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Kagami Nov 2013
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the *****, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a ***** in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.

She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-****, ****-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.

But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.

She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the ******* the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.

A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A ***** maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that ***** in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.

Use this never ending lightning and bring your bride to life.
I have yet to find the exact
size, length, width, weight, height,
of my rusted trusty nail, which I lost.
Painted golden brown
and rough on the edges,
that old man pinned my door to the wall.
Now it's left hanging in the open
dangling in the wind
swaying with the broken rain,
my home
vulnerable,
a feasty treat,
like the first time Hansel and Gretel saw the witch's house.

I'm not afraid of the
teeth baring wolves
bloodcurdling hounds with red eyes
massive 10 foot hungry bears
that tower over you with outstretched paws
holding a steak knife and fork
its brown fur a bib.
No

I'm afraid of my house
zipping up its backpack
filled with all the canned goods
fresh water canteens from the well
and all the matches and firewood in the cellar
taking off during the night
when the moon is at its darkest,
leaving I,
to do the only thing left:
To pay the bright orange flames
to entertain me as
my wads of money lit up the
darkest night of the century
all because I couldn't replace my

*most dear, loved, precious
nail.
Carly Salzberg Sep 2010
I imagine you a bloodcurdling scene,
with your
avant-garde of conscious stream
slaying syntax
smearing words
like the battered wife
whose entity shadows identity.
and your rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
revolves a continuous, endless carousal
repeating controversies
without just end,
just being
oh, You voodoo Queen of rare success
how does this convince the modernist?
An ode to my favorite poet, Gertrude Stein
namii Feb 2014
The devil’s acts scratched into your skin;
Scald yourself with your own sins.
**** his soul out through his chest;
Ink it out- **** his quest.
Her mind in torture, her lack of amour
Fills her with fear- a ruptured shiver
Here he clutches a deadly dagger
Stabs the prey with morbid hunger
Stalks the hundred blackened souls
Digs a hundred hardened holes
His huge wings sign menace
Kills their passion, screams, “There is no grace.”
In his head, he feels misled.
The way he sees the girl
“I’ve always wanted to tell you,” he shrieks
“You used to be so beautiful!”
The sockets in his face leaks
The conjured up image in his head is dreadful
He lets out a final bloodcurdling cry
A signal of his goodbye
Before he stomps across the sunken boat
Tilts her head and slits her throat.
Running and Running
with heavy heart, I loathe you.
I am allergic to your presence
But still I’m hooked on the inspiration
of your never ceasing spiral.
Do not dare to misshape me
you faceless beast,
for I am known!

Uncontrollable reality I forbid you.
For you are a bloodcurdling nightmare,
which only seems to be misshapen, and broken.
Hurt and lost in your exhausted flaws,
You realize in the end,
that the beast is you,
faceless.

And truly unknown.
Elziabeth May 2010
Rozbliuto- (noun) The sentimental feeling you have about someone you once loved, but no longer do.


--A weakness spreads through your body as if injected. Your chest is rising abnormally. The breaths you take begin to reign supreme. With every evanescent blink you see how they said "goodbye," and you let yourself walk away. Thoughts reverberate "not to say that you would change it; being for the best".--


The back of your mind stands, opening itself, like the curtains that precede the silver screen.
Half-heartily you allow it open through your chest as well;
breaking through the sternum, like a bad mortician.  
The action forces self-perception, virginal, seeing who you truly are ; intense enough to note how your heart is beating faster and slower, at the same time.
You start falling backwards, if you could only step back through the mirrors that are-now the pupils, maybe your feet would still be touching the ground.
The inanimate objects around the room dance, swiveling.
The goose-pimples rise, bringing a chill you are reluctant to deny.
A cold hollow fills you from the inside out.

(Here you are.)

Uncomfortably content in your own memory theater, still watching the films of your life pass you by, like the hazy cast of a rainy day.
You feel spring turn to summer, fade to fall, curtly the brisk kiss of winter caresses your cheek bones.
Your eyes start welling, although you've decided against closing the lids.

(Try to remain delicate, from now on reality is and has always been imaginary.)
  
Next the "why-not, if-only, and what-if's" start racing around above you.
Forcefully you change the direction of this inter-monologue. An almost automatic response: "Did they not care? They were a lie".

(Now the anger sets in.)

You have a bloodcurdling urge to kick, scream, and punch.

(After all, imagine it as-if you're paying forward what they let you do to yourself.)

Instantaneously, the last grain of sand in the hour glass drops, the distant cousin of Tetanus tightens your jaw, cracking a few teeth..   And a chagrin sweeps your face.





(Your head lifts with the sunrise, you sit up and walk out the door.)

A breath of relief, as the new air fills your lungs.
Heart is still beating.
Brain is all but completely intact.
And nothing was left behind.
Iris Zii Nov 2012
In the faint light
Of a burning candle
She sat cross-legged
On her bed
Holding her head
In her hands …
Her face was as pale
As her nightgown,
Her eyes as red
As the flame
She was staring at …
Her face was expressionless
Lost in deep thought
It made her look
As if she wasn’t really alive …
Then she smiled
A worrisome smile
The impassive look
Still obvious in her gaze …
She laughed
And she laughed
Bloodcurdling as it sounded
The laughter echoed
In the closed room …
The dead look left her
Replaced by an malevolent facade
“The agony,” she said with malice
“Will end tonight.”
She grabbed the chandelier
And her eyes opened wide
Then she moved to the window
Subconsciously
And set the tip of the curtain ablaze ...
The room roared with the noise of fire
And the echo of her laughter
So devious and clear …
Shadows danced around the walls
Crazy shadows of black and grey
And the ceiling was stained with char …
The laughter soon faded into a cough
As the smoke filled her lungs
She fell to her knees
With a grin of victory on her face.
When the morning came,
Flowers were abloom
Birds took their place, chirruping,
On a charred window railing.
And sunshine slipped inside the room
Onto a dead burnt skeleton
Lying in the cinders...
Gayatri Sep 2013
This world is no friend of uniformity,
The man who calls her beautiful spurns her all the same,
they take interest in her till they find new game,
Some tolerate her,those she is closest to,
others cannot but they smile at her too,
She is the passing of time in its best and truest sense,
ALAS! uniformity, how could she be so dense?
She lives in a constant conundrum of they love her or love her not,
but then again if it was true love she wouldn't have given it a second thought.
Why is this world ever condescending yet ever so polite,
Why do people smile sweetly at their victims with bloodcurdling spite,
She may appear strong but she is the timid child in the dark corner of the room,
this world is no place for uniformity she is destined for her doom.
Olivia Kent Jul 2013
In the darkness they lurk,
The shadows of deceased in spirit form,
Wandering through darkness looking for soul salvation,
Life had been no blessing for these tragic mortals,
Was a lifetime of night times nightmares,

There was no love,
An intrepid raven shouts abysmally,
Playing an off beat funeral dirge of his own,
An omen that evil ran amok,
Hidden out of sight,

A scream rang out,
Bloodcurdling howls
Fulfilling the very air,
Thick, dank,
Stench of rotten death,

From the depths of this despair,
Came forth a good soul,
Sweeping the filth from the cavern,
To be cleansed by the fresh spring waters,
Lain undiscovered for millennia,

The wind whirled through these vile caverns,
Propelling freshness through the dark air,
Darkness diffusion infiltrated with sunlight sparkles,
The good soul made incantations of peace,
Blessing the dark spirits,

Enabled them to rest in peace.

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sydney Victoria Jan 2013
As Horses With Blinders We Walk Half Blind,
Hate Grows With A Fury Strong As A Flame,
Ignorance Is Traded Like A Disease,
Cruel Words Infect Every Cell In The Mind,
And Every Mind--Is In Some Type Of Cell,
Caged In A Reality That Doesn't Matter,
But Who Is To Say One Even Does?
Our Souls Are Now Clouded With Confusion,
Our Hearts Centered In Narcissistic Joy,
This City Smog Turning Us Doves,
Into Copies And Clones Of Rock Pigeons,
Twisted Smiles Surreptitiously Lurk,
In Every Corner And Every Hallway,
The Real Question Is--What Have We Become?
It May Be Chiché--Ugly In Physique,
And It May Never Ever Be Answered,
We Know We Have The Power To Change It,
To Change All This Bloodcurdling Chaos,
But I Think The Question Really Is *When Will We
Ryan J Everly Jun 2012
ego
take a step back
grab the mirror by the edges
bracing myself to dive deep
forever into an ego

detached from this world
floating in a sea of grey
passing islands of lost memories
scraping the reefs of regret

dead silence
breathing in the fog of introspect
exhaling confusion mixed with frustration
embracing a salty taste of red

looking to the heavens for guidance
struggling to pierce the cloudy mass
a moon behind veils
made of should-haves

drifting along
stuck in the perpetual
overwhelming, maddening
twisting my reality

peering overboard
calm lights of blue
an army of mannequins
where there should be friends

eons later
banking on an unknown shore
smelling a sulfuric sharpness
not here, anywhere but here

scrambling across
fine black sand dotted with slippery domes
of golden flecked flesh
is there any hope now

voices seem to spontaneously
form in the acrid mist
a green beacon sits
watching, judging in it's omnipresence

fumbling on my accursed path
the monolith appears
all fears come forward
mental collapse on blackest obsidian

an eerie spotlight
making it obvious now
i am not wanted here
even in my own creation

a thousand questions barrage
instantly, paralyzing any hope
of rational thought
a bloodcurdling scream pierces the eternity

shuffling in the distance
sickening popping noise
signals my worst fear
what is that awful smell

so foreign
yet so close
a step backwards
is all it takes for me

but that's what landed me
right into their arms
all familiar faces
twisted with time and malcontent

gaping mouths full of blackest night
twisted appendages discolored
fondling, groping
fingernails scraping off on my skin

an only constant found in stillness
that eerie air, foul as it is
becomes my refuge
beaten by my memories

tears, so long in coming
finally roll down my cheeks
oddly resembling the greasy texture
stuck on the skin of my enemies

eye contact makes time still
seeing the depth of sadness
reflected in theirs
sinking into the fine grind

drowning in the very base
of this worst island
forgotten it should be
unshakable, given i survive

tears amount to nothing
against this fine dust
falling into every pore
making it impossible to blink

finally as my last finger has disappeared
whisked away to a higher place
shooting for the stars
vaulting through the mist

ascending, still blinking
the dirt off my eyes
an unbearable light ahead
a gate, barred of course

too fast now
knock knock
please open up
please let me escape

suddenly i am back
in my bathroom
surrounded by a crimson water
still blinking the dust off...
Torak Jan 2014
When I was 9 years old,
I witnessed a girl with rivers of crimson,
Seeping from her arms.
She had a blood stained sheet,
Tightened around her neck,
As I heard her bloodcurdling screams,
She locked eyes with me.

I felt her eyes.
Dark and cold, and no emotion behind them.

And when I stared in the mirror at 4:38 in the morning.
I felt the same thing.

It has never left me as it has infused into my cells,
And has branded every thought,
Every sense.

I am unsure to be afraid or comforted.

Someone previously described me as damaged,
not broken,
but I have pieces scattered everywhere,
I have carved reasons why I am useless,
I have swallowed for solutions.

I've never felt so alone.
At least I know I am damaged and not broken, right?
midnight prague Oct 2010
I get this feeling
dew drops in window panes its 5 am
,the cold is stinging me and my back feels a bit sore from the different weather
life stings outside
I lay motionless, half asleep I look at my furniture and my ceiling
and I get this feeling

I looked at all my old things
remembered holding them as a child
and my stomach caves in
moisture slides down my chin
as I overlap the different colors on the wall with a half grin

I go somewhere in my head where I have never been
sitting on top of the wall of berlin
tearing to get to that thing that is so much deeper than under my skin
I open my eyes slowly to get the perfect glance,
whisper sin

Im a deluded dreamer trapped in the core of someone elses refuge
its not mine

it was never mine

hollow filled with courses from my bloodline
I leaned back as I adorned the crevice in your jawline
defined and explicit irrational and sensitive
from that I resign
water moving down like wine into our skyline,
Im overturned into your pshyco love mass incorporated to burn bridges
and start a upheavel of immense love and rememberence
of all your most beautiful things
hidden in my cabin in the naked blue forest I have dripped down
with my hands
morphed into something bloodcurdling on a whirlwind
with gracious hormones of anarachy built under all your
comely bones
Paul Celano Jun 2010
Am I scared of you?

Am I the bashful gopher?
Hiding terrified in this hole?
NO!
I am the bloodcurdling bear
Coming from his shadowy cave

Am I scared of you?

Am I the gloomy dog?
Walking away gradually, tail between legs?
NO!
I am the fatal wolf
Ready to attack his prey with terror

Am I scared of you?

Am I the cautious possum?
Hiding at the deepest night?
NO!
I am the spirited hawk
Ready to lunge at any second

So now I ask you…

Are you scared of me?
©2002 Paul Celano
Posted 2010
Marieta Maglas Oct 2011
Sometimes I'm over and often in
My crying jail 
Like a hand of a corporate body
Encompassing both belonging
To that sadness.
An inflexible realness
Forcing eyes
To speak 
Against that malignant silence 

Upon that lower lip,
Forcing that bloodcurdling 
Inner scream to be 
An outer space song 
When it's pushed through fractured teeth
Into a totally weird reality 
Like a shadow of 
An incomprehensible dream
With inlaid hopes
This reality slipping out
When I awake alone 
To nurture my love
In my painful freedom
MCN: CDXA6-8SNLU-71NDM
© copyright Mon Dec 27 19:25:35 UTC 2010 - All Rights Reserved- From The prison of my mind
Marieta Maglas Dec 2011
Sometimes I'm over and often inside
My crying jail
Like two spiritual hands
Encompassing a corporate body,
Both belonging
To that irreversible sadness.
An inflexible realness
Forces my eyes
To speak
Against that malignant silence,
Situated upon your lower lip.
Moreover, it forces my bloodcurdling
Inner scream to be
An outer space song,
When it's pushed through fractured teeth
Into a totally weird reality
Like a shadow of
An incomprehensible dream
With inlaid hopes.
This reality is slipping out,
When I awake alone
To nurture my love
In my painful freedom.
Cellar D'or Mar 2015
You were killed at 7:31 a.m, July 6th 1915 at the Battle of the Somme
One minute after the execution of your regiment to charge towards
The furious glare of sunlight
The thunder of sentries
Firing bolts of metal
To crash, break and rip everyone around you
Trampling, clambering over each other
Bloodcurdling yells stopped by their choking
Stamped out by the whizzing hail of bullets
And no time to accept fate in the suicide mission
As your mind is punctured by the enemy
And fragments of your skull bristles the red hill
Splashed of your blood which pumped the heart
That cared for so many, now exposed as mortar fire
Shreds through your cavity and dismembers
The broken dreams and broken limbs
You once had.

You were remembered by the dwindling few
Of who you were back home, before the draft.
How many were killed, how little they know
That you truly died as you said your Goodbyes.
Vernon Waring Sep 2015
Eleven years ago, I was standing in
a field surrounded by towering
trees. As on many nights before, I
was taking my dog Scotty for a walk,
and then letting him run loose for a short
time. This particular night he seemed
anxious, restless. He began to howl - a
bloodcurdling, evil bark that shattered
the stillness on that crisp autumn evening.
He seemed to be responding to something
only he could sense and then there was
an enormous floating cloud, a sort of heavy
mist that filled the atmosphere quickly.
Suddenly a spaceship with blinking green
and yellow lights materialized and landed
not so far from where we were. I lost sight
of the dog, just heard him barking wildly in
the distance. A door opened on the spaceship
and a steel gray robotic creature with one red
eye in the middle of its head stepped out. It
was brandishing a silver sword and it was
then when the entire field became engulfed
in  an overwhelming darkness.

I was in shock and started to run.
Somehow, even with all this terror
and confusion, I made it home.
Breathless, anxious, fearful, I told
my wife what I'd seen and heard.
She approached me, grabbed my
trembling locked fist, and pried it
open; Scotty's leash fell soundlessly
on the rug. Startled and sobbing,
she shrieked, "Where's Scotty?
What happened to Scotty?"

I had no answer then.

Or now.
Ameliorate Jul 2015
Rose colored glasses
A blessing and a lesson
Steady rhythm of the pouring rain
Pitter patter against the rooftop
Humidity cast away for a moment
A refreshing pause on the days heat
Thunder booms
A distant siren blares
Emergency vehicles still out in full force
The city doesn't sleep
Heavy wind shakes the house
Rattling the loose windowpanes
Old glass is a true test of craftsmanship through time
The dogs cower beside me, small masses of shivers and uncertainty
I try to reassure them that there is nothing to fear
However I'm not so sure of this myself
More thunder
Cracking through the sky overhead full force
The abruptness of it all startles me into a jump
I am as shaken as the dogs
Despite the wonder
Lightning cracks and flashes like a picture show I can view through my window
Free television direct from nature, the best cable provider
you just need your eyes and a large enough window
If I find myself without power, I'll light the last hour of my candle
Slow burn, write by the flickering light
As this storm rages on I think about the moon
Which part of the world gets to gaze upon your gorgeous surface tonight?
Oh moon,
There is much left unexplained.
Sirens blare again,
Fire-truck perhaps
My mind is now seaside
Imagining I am a sailor, ship cast away enduring this terrible storm on the open water
A woman port-side in the distance sings a sweet, dangerous melody
Her voice soft and heavenly
Unrecognizable words at first until we slowly become closer to her
What once sounded wonderful now speaks of famine, war
A tale of death she bellows
Harmoniously growling, creating an ominous symphony with the heavy rain and clashes of thunder
"Unchanging is the sea, every good man too shall fall. Release your soul to me, for I am the lady who calls".
We are upon her now, her call almost deafening
The siren of the deep issues one last bloodcurdling scream
Then silence
Silence, coldness and pitch black
And I awaken, gasping for breath
The dogs are beside me and my candle still burns
A dream it must've been, yes a very real dream
But in my mind I can still hear that eerie song, sung by the beautiful siren of the deep
Casting her spell on all those who dare sleep.
lucidwaking May 2021
---TRIGGER WARNING: themes related to ****** trauma.---

On an evening alone, dark and dismal,
I laid upon my crisp floor rug.
Stomach down, back up,
Thinking about the one I love.
I mused and mulled over many things,
Such as how I cared for her so,
Or when we'd next meet,
And what I'd even say.
As I continued to think and think,
My mind settled on other kinds of things.

I bit my lip; I stalled for a moment.
I hovered a thumb over the enter key,
And with a single exhale released my hesitation.
"How to figure out my kinks," or
"How to ask about her kinks."
I felt like a child, sneaking onto the home computer at night,
And finding a timid sort of delight
In googling "*****."

So I continued...
Taking a quiz here,
Reading a page there,
When something stopped me in my tracks.
Something cold ran down my back,
Like a spectre tracing my spine with a finger -
An otherworldly shiver.
Not a shiver of excitement or elation,
But rather one of danger,
Signaling an unholy presence hanging over me.

I could see them as I glanced up.
His eyes:
Smiling
  Laughing
      Singing
                       Feeding
                                                   Growling
                                                        ­                                       Burning
                                                         ­     Knashing
                                Decaying
        Wa­iling
                                               Devouring
                                                       ­                                       Bloodcurdling
Looking, seeing right through me.
My ceiling fan stirred his viridescent hair;
Pulled at the petals of the rose between his teeth.
His grin grew wider
As the stem's thorns grew longer,
Piercing his raw, red gums.

He came to remind me, it would seem...
Remind me that he still existed.
He wanted to remind me that
He still haunted the sides of my head -
Stirring, kneading my temporal lobes.
Searching the gaze in his eyes, I remembered.

I remembered feeling more worthless than dirt.
I remembered the validation I thought I needed.
I remembered the guilt, shame, and fear.
I remembered feeling like a disgusting, useless ****.
I remembered trying to avoid sending him photos.
I remembered staring at my ceiling,
Sobbing quietly in the night,
Silently screaming within my chest
For help.
To be saved...
By someone, anyone.

But most of all...
But most of all,
I remembered why I couldn't be loved.
Not in that way, at least.
My demon, who for some reason I still cling to,
Reasons that I don't even understand,
Won't allow it.
I blinked, and all but his eyes vanished,
Leaving me with a small thought as opposed to immense fear.
Maybe it's okay that I could never enjoy a partner that way?
Perhaps I could learn to be complacent with that.
Perhaps I could learn to be content with that.

I yawned, chucked my phone aside,
And closed my eyes to sleep.
I was iffy on posting this one. Hopefully including a trigger warning is enough for this piece - while the themes aren't overly explicit, they are there. Feel free to let me know if this piece is inappropriate for HePo. I'm glad I conceptualized this character and wrote this piece, but that doesn't mean it has to be posted, especially if it's too triggering.
As always, I welcome criticism! Thanks.
Sara attia Oct 2014
The creature that lurks beneath.
It has no soul.
The black, heinous and bloodcurdling mist dwells in its bowls.
It shrieks in the night, for it is thirsting for a new super.
It reduces a garnish persona to nothing but a pile of shallow and pessimistic ash.
Beware of this creature.
For it is not tangible.
It is not palpable.
It is not corporeal.
This beastly, callous phantom is only the deepest part of our conscious.
Where all the treacherous things go to stay.
Building up, they flourish into what is lurking beneath.
Larry B Jan 2011
A building was built in nineteen-ten
A place for the children to learn
Once filled with laughter, now the everafter
This schoolhouse would suddenly burn

Twenty-one souls, were lost that day
When the schoolhouse burned to the ground
A nightmarish cost, everyone was lost
A bible, the only thing found

A school once more, raised from the ashes
But later, turned into a home
With visions and dreams, of bloodcurdling screams
And oasis, for spirits to roam

Ghostly apparitions, now wander these rooms
Trying to escape from the flames
Trapped in this hell, their spirits now dwell
While calling their mother's names

Each night they play their childish games
Destined, to relive that day
Ever changing shape, while trying to escape
This place, where the children play
They pour out and foam up at the bottom
The way waterfalls do
As they leave my lips
The sounds they make as they crash
Into the waters below
Are like the bloodcurdling screams of little girls
When the fires in their homes blacken the air
With smoke unlike the gray cigarette smoke
That they are familiar with
The smell of "home" in some way
The smell of hugs
And kisses
And love

Fear is all there is when they come out to play
They tug at ears and pierce them unsavorily
Leaving holes in places you never wanted
Cry all you want, but the scars they leave are scars
Like on your wrists and on mine
Except they don't fade
And they never will
But one day they will open up again
And bleed like they're brand new

They tell me they'll make it all be alright again
And they phase through blades like ghosts
Smoothly and gracefully at the price of my sanity
I don't want to do this anymore
I don't want to keep doing this
I'm tired of lying
I'm tired of lies

Maybe I'll find the strength
To give the truth a shot
One of these days
Larry B May 2010
A building was built in nineteen-ten
A place for the children to learn
Once filled with laughter, now the everafter
This schoolhouse would suddenly burn

Twenty-one souls, were lost that day
When the schoolhouse burned to the ground
A nightmarish cost, everyone was lost
A bible, the only thing found

A school once more, raised from the ashes
But later, turned into a home
With visions and dreams, of bloodcurdling screams
And oasis, for spirits to roam

Ghostly apparitions, now wander these rooms
Trying to escape from the flames
Trapped in this hell, their spirits now dwell
While calling their mothers names

Each night they play their childish games
Destined, to relive that day
Ever changing shape, while trying to escape
This place, where the children play
Frankie Gestone Oct 2017
She watched in an audience of life
The stage where she met her demise
She looked into his pitch black eyes
Where somehow she could finally see herself smile
She watched as she was brutally tortured, bloodcurdling screams
Her time of grief and sorrow was soon to pass,
like nightmares and dreams
She asked for this, to be free of pain
So he laughed and smiled, as she was mutilated in the rain
He wanted not just her body, but all of her soul
But she knew that was the one thing no one could ever control
When it was all said and done, the fire went out
The audience was shocked and quiet and he began to shout
He howled for more, as she vanished to a far away place
Entering the night, tears of intense joy and laughter all over her face
Vernarth in the evening of his life is called again to raise his sword, perhaps following the paths of Paul of Tarsus, precisely here his Word would begin in the figure of a Hoplite who will redeem the oppressed, who will reinforce the growth of the seeds, that will give hope to those deprived of Faith when they have to face their own Apokálypsis that would allow them to take with them when embarking on this adventurous daring in pages of life that follow that for many will be unknown. The seer's paranormal experience in Patmos will vivify his commendable virtue of confessing himself as a defender of Life and Death from the same intermediate final point, to then reach the nexus of gratitude that compensates that leads to make amends when leaving his abode naked and return every six months to Sudpichi in Solstice, and Equinox in Spring to Patmos explaining the premiere of this final event.

Vernarth's distinctive and codes will swell an intertestamental Biblical event, made up of crude abstract and demonstrative images that from so much decanting could be assimilated to what the Mashiach did in the Siloam Cistern, more than water being the same Hydor that is born from the origin and reaches the end of the erudition. The desperate desire to limit the spirit of a soldier is clouded within his own microclimate, wishing for a possibility that lies in the impossibility and fruits of the fan that separates the Universe from the Earth. From here the Faith is professed by the reflections of all those who have lived in a body of Flint, as were their parents freed by Vernarth, letting rest the readings of the sunset to those who from Flint have become meteorites that wander through the universe. As possible Christians to re-convert after a pre-tribulation or a new order, separated from what deprives us of new incursions. The Apokálypsis according to Vernarth does not diverge from Saint John; rather it tends to seclude itself from all the windstorms of divinities that are intermingled in its mysteries from all the exuberances of an endless gospel, which moves the hair of the Yahweh with the scent of lavender even within the pantheon itself after three days. The mystery of not understanding that a common man bears stamped on his body all the signs that give observance of a Passionate John that is in all of us having to share his silence within us, as suggested by the silence of which we are fertilized by clairvoyance’s of Patmos more than the consequences of some supra desire of Vernarth to cover some hint of autobiography, but more generously than the doors of his Megarón or Dypilon, be clairvoyance that shows us that the doors are the unknown within what is and we cannot Observe, V.G. as is illustrative in Spinalonga when Marie des Vallées settles at the point of the salvation of Theus and Vikentios all behind the transom as a consistent metaphysics of the unfulfilled desires due to burdens of other souls in salvation entrusted to resplendent beings. This is testimony to buried or invariable enemies such as Edomites with the affinities of the Seleucids or Pharisees with the Primitive Christians in the channel of each word that interprets the opposite diameter adaptable to a prayer that circulates the course of what an exegete does well If the original word of Vernarth's testimony of never perishes to aspire to do as the manah on the flowers that well deserve to perch on the Xiphos, where the central nerve of its shoe is the Baldric, many times it turned only in the battlefield when Vernarth used both hands, what a mystery! Here is the glossary of what is double-edged and double-handed metal when its length is pointed to the edge of the world where the Sun at its tip let the Light penetrates. Each unknown hemisphere will be possible to slice with both edges of each Xiphos as interpenetrated bronze and iron until it dissolves in the light of the Spring Sun.

All the causes were weighted to a grandeur where the messages of recomposing all the patrimonial legacies that would be the influence that everything could decline in the grandeur of bloodcurdling screams from the temples, which remained in the dark because they did not know who to unbind from the co-responsibility of seven churches of the Hellenic Elegies; from Ephesus to Laodicea trying to remove from the jaws atrocious empires that sentenced policies with more than a thousand years without having any more than a macular century. Vernarth in the depth in which nothing bothers him incites his sensitivity with what reduces the pain in his compassion of the 1st century, which will never stop passing through the well-deserved waking time in all the streets of Greece in which all his traces are they shuddered in challenges that deserved to be from a great classroom that is oversized more than any possible Odeon to fill with spectators from a well-to-do society and satisfied as it seems today with a high price paid for an unworthy degree.

Also, his apocalyptic metaphysics flees by whole perverted societies, and not half due to points of tension of his overwhelming immorality, and defense of all nature that does not corrupt itself, perhaps from an echo locked up when converting from Laodicea to Ephesus as if he were to remake Vernarth's Inverted "V" as the initial contact point of these seven derivations of his decline. The barbarians are at the foot of the very door that enters rather by inertia, and decline from the extinction of the Sun to later redefine it through cycles from spring to winter as we will see that it will emerge with the Duoverse manifested, after trampling on the beast that feeds on of pain and ingenuity from which all our destinies are focused to be swallowed by the snout of a battalion of enemies that migrate from the beast, but they do not realize that this is how calls should be made to all the empires that leave to his abandoned combatants, left on burning pyres immune, punished by flames that will never consume him, who were dazed and with their temper will come out alive with bodies that do not belong to us, annoyed at not prospering because of this anti-divine ****, understanding that the harshness of our tears will not make us neutral or worthy of the joys of suffering together what belongs to us in a body already sacrificed, this is the Apocalypse of flourishing images that are directed in processes of slaughtering the lamb that I cannot and will not be able to identify with the apparent strength of knowing how to be forgiven or undermine the riches of a leadership that for long millennia hoarded riches and never delegated its feigned goodness to us where the grass grows and twists from its root, rethinking days to count and increasing the agony of counting the simulated strengths that never let us enjoy.

It must be understood that all the opposing forces merged with the numbered days of a new rebirth, with the cries of Vernarth from Hyperborea, the pre-tribulation from Erebus or Sheol, from the anguish of the pectoral or Lynothorax from which the days counted in the same distance of traveling in the Purgation or Katartirio of the total confinement of which could be mentioned shouting in the acoustics of the Valley where the last word will remain. We place ourselves in the extravagance of which the rays of luminance deliver us the entire body of credibility to reach the step of happiness that will flow from the first and inaugural vision that confirms the first of the first of the alchemy that has been positivist, even of what paradoxically resurrects not expecting to be who we expected it to be, but despair is cast down in an act in which Vernarth dares to let go of the Mashiach's hand, to go help his parents from being petrified by the Flint that It would be provided for the end of the world with the prompt assistance of St. Jerome of Estridon as it was for an act where the Dragon calmed down, and stopped moving its tail, perhaps from the Green Dragon of Slovenia or its offspring for spreading within the world expelling fire with scales, horns that could be trusted from the Ibex of Valdaine, the Dragon of the Stained Glass of the Cathedral of Avignon hitting with its tail the Portals of Saint George, stating that such time the Nibelung Ring Cycle with Siegfried or secular specimen of the Draconian descent of the Merovingians, of the very Greek Drakon that began to subjugate Patmos in the year 76 AD. C. in between and badly wounded between the rocks of the Wind Tunnel of Profitis Ilias or as the dragon could be welcome, and if it were Lohikäärme Finnish descent stopping Soviets on their borders of blood that roars fire from the deepest corner of their land. The Greek serpents were born in the seas for several miles around where there were no other species but them, because if they had they would have been devoured by the great Ha-Shatan with ten horns and seven heads, much of the literary inspiration of San John is in Greek, but it is more likely that he originally came through the Near East. In the embryonic Roman Empire, each military cohort had a particular identification Signum (military standard), after Trajan's Dacian wars in the east, the military standard of the Dacian dragon entered the legion with the Sarmatian and Dacian cohorts: a large fixed dragon at the end of a spear with large open jaws of silver and with the rest of the body formed of colored silk. With its jaws facing the wind, the silky body was inflated and undulating, resembling a windsock, the Dragon continues to travel along roads that are the marks of the chariots without any mercy to those who awaited them at their destination with legions throwing hot breath that only Saint Jerome of Stridon knew how to mitigate. This huge lizard will continue to lay siege to the evil that cannot contain it, just like the basilisk in the Raedus Codex to imbue the never-burning blades of fire from the Apocalypse of Saint John, by chance with the fiery semblance of a Wyvern in the dome of the cathedral of Saint Nicholas in Slovenia, swallowing his own fire. With a fateful language of birds that would codify Siegfried that the end of everything comes from the seas of Patmos with heated water.

That winged creatures will come copiously to quiet the world to the world of Miðgarðsormurinn perhaps in Jämtland, besieging the Soviets like a serpent more than winged in vigor that shakes the Celtic tree with its Birch and Beech in Solstice or a dragon that was not with wings glued with wax that crashed when falling before reaching Sicily as is the case of Daedalus and Icarus, or the Lindworm dragons that expelled fire from the Mörser 16 howitzers of the Second World War. All these wealthy treasures are fundamental pieces of all the paradigms that form the prelude to a History that has blinded us without giving rest to everything that surrounds us, not even lavishing Christian burial with evil eyes that are characteristic of the dragons that they spit fire from your back, stalking a Britannia Pendragon.

Much of the banners, heraldry, and heraldry bear this emblem of beings made up of male and female offspring to form as a family the antigen of Slavic Bulgarian humanity, as a dissident figure that was torn from the edges of the Apocalypse to protect the crops where probably Rains of gold would come for his crops if he were male, and female if it were a prophecy of bad deeds to denigrate the farmer's seeds. Strong-blooded dragon would be Zmiy, Ukrainian carrying a four-legged beast, and on each leg a Cornucopia for golden petals that are collected from other maidens who will never stop being lush, protecting the arteries that rain healthy blood from Ukrainian maidens like the Zmei. From Zsablas that carry the Polish Smok on their backs that will be reborn from this apology of the Dragon of the Apocalypse that freed them from the Katyn Forest, on the banks of the Vistula where Bogdan drank water with his Zsablas to go free the Heroes of Smolensk and each Polish officer who had a Dragon stamped on his forehead, and also on the Coat of Arms of the Cracovians in Piasts of Czersk, fleeing from the cellars of some Warsaw revolt.

The climbing of the Basilisks of the Profitis Ilías Wind Tunnel will reign throughout Hispania as a prophetic emanation from the mouth of San Juan in Asturias and Cantabria with the magnificent silhouettes of the mountains in the Dragon Saw, followed by gargoyles that come to life in the peaks as a young Hoplite who wears his Áspis Koilé polished to annoy the dragon, which is nothing more than the basilisk when he was tricked by the Raedus Codex by mistaking them for his own offspring, thus allowing those who went to the Investiture of the Himation. It will be the eponym of Sugar, a Basque masculine god, who is often associated with a serpent or a dragon, but can also take other forms. His name can be read as "male snake".

Marielle de Quentinnais shows us in Saint George and the Dragon in the era of the Antipopes in Avignon, of which Saints and Blesseds would fight with the powers of the Dragon as in this sub-sequence that was released from Forli, with great similarity to the Mercurial Ambrosia due to Saint Mercurial as the laurel of Christianity over the idolatry in which terrified people did not sleep because of the frightful tremors of Forli and Forlimpopoli. Possibly, Saint John, the Apostle helps them put the stoles around the cornered Dragon's neck. Every evil force that is not defeated is a postponement of that moment in which it will fall surrendered, as it was from the original of the Dragon Hunters like Saint John of Patmos styling in the acroteras, and ledges of the Megarón that points to the Aegean seas to see if some of them are coming regurgitating the intact body of Margarita de Antioquia, that burst from the black belly of the Dragon saying "Draco vivit in Homine, non in Legendis" "The dragon lives in Man, not in Legends"

Having established Draco Vernarth Apocalypsis liturgy "Apocalypse of the Liturgy of the Dragon of Vernarth" the message continued along the path of Hydor where precisely the defenseless doors will be protected towards the enthronement of Silence with the ardent hope of Salvation as evidenced by the Pauline message "Marana Tha” building the coming of the Eternal that with all its dimensions will transform the collapsed world, tearing the senses that can reach the trade that transforms the ritual that is entrenched in the genetics of eternity in the tail of the Dragons that have formed classes and subclasses of heraldry of the Black Templar Knights, who roam on the run, creating the confusion that the medieval feudal mysteries were the continuation of an antiquity even if hostilities did not exist unless the tails of the basilisk of Patmos are crossed with some science from Ephesus to Pergamon , with the providence of a god in extinction that s ea disobeyed by his troops, and is bloodily decimated by the suffered trances of evil from which the ill-fated Knight is transformed into his own Dragon bled and immolated.

The end is not made with a mere vision of a Draconian Liturgy, from the year 72 AD. the Roman legions of Palestine were uncrossing where voices were heard like an occupied face of land but free of religious authority, which in one way or another saw the contemplative passage of half kindness or benevolence of a Caesar that would later be followed by the chins of fire of the Dragon, always escorted by Vernarth who lived and heard everything succumbing to imperial systems that were attached to filings of Hebrews that burned on their backs, to corners not sharpened by Greek spears to corner the frequency of a detractor of symbols of the Apocalypse, that was embodied in Vernarth with sumptuous flint that adhered to the Áspis Koilé or smaller Peltas that became prosaic to arrows that adhered to the tin shaft to vindicate itself in the foliage, as a recurring expression of the apocalyptic mentality assumed by recognizing that the Apocalypse is lived inside, and nothing on the outside that corrodes more than its own entrails. Indeed, everything private and non-transferable exhorts us to the end of the melodrama from where we must share hearts for those who keep their manners, and make the opening of the Kassotides a tiny possibility of change after Vernarth realizes that he has the furthest possible the dung of the Human Dragon, creating a dominant culture that recovers what enables us to preserve in its own Identity, illuminated and reinforced by conviction.

Vernarth, a few steps from falling from the abyss, makes his prophecy to ask the sky, the Mashiach, and Spílaiaus to release the chains of Kairós, so that the genre of granting life revives the system of the flame of the omega point, which then is reversed in celestial spasm, strongly grasping the tail of the dragon that will transport him with three lightning bolts and trumpets with the seven trumpets that will leave them in Delphi according to the nature of the Cassiotis or Kassotides moat, as a praiseworthy insurrection of being reached by a metaphorical being in Daniel as an apocalypse that will indicate that rain of light and fire will flow from on high, but they will all be directed from Patmos to Delphi.

Vernarth joins the Maccabees to obstruct the Seleucids, as the two books of the Maccabees tell, who start a ****** guerrilla war against the oppressor, and the prophet Daniel chooses a totally alternative and non-violent path. This shows that the worst militia of an armed man is to break with the sovereignty of his oppressed soul, and then be batoned in literary artifice like books from the present to a past with leaders buried in the ruins of lost civilizations, as in the case of the Seleucids and Edomites in open bread on themselves by Mikaiyáh, Archangel Saint Michael. Behold Vernarth where each gloss of contracted episodes never disengaged from the muscular tail of the Dragon that evidenced his vision of St. John, in such expectation that it resolutely rose from the heights of the Iridescent Nimbus, subduing all empires in the tail of the Dragon. The dragon that shakes the resistance of the ungovernable walls, but not the law of the powerful who makes himself believe, but the muscle piece that is rooted in Tel Gomel, is nothing more than the Holy Scripture of the duality of Saint John the Apostle / Vernarth; both as a monosemic (uni-meaning) and univocal lexicon that penetrated with all the desire of the heart moving them together, to decipher after the year 96 AD, towards the unveiling of Sardis to Laodicea with the Iscaton that is subtracted from the Dragon's Tail.
Cauda Draconis
Lexi Smith Dec 2014
Word after word you flung them at me
It didn't make a difference
My tears you didn't see

All these voices in my head
My own
Other people's

They said
Go **** yourself,
You aren't good enough
You're nothing
You're worthless
You ****

Tears starts to drop
Because if I can't release my emotions
It's the next best thing

My breaths get quicker
I can't move
I reach out for anything to hold onto
Trying to get a grip on my sanity

I gulp for air but there is none
Stupid global warming.
Try to make myself laugh

Doesn't work

So there it is
The corner of the room
The lights are off
So I stare

I try to see the corner where the two walls meet but it's just darkness

It reminds me of us.

Darkness is all I ever see.

The corner of the two walls where they meet

It's staring into a void because in this darkness I can't see.

It's but an empty black hole of nothingness that is waiting for us to venture closer so it can rip our hearts out.

Once again
Reminds me of you.

It's 3:25 in the morning
Why can't i breathe
Why can't I think

The corner of the room
In daylight it looks safe enough
But in the darkness?
It's something you can never trust

Rocking back and forth
Scratching at arms
Because I don't have anything sharper
I was prepared

I start to hear screams and think
I should help
Oh wait
That's me.
I bite my tongue
Bite my hand

Forcing the bloodcurdling noise
To stop

Because
No one wants to hear

No one does

Hide and Go seek was always the game I was best at.
️Hiding is the thing I'm good at

Searching
Scrambling
Throwing things around

Found it

A sigh in relief
Rip in two
Music starts to bleed from my soul
Words drip from my eyes

Regrets of broken promises
Regrets of broken medicine seals
So high my feet can't touch the ground
I move my lips but no sound

Am I a superhero?
Because I'm flying

That corner of the room
That **** corner
The last thing my eyes set on
Forever burned in there
As I fall
A Shipcraft Dec 2011
Shadows like severed limbs creep on pallid, festering fingers to surround me,
The strains of terror-filled, bloodcurdling screams rip through me.
Then your face before me, making grey sketches morph into technicolour animations.
I feel perversely happy in that moment.

Your lips curl upwards, a snarl; a sneer appears,
You stare, glare, for heavy seconds, searing straight through me; you never did see me I suppose.
You stare, and you stare, and you stare.
I cease to exist.
One excruciating second more; your eyes upon mine.
You walk away, and everything is black, unmoving.
You always said it, you always told me:
"I will let you down".
Ollie Bee Jun 2018
His skin is peeling away from the structure of his face the fire burns so hot he will never be recognized as him again I don't know why they bothered to re cremate him when by the end he was already a burnt out husk anyways.
2 a.m on Friday the 13th his tires slid and he wrapped himself around a tree something ignited and it's clear he never had a chance from the beginning
I thought he was careful.
I see his bloodcurdling screams on a movie screen in my head the soundwaves look like never coming home except in a box with a flag handed to his two sons I think the irony is that he made it through the war and not down the highway.
I thought he was careful.
I sat in the 4th row and couldn't stop staring at a beautiful blue box it held this man bigger than life inside of it everybody is crying around me and I just want him to hug me again but i feel so selfish as if his sons don't want that too.
I thought he was careful.
Everynight on the back of my eyelids they replay the crash I never saw but can only imagine in full color surround sound I could almost feel the seismic impact his death left on the world when the tree did not give way and I hope that you were lucky enough to get into heaven but I've got to say that burning up on Friday the 13th doesn't sound very lucky to me.
In the nightmares that haven't stopped in 2 months and one week.
Max May 2017
Dreams and reality finally collide.
His heart sank, he opened his eyes.
An unsightly creature hovered above him.
The room was freezing, cold and dim.

They won't let him leave.

They dug jagged nails through his skull, through the bone. 
The boy shrieked, "Just leave me alone!" 
Bursting and coughing bloodcurdling cries. 
Sticky warm blood ran to his sides.

He couldn't breathe.

His nostrils are smacked with a metallic smell;
His mind boomed and rang a death knell.

Finally

The struggling halts, exhausted, he lays still. 
The room fills with silence and chills.
A tear rolled passed his ear dripping to the ground;
While nightmares lurk in this place unfound.

His eyes slowly closed.

He will never leave.
Styles 12 Apr 2017
I was in 4th grade
when I met A.J.
he had chestnut hair like his father
that swept down to his chin.

He was a golden gloves boxer
with lightning fast fists.

We played tackle football and shot  pool together.

At night we dressed like infantry men
and dashed out there
in the bushes and trees
mixed up in serious battle.

A.J. would borrow his dad's combat gear,
flashlights , blankets, etc...

His father was a short, skinny guy
who served in Vietnam

a constant, intense blaze seemed to burrow way down deep to his core.

I knew he had been through something Ginormous over there.

He killed a lot of people that much I knew, but he had also witness friends die and after seeing that
something inside him must have snapped,

a rainbow bridge falling forever into a cataclysmic darkness.

I never got too close to him
a clear intuition always warned me
to keep my distance.

There was a rumbling warning in his volcanic eyes that told me
He never really left the jungle.
Some vital part of himself was still over there.

His screams slashing through his dreams
still riveting his head into the swollen firefights that made demons
crawl inside his lonely foxhole.

I always had great respect and admiration for A.J.'s Father.
I used to hear those bloodcurdling screams at night when I slept over.
I have never heard screams like that since.

My heart would pour out to him in those long washing mind wanders
you get when you're cocooned in ripe silences
and
the heavy texture of the world seems to vanish
and all you have is the lonely ripples of quiet, secret love
washing to your shore banks.

I loved the man you see.
Even when he lost it.
Even when he beat A.J. to a pulp once.
His foxhole eyes intoxicated with whiskey & war & loss.

It was then and there in that horrible moment that I seemed to really see
how war had come and carved him up, left him still a prisoner in his cramped one bedroom apartment.

I saw him still fighting
a deadly riot within himself.
His demon still trolling jungles for the enemy, or his lost friends, or Rainbow bridge.

Whatever it was I still think of him today sometimes
wanting to understand him more.

Maybe it was that damaged, haunted look he always had in those more than troubled
quaking eyes of his that always made me wonder what he had seen and did.

What cruel monsters were still digging through this poor man's soul
when he had seen the world darkly end?

What red line of unforgiveness kept tugging at the corners of his blasted out heart?

I still lie awake at night wondering, hoping he has found peace.


© 2014 Scott Lee
TeeCrush Mar 2018
Resting in bed
peacefully I lay
awaiting the new day
as the last one is now dead
In the midst of silence and solitude
I hear them
like the banging of sheet metal
The hounds bark
and i do shiver as it startles my heart
because now
walking on my level
is no one other the devil
They howl and they cry
a growl so bloodcurdling
it keeps me up all night
And I hear the rumble
The one that calls to me
Like the blowing of a horn
Reviving the children stillborn
Calling to the shadows lying over me
and the demons inside us we can’t see
The hellhounds
they dance and they cry
I hide and I cower
In my small house
painted in white
I do hope the sound will stop
As I cannot sleep
If this is the sound of hell
I have no desire to meet red belle
I heard some loudass fkn sounds while trying to sleep in bed one night. I could hear it from outside, in the street, but the sound was so powerful and loud that I just chose not to look out my window. I wrote this instead.
Cíara McNamara Aug 2014
You will think I write this of you –
Assuming, words of tender love and grandeur.
You will search, with soul-less eyes – for my proclamation –
My declaration, of you.

Assumptions, I feel, a sign of thoughtless stupidity.
I do no write of you, nor sweetly or of disdain.
You hold no possession on my heart,
Your face is not echoed throughout my soul.

You do not haunt my dreams –
Never were the cause of those horrid, bloodcurdling sleep-screams.
Mistaken they all were, you fell for it too.
The possessing you see was of a different kind –

Have you not seen your soul-less eyes?
Ever ponder what happened that sun-gleamed smile?
There was a possession of the heart – not done by king.
No, no! You are full of such sweetly innocent stupidity!

The spell was cast and darkness simmered –
All from one demonic queen – yes, now cue me.
The roll I played lacked nothing – but a returning thud of my heart.
See I took yours – and placed in under my shoe
You never touched my heart.
Bunny Aug 2017
Dog
it came down
it landed hard
on the one that controls
the one that speaks let out a bloodcurdling shriek
unwholesomely accompanied by small giggles
the assaulter came down once again
the one that speaks became weaker, letting out a muffled cry
the crowd drained the voice
as the voice got weaker, the crowd got louder with laughter
the fur was not enough to brace the one that thinks
it came down again
the innocence crumpled to the floor
the shrieks and pleas for life pried from its body
were the last sounds it made
fresh meat.
Kay-Rosa May 2019
i fear the dark,
i fear the light.
i fear the shadows and the monsters who take refuge in my mind.
i fear the eternal silence,
i fear the bloodcurdling screams of the voices who are never given a microphone.
but most of all,
above any fear i have ever felt,
i fear being stuck, i fear failure.
i fear i will never get anywhere with my limited abilities.
i fear falling down,
                            down,
                                   down,
                                         down
to my own personalized hell where endless,
                                              crippling failure is
inevitable.
                                                            for once
                                 just once
can i play the game
                                                                                 and win?
LovelyBones Sep 2014
There is a big empty hole in this heart.
It's been beaten, cracked, and broken apart.
But these wounds will surprise you, they're not what they seem.
In the endless black hole, there are bloodcurdling screams.
For awhile there was light, then it burned out.
Now there is no one to hear your shout.
The wails only echo, no one hears today.
In this suffocating void, all hope fades away.
Is this too much to handle; is there too much grief?
If so, i hope you know, there will be relief.

— The End —