoned by a heart so black.

Innocence and purity are surely a stretch,
Something, I admit, I have little.
But that which I did is now dead.
At your hands all my thoughts become nettles.

I tried to forgive and, harder, to forget,
But forgiveness is yet to embrace to me.
They say, forgiveness heals, but my heart remains broken,
Perhaps, to heal is a fantasy?

Is it possible to let go, from a love so toxic?
Does ignorance grant me false hope?
Or is it my mind, that prevents the acceptance?
Do I tie the hangman’s knot in my rope?

Maybe one day you’ll go from my mind.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to let go.
Until that day comes, I must say,
I never loved you, that, I need you to know.
Mar 2019 · 288
Extestential Dr. Seuss
Sam Tate Mar 2019
To exist in a thought,
Is to exist nonetheless.
To exist nonetheless,
One must exist all the same.
But to exist in a thought,
Requires a being to think.
And, for a being to think,
For that thought to be thought.
Requires a level of existence,
That must not be sought.
But rather exist,
On a nominal plane.
In a place and a time,
That cannot be named.
But there it remains,
This level of existence,
That permits the persistence of others existence.
My try at a little more fun structure, courtesy of Dr. Seuss
Mar 2019 · 537
Of that, I'm sure
Sam Tate Mar 2019
The sea is calm and tranquil;
Pebbles cover the sand.
I take a step and falter,
Held steady by your hand.

The darkest storm and thunder,
That burns its way to history,
Is nothing I can't handle,
In the moment that you kiss me.

The sunsets in the distance;
It's warm smile touches the shore.
It's beauty only paralleled,
By you, of that, I'm sure.

The highest mountain grows,
Extends into the sky,
Reaches up to the heavens,
and watches you while you lie.

Flowers spring from the grass,
Their colours light and joyful.
They grow only for you, my love;
With hopes that they'll delight you.

The birds sing in the morning,
With tune and grace divine.
Their celestial song is sun,
To entwine your heart with mine.

I've seen Aphrodite's eyes,
Been shot with the arrow of Eros,
But even the tales of Homer,
Aren't able to describe this love.

For you, I'd live or die.
My world is yours entirely.
My soul, my mind, my pulsing heart.
Are yours in their entirety.
Dec 2018 · 372
Aged Beyond His Years
Sam Tate Dec 2018
There's a house with no roof,
On a street with no lights.
A young man lives there,
Aged beyond his years.

He has a car with no engine,
And sits on a seat with no belt.
The car jumps forward,
It roars, quietly.

He passes cars with no drivers,
And sings a song with no tune.
His phone rings in his pocket,
He answers, then hangs up.

He drives purposefully with no destination.
The sun blares down with no warmth.
He'll never forget her image,
But can't remember her face.

Etched on his face is a smile with no joy.
Ahead, there's a bridge with no rails,
He accelerates the car to bring it to a stop.
He begins in the end.

There's a house with no roof,
On a street with no lights.
A young man used to live there,
Aged beyond his years.
Dec 2018 · 309
Sam Tate Dec 2018
Her face is cracked and

Reflects her cold broken heart.

The world was not kind.
My first attempt at a Haiku
Dec 2018 · 445
The Crimson Filter
Sam Tate Dec 2018
Oh, how I wish to replace the white filter,

Pressed, firmly, between your lips,

As your gentle hands craft the last cigarette of the day.

To be stained by the dark shade of your cheap lipstick,

If I am lucky, you will hold me too tight,

For just a moment too long.

The moisture will crack your skin with indignant purpose,

So I can steal a drop of your crimson blood,

To taint my snowy white complexion.

Though it will only be a moment,

Before you cast me aside,

I will remain sane,

In the knowledge that,

For one brief second,

As you dragged the nicotine deep into your lungs,

That fleeting instant of ecstasy,

Belonged to me.

— The End —