"bloodstained" poems
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems like *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
There is beauty within failure
Is my life then a tale of a fair maiden
surrounded by a macabre beauty?
Then it is not the tragedy
written in my sins
on bloodstained paper
that I've been practicing
Or is the beauty in
learning from you failures?
'Cause then all these lessons have been lost on me
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
I say;
The drifting rain dissolves sea salt
Turning tears into dangled monsoon
Under the bleak ballad of dying dawn
Where I long for heat unbroken
You say;
The drifting rain drenches my tiptoe
Witching smiles into deranged equinox
Upon the downpour of ancient daybreak
Where I pray for old snow long sunk
All was as if the days faded
And morphed into younger sunset
It was as if mercy was drained
And no one preach as desired
The downpour stench though remains constant
Of rotting perfume of the rouge graphite
You drowsily drip from dowsing fingers, they lit
Into pages of burning, dancing melodious lads
As will, you may keep those imageries for you
And give up old stories as my slumber lyre
Whether it is about the burnt down marching boy
Or the bloodstained pianist from our ancient joy
For the bleak heart aesthetic
has affected a new kind of love
And the bleak heart aesthetic
would never let you feel so certain
So please keep your drifting rain of strings
During the downpour of the deranged equinox
When the snow goes black and slowly sunk
Into pages of firespit melodious lads
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Words,
They could never hurt,
They could never cut,
They could never make you bleed,
Physically.
Words,
A manifestation of self-hate,
Written in bold,
Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression,
I was sold.
Words,
The last,
Written on a bloodstained note,
"I can't stay afloat"
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 10:30 AM UTC
I fear! I tremble in horror!
I am a witness,
and right before me
bloodstained grass
Oh, not because of the terror
of ******
;
the colors don't mix.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
The twilight of the day draws near,
The blazing sun is laid to rest,
And dimming skies let stars appear
That twinkle in the bloodstained west.
The once warm air turns cold and still,
Long drawn out shadows gently fade,
While birdsong that before was shrill
Falls silent in a soft cascade.
The rooftops change from red to black,
So too the rising spiralled wisps
Of smoke churned up from chimney stacks
And stoves of wood burnt cinder crisp.
And everywhere nights velvet brush
Begins to daub the landscape whole,
Descending with a quiet hush
That calms the nerves and soothes the soul.
Until the end when all too soon
The final vestiges of day
Are bade farewell by the new moon
Who cannot help but smile away.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
A single life so worthless, that poor fly,
Sooner than its timely moment to die,
As commanded by my unnerving will,
Its incompetent life I chose to ****
Put more simply, for disturbing my peace,
Its feeble and destitute life I ceased.
Yet my bloodstained hands always remained clean,
Once crimeful killing had become routine.
What almighty and sinful God am I
For unsparingly judging who must die
By my sword, without remorse or regret,
The slaughtered fly under my gavel, I forget.
An evil power from no source or spring
Springs power in me like a maddened King.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 10:43 AM UTC
I am the Great Connector
I was born to unite The Horde
I am the Great Collector
Of souls felled by my Axensword
They all call me subhuman
And revile me as a beast
But they do the same to you and
For that they'll pay the price
(No Peace)
We are strong, We are brave
Though they wish to see us caged
We are wild and Untamed
And we will never live as slaves
Conquerors, We Are One!
Same blood in different skins
At last you'll see, when the victor is me
I am the Lord of our Kin
Wastelanders, Join the March
The World will burn as we sing
When the battle is won, I'll announce to everyone
"I am the Ogre King!"
I am the Great Divider
I was born to brew up storms
I am the Annihilator
My path was forged in war
My reign began in chaos
In Bloodshed, so it ends
All this Strife has nearly left me with
No Kingdom to Defend
(Descent)
We are Violent and Enraged
Now that we have been Betrayed
There are Consequences Grave
For Manipulated Faith
Revolution, it has come!
Same blood but different sins
The Empire Falls
And all Hear the Call
For A New Order to Begin
Decapitate the Tyrants
& Slaughter those who Resist
When the battle is won,
At the top of my lungs, I'll cry
"Long Live the Ogre King!"
I am the Great Destroyer
The Throne is mine to take
I will be king at any cost
Dead nations in my wake
I am the Great Conniver
With Sinister Designs
Never cared how much is Lost
So long as what is Left is Mine
(Arise)
We are rabid and insane
From lives of misery and pain
Now that the world's ablaze
We fall into our cages
These Horrors have just begun
Same gore from separate veins
What have we done,
To our daughters and sons?
A History Bloodstained!
We threw our lives into this war,
And lost more than we gave
When the killing is done,
I'll tell everyone,
"The Ogre King is slain!"
Now Our Planet is a Grave!
"The Ogre King is Slain,
Long Live the Ogre King,
I Am
The Ogre King!"
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
The stars try to shine
Down through indifferent clouds.
Her tears mix with rain
and water her path
defining the moments
Of forever.
Love is the fiercest part
of her being.
Though she struggles to
find it’s authenticity
Hiding her codes
behind barbwire and thorns.
Her hands are bloodstained
in the hours of time.
She is mysterious
With many latitudes
Calling from a different
Kind of universe.
Yet she walks that path of stones
Believing she is a different
Person than the one she leaves
on the trail .
Walking away from that
Hushed comfort of
understated majesty.
Hearing music amid
The squalor of verse
With strangers who love
among the poetic’s
of language.
I grow tired of the
Deep waters
I’m learning to navigate
the shallows
Where purring oratory
Captures me and leaves
Me spellbound beyond
All measures and time .
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Must I admit: that
being with you was like
pulling out a single
strand of hair, daily.
Look—-
this fleshy white
button ferally crowning
To begin: with the scraping
of my own scalp off
lining brainwashed
finger nails as a reminder
to my heart still beating
upon this earth
so that you may take
the bottom piece to split
my split ends in half
leaving broken off
eyelashes underneath
the talons. Were they your
keepsake to search a shine
when combing foreign
locks? Your reminder
in the strangeness of
other bloodstained
women?
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Welcome to the Suicide Forest
*Where the butterflies flutter low
Weak with dull dark colors
And fall with broken wings*
***Where the trees are dead and dying
And the leaves are dull and falling***
Have you seen the Suicide Forest?
*Where the night is heavy and dark
And the sunlight rarely shines*
***Where blue fairies stumble flightless
With tear-stained cheeks
And bloodstained wrists***
Run, run, run away
Quick, before you're trapped
Cause once the forest has you
You're never going back
Look into my eyes
You'll see they're empty; black
Look close at my wrists
You'll see they're stained blood red
Look into my soul
You'll see it's gone; deserted
The suicide forest caught me
Now I'm forever trapped
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
forced to ask 'is it all bullshit'
this field of study just completed
this path now flying feet fleet'd
I, alumni all outwardly faux alacrity
but instead really inside shades drawn
hiding shame useless
waiting for the sun's forebearant rays
to pull dead drunk me off floor again
still sick sinning spinning lies
on nodal web patterns
of activation
just a narcissist sociopath-in-training
(was I?) being taught how better
to manipulate other's fate
for personal gain
great fat magnificent magnanimous beast
loafing on liar's chair o'great victory-defeat
doublespeak tho Orwell is long dead and we do mourn him so with eulogy eyes
that weep crocodile tears of
well hidden liars
having long forgotten how to believe
in anything aside from own ill-gotten
gains, they mean nothing more
than bloodstained verses
anemic murmurs
whispered great
whisky hopes
and sallow
cheeked
dreams
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
.
**•••• ••••••••• ••••
•our wrin- kled hides only co- nceal the
anguish•that resonates with conviction amongst
my herd•this humanly greed that might cause us
to perish•what's valuable to you, we find incredu-
lously absurd•embedded in our trunks lay mill-
enias of lineage... • hidden in our eyes bec-
koned the change in history •in our
•• beating hearts is ••
the longing to
turn the im-
possible
page•of
hapless
chapt-
ers w-
rit-ten
with the
points**
of
bloodstained
ivory•
.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
my
poor
ugly fat
sister with her
ugly fat body blotchy
body and ginger ***** hair
yells in terror futilely begging
'no more Daddy, please, no more blows'
as my drunken old ******* of a stepfather
lashes her wobbly *** mercilessly as he yells
bible-inspired obscenities and hatred from the pulpit
of his demented brain and I am powerless to intervene or else
I know I shall be next and my many wounds from last week's thrashing
are still so tender and unhealed so I sit and watch and gently
********** myself under the cover of the odourous blanket
but things are taking a different turn this evening
as I see dear old Daddy taking out his ugly ****
and then ravish my sister's bloodstained body
and this really is too much even for me
to bear so whilst he is occupied with
the edifying task in hand I reach
for the rifle and taking aim
I blow Daddy's **** off
in filial love
and then I
come
with a grunt into my snot-encrusted handkerchief
OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
words fell
like broken
glass
from
your lips
onto
bloodstained
carpet
lacerations
searing your
bruised heart,
transplanting
its jagged rips
into mine
beats sharply feathered
like injured
wings,
angel eyes
pigmented my color,
blinded by a
cool sheen
hiding behind
tears
You are but a child,
young fresh entity
yet know the weight
of heavy
and suddenly
nothing else
matters
only your light
in my world,
however
dark you get
nothing material
can fix it and I will
stop it all
to press
the button
of time
and give
you
the
world
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 6:03 PM UTC
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems too *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
there's a hard silence here
and there is a fresh echo of the dim kitchen light
in the ***** linoleum tiles that zigzag the floor
even the air feels broken as it limps slowly
through the room
i stop near the door upon entering
and gather myself
like a ragman gathering the tattered remains
stitching the fragments of self with the thread of awareness
weave the image of self into the reality of the moment
with the hesitations of someone who has lived this moment too many times'
it will come to naught
she is alive but her heart is dead
the dust on my worn coat is from the graves of my
fallow field where we once laid a crop of hopes
but i cannot abandon her to this barren place
i know i perceive only the narrow sunstricken pages
faded and stained with the words legible only to the hardy eye
but its the deeper tale which
even the gardener of times bloodstained trophy's
would fear to tread
his leather shod hands worry the intricate gears
of the mechanical face she wears
he manipulates it to wear a lopsided grin
pantomime of happiness for my birthday
but i watch the vacant places behind the face and see that
with a blemished mechanical eye she looks out over the oncoming
evening through the livingroom window
its cracked and ***** surface turns
the setting sun into a parody of dawn
she greets me but just stares out the window
as if she is waiting a lovers return
i stand infront of her blankly
we wait for the hours to pass
i fix her tea even though it isn't broken
and make small talk
as she makes mechanical sounds
till she sleeps
i leave with the dawn
and make my way to my own bed at last
to fend off dreams that something somewhere could be different
and wake to the sorrowful song of a passing bard
his thin feet dancing on a moonlight hilltop
meant for lovers only
and he is dancing alone
alone
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
In the greenest meadow,
With the clearest stream,
And the bluest sky,
There lived a lion.
His mane golden and his teeth white.
He had not yet tasted the flesh of deer.
On the other side of the meadow,
There lived a doe.
Her fur was a silken brown.
She knew not of lions.
The lion saw the doe, and was in awe.
She was clean, she was beautiful.
He wanted a taste.
He spoke to her in low, calming tones.
Speaking to her lovely lies.
He said he craved a taste of her flesh.
She fell for the lion.
The doe wanted to please the lion.
She offered him a taste.
So he tasted.
But the lion couldn't control his hunger.
He tore at her flesh.
Wounding the deer.
The green grass turned red.
The sky grew dark.
When he had enough, he got up.
He looked at her.
He growled, he hissed, he walked away.
He wanted no blame for his own doing.
The doe nursed her wounds.
And the water turned red.
She grew strong again.
Washed clean by the stream.
The grass green again.
The sky blue.
But her scars remained.
The silken fur turned ragged.
The doe had a friend.
One with much shinier fur.
One more beautiful than she had been.
One that was unable to stand on her own.
Her friend was weak.
Weary from running.
She also did not know of lions.
The doe told her of the lion.
Showed her the scars.
Her friend saw, and hated the lion.
Or so she said.
The sky grew dark again.
The lion came back.
His mane with deep red in it.
His teeth bloodstained.
The doe was wary.
The doe knew he was flesh-hungry.
Her scars ached.
And she knew.
Her friend was in danger.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
The Doctors point and whisper
With crude and handmade tools.
Pinch and cut and decompress
like blood soaked sweating ghouls.
A slash, a snap, a sting
make a finger move.
The swollen eye, it twitches
and the mouth begins to drool.
Still no heartbeat, still no life
in the body, three days dead,
yet there is the softest sentence
uttered by the head;
Slipping slug-like out
from desperate lips in dread.
With unfocused twitching eyes
this is what it said:
"Let this one thing still be sacred;
The shroud between the dead and living.
Let the sleeping dogs now lie,
The Dead we're never meant to sing.
"Don't bring Death to Living lands
Don't take back the hourglass sand.
Leave the idols where they stand.
Leave the blood on bloodstained hands."
The doctor ***** his head:
"Is there movement in the brain?"
Another doctor shakes his own:
"None that can sustain"
Sowing shut his lips they say:
"Disturb us not again".
But a wordless sorrow is intact
in the soul that still remains.
Once again they dig in deeper
to find the glitch that kills.
With their knives and scissors
and noises crude and shrill.
The dead head slowly drops
with eyes wet, wide and still,
that meet the eye of a mocking bird
upon the window sill.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
If you are empty
Run faster then the movement
For smiling organs may only be found tucked
Can you sweep these walls away?
It isn’t quite right
A definitive chill visits
Unwelcomed, just as the pierce
Tripping my feet
Lids flutter into a new kind of reality,
I think white canvas surround me
Awaiting bloodstained questions
Patience isn’t among them, they bleed first
Who are you to tease?
You haunt me in my day
You appear among fog
As light as the whispers that dance
Visible only above compact shadows
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
When my thoughts take my eyes to the cross
Upon which my saviour bled and died
Jesus Christ I cannot see
No matter how hard I try
I behold that old and rugged tree
And the nails that pierced his feet and hands
But my Christ he is not there
Though today the tree still stands
To my soul it brings great joy
The empty cross of Calvary
For I know there he no longer hangs
Upon that bloodstained tree
My eyes can see my risen Lord
But not where he shed his blood for sin
The cross stands bare before an empty tomb
Christ Is Coming Back Again!
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Bloodstained sweatshirt with no recollection of how it got there, or who's it was.
Hands nervous and gentle, assured and rough, sitting terribly low on my hips.
Street lights an unflattering amber on our pale skin, illuminating his eager eyes and my perpetually self-conscious ones.
The sweet scent of teenage boy clung to him in the best possible way.
These are the details of the first time he kissed me, the push of the domino.
Since that night, with the neighbors' swing set alone as a witness and the brave frailty of a fall night's cold, I have been hooked. Trapped, spellbound, moonstruck, indelibly in lust with him.
My back against a concrete wall, hands roaming and tickling the valorous strip of skin that really should be covered by my shirt.
Lips on mine, hip bones digging into mine, hurried and heavenly. This was our last kiss.
It was not tender, like the first one. But I was still too enraptured to worry about a **** thing, and he still had the upper hand.
I do not know if we will get to re-do our last kiss, but god do I hope we do.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Untrodden silver cesspool,
Darkened by bombshell blast,
Riding in weathered abyss,
Covered with killer cannon fodders past.
Black battle went into starstruck night,
All started to fall, but not all fast,
Over tricky time they all did fight,
With wind guiding bloodstained mast.
Lovers light broke with rising sun,
Gleefully gallivanting through hours passed,
Tediously tiptoeing with hopes to run,
Over red salty sea made infinitely vast.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
I am a poet
and you should know it
Though do you?
Reading whispered lines
rehearsed by years and time
by my Roma traveling mind..
unraveling our secret wishes
and sending hand blown kisses
Metaphors they seep my veins
and a poet who is this unchained
Makes you believe
in stories of their Poetry in Motion
And lovers foolish notions
a Gypsy Magic potion
fills your senses
with bloodstained, tearfilled wrinkled paper
Crumpled in a bin
Your heart ...
along with your heart
.....that I pretend to win
Read my words but don't believe
That I will stay
I'll always leave
you at the end
thank you my Poetic Friend
Your affection I do not feign
within my deep and darkest veins
I bleed this Poetry for you
My Gypsy heart will not be still
It seems to have it's own free will
And I am just a poet...living Magic in my words.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
So I have a confession
My dad's a cop
Yeah, my dad's a cop he's worked his job for 30 long years
In that time he's probably seen a lot of messed up things that would probably drive most to insane laughter or ****** bitter tears.
Now you may be asking.. wait where are you going with this?
Are you going to register some harsh anti police sentiment?
Much like there is good and bad in the world, there are good and bad cops
That's true, and most are in agreement that these problems are a avoidable and should stop.
The fact there needs to be a distinction between "good" and "bad" cop
Is already a problem, so it seems as if we're ******* already from the top.
But, call me an incurable optimist
Because I think and know in my heart that we'll find a way out of this bloodstained mist
Not through division, but unity
And when we finally move beyond this... what a day that'll be...
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC