"dreadful" poems
#*We're awakened to our insatiable longing for heaven
through both beauty and the painful marring of it.
For beauty hints to us of that for which we are truly made,
and its marring shouts that we are truly not meant to find it here.
We can be eternally grateful for beauty lost when we realize
that it's one of the great secret-tellers of the universe.
Still we fear it so and often fear even to hope for the beauty itself,
though they are a necessary cycle that fuels us on and drives us home.
We cannot deny or diminish our intense longing for beauty--
to see it and have it and be it, and we cannot pretend that its
dreadful loss does not press down upon us like a crushing weight.
We must let it crush us until our ache for heaven is excruciating.*#
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I’m a child and not a bride, but
Last month you made me marry you.
You know it wasn’t love that made me say yes
But the fear of what shape my death could take
If I were to turn you down. Of course
I had no voice. I could only muse to myself
In the dark closet and imagine myself
A mother at thirteen: would it be awesome?
Would it be dreadful? Would it…? I died of anxiety.
Last month you made me marry you.
I had no time to discover me for myself:
Who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be;
I had no time to think before I had to say yes.
But it pains my bones to the marrow.
I am an unripe fruit for the eating.
I am a piece for the show-glass.
Last month you made me marry you.
I spent nights upon nights weeping over how you’ve
Broken me; how you’ve set my life ablaze
Like a forest in a wildfire;
And now the once-upon-a-time sweet sounding music
Of my soul is burnt into silence.
I have forgotten the dialect of my soul.
I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush.
You have beaten silence into me,
And now I have to prepare to moan and wail
Beneath your weight, while I watch you helplessly
As you bite into my innocence,
As you suckle the un-ripeness out of me,
As you dig into my childhood and pleasure yourself
In the childhood screams you hear from me.
But it isn’t the fun that makes me scream.
It is the bitter pain of knowing, of remembering
That my life ended at thirteen:
Broken like a fallen calabash
In the hands of a fifty-five year old man.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
In the cold grey light of the sixth of June, in the year of forty-four,
The Empire Larch sailed out from Poole to join with thousands more.
The largest fleet the world had seen, we sailed in close array,
And we set our course for Normandy at the dawning of the day.
There was not one man in all our crew but knew what lay in store,
For we had waited for that day through five long years of war.
We knew that many would not return, yet all our hearts were true,
For we were bound for Normandy, where we had a job to do.
Now the Empire Larch was a deep-sea tug with a crew of thirty-three,
And I was just the galley-boy on my first trip to sea.
I little thought when I left home of the dreadful sights I'd see,
But I came to manhood on the day that I first saw Normandy.
At the Beach of Gold off Arromanches, 'neath the rockets' deadly glare,
We towed our blockships into place and we built a harbour there.
'Mid shot and shell we built it well, as history does agree,
While brave men died in the swirling tide on the shores of Normandy.
Like the Rodney and the Nelson, there were ships of great renown,
But rescue tugs all did their share as many a ship went down.
We ran our pontoons to the shore within the Mulberry's lee,
And we made safe berth for the tanks and guns that would set all Europe free.
For every hero's name that's known, a thousand died as well.
On stakes and wire their bodies hung, rocked in the ocean swell;
And many a mother wept that day for the sons they loved so well,
Men who cracked a joke and cadged a smoke as they stormed the gates of hell.
As the years pass by, I can still recall the men I saw that day
Who died upon that blood-soaked sand where now sweet children play;
And those of you who were unborn, who've lived in liberty,
Remember those who made it so on the shores of Normandy.
________________________________________
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Now, today has been a **** day in every single way.
Today was the start of my holiday in Spain, until French strikes,
caused me pain. We were not flying.
Now, I did not weep, wail or flail my skin, instead, I said c'est la vie.
They are so very French.
Reminded myself that the French are cheese eating surrender monkeys,
awful at football (soccer) dreadful at tennis, middling in rugby,
and tend to suffer delusions of grandeur **** a French word!)
They lost at Agincourt, Waterloo, WW2, think snails are a delicacy,and allowed Mr. ****** in to rub their bellies.
But, I am H.A.P.P.Y.
Home
Alive
Prompt
Proud
Y?
Because I'm eating strawberries and cream, whilst watching Wimbledon.
How very British!
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Somedays my thoughts shriek so loud that
they congest the rest of my mind
other days they chant lullaby's as if nothing
traumatic has ever happened
one moment i'm up
the next im crumbling to my knees
one or the other its consistent drowning with
no one to rescue me
I'm keen on telling myself its all in my head
at times, but
doctors tell me its all me
but for gods sake do they realize what horrid
phrases the voices scream?
death would be so heavenly
I long for the passing of sides
im awaiting to go home where its all
white and peaceful
i have days where im so narcissistic; I swear
I can commence the world as if every millisecond is
a luxury of sighs and sounds
at moments my dispute comes out so rapid
all i get is crooked looks and mumbles
some days, I love him
other times I swear he's the devil in disguise
during my manic episodes you spoke soft as if I
was a fallen angle that was overflowing with life.
You had mentioned a world that disculded me was a
world you cannot exist in
You said I influenced your heart to skip beats, that I
saved you, I was your fresh air
Once he witnessed myself during a dreadful episode
you declared loving me was exhausting and space
is what you desired for
hell could i control this?
he was the one isolated concept I could ever make
my ******* mind up about
I loved him;
I love him
he said that his devotion to me was similar to
staring into a black hole but seeing the reflection of the delicate sunset
it never made sense to him
BUT HELL DID IT MAKE SENSE TO ME?
when he stranded me, i couldn't help but dissolve in tears
i was nowhere adjacent to happy
but that's all I've ever comprehended
my doctor says they've observed a change
maybe its the sleepless weeks and collection of mood stabilizers
consuming pills in hopes to not feel so ******* empty
anticipating on my next manic episode
waiting for the door to open to go home
If I have learned anything from living with BPD
it is im constantly dilapidated upon everything
one day soon I hope to recover from this disorder
that replicates a loud room without recognizing how loud it was
and all I hear is the ringing in my ears that doesn't seem to have an end
some day this will be over
some day my lover will stay
I pray to fall in love with another angel again
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
I don't know since when.
This diet has began
and gone extreme.
There was once
a reasonable aim.
But a new one comes up
whenever the old was
claimed.
Crosses over the weekdays.
Tell me how far I have gone.
But the crosses goes on,
They linger far too long.
I was counting on my calories.
Eating portions from my lunchbox.
No more than
a quarter
I couldn't stop.
I'm sorry.
But I'm not.
Led by starvation
my ultimate downfall.
I was saving all the calories.
For a binge at a time.
Keeping in my desires.
Till it's time to dine.
No my throat is on fire.
It's getting tire and tire.
So I kept eating and
release as
I violently *****
This is all too
disgusting.
dreadful.
disgusted am I.
Nothing have I eaten for breakfast,
lunch, tea and dinner.
Spooning out from my
kiwifruit.
No one could save me.
From my one and only solitude.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Behind your eyes I see lions
And you know them well
And you fear
Roars resonate in your tortured mind
And you regret being bizarre
You want to stay in line
But the bustle in the crowds won't accept your direction
You're an infection - peculiar
in a derogatory sense.
The howls from the people let you discover
That this place is for hyenas
You cower
Lest you be ripped to shreds
And on your panicked escape
You leave a lioness behind
The one you had named Unique
and her cries are of a dreadful kind
Claws feast into your weary soul
They are your own
As you keep under prison guard
The character given by God
Desperately you cling onto branches
Not sturdy enough to hold you forever
but you'd do anything to avoid being trampled
By the hooves of the many
When you have but a few lions left
The rest were dropped as uncertainty clouded your vision
Until your cat eyes
Did not even benefit in the night
But you are forgetting
Should you choose a weak road
At least chase the antelope
Heaven knows
You were meant to run wild
Not Climb
But when you become stronger
as lions always do
You will run before the hoof beats
Because you are extraordinary
And when you realize
They will have no choice but to
And the mass will part
The moment you roar
And when the herd is separated
Blind or awake
You shall find your lioness
As she is running home
Let her meld within your heart
Let her be part of your masterpiece
Until you recognize the majesty
of your lions
And without fear
When you love yourself
You will see the beast in mine eyes as well
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home
It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
<Loud as you can say it>
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
I live such freedom,
all souls admire it!
The awful God,
has judged my soul,
Weighs his measure,
I'll pay my toll!
<In a high-pitched voice>
The sailor's way,
path unknown,
Stars are clouded,
nothing shown?
The sea's are high,
a storm is here,
Davey Jones' Locker,
my home is near.
<Loud again, yell it>
There is no heaven,
there is no hell,
Life on seas,
the seas they swell,
Fish scales on arms,
scales on my legs,
Heart born free,
dread-locked and dregs!
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
Lost lives redeemed,
some should admire it,
The ship upended,
all hands to drown,
In Davey Jones' Locker,
a peaceful sound...
<In a high-pitched voice>
The sailor's way,
path unknown,
Stars are clouded,
nothing shown?
My time has ended,
fate is near,
Davey Jones' Locker,
my death is here.
<Loud again, yell it>
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
A man of valor,
some do admire it.
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
A dreadful life,
though some desire it.
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
To Davey Jones' Locker,
my deeds require it.
I am Outlaw!
-call me Pirate!
I AM OUTLAW!
-CALL ME PIRATE!
I am Outlaw!!
-call me Pirate!
My life on the ocean,
my God inside it.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
A girl may fear but she is not a fright.
A girl may hurt but she is not pain.
A girl may cry but she is not weak.
A girl may fall but she is not a failure.
A girl may be down but she is not a mad.
A girl may lose but she is not a loser.
A girl may forgive but she does not forget.
A girl may be dreadful but she is not a tragedy.
A girl may want to die but she is not selfish.
A girl may feel worthless but she knows it shall pass.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
whish whish is the sound of a suffering
the sound of blood as it squirts
the most exquisite and horrendous fountain
loaded with a despairing call
a siren's ring
because it stings the depths of the heart
to the very end, from the dreadful start
whish whish is the sound of suffering
the sound of wheels turning
because there was an exit before, there always is
most often it's more than I'm willing to give
whish whish is the sound of suffering
it is the sound of those crying
there is pleading, wailing, sighing
'fore the fates bring forth dying
and there is death in life, thoughts, wisdom, courage
it comes with age, but time's the liveliest gift received
we are deceived if we think we turn each page
whish whish is the sound of a suffering
it's the sound of what's missed
if we had asked before
we mightn't be adorned with the weight
the burden, the baggage, the fate
the mystery is missing
there's hissing in the past
those last faulty choices have played with our cast
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.
Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreadful cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but not from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless.
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
11.1k
Round about is deep black darkness,
Darker than the blackest night,
Whispering deep 'n dreadful murmurs.
Bird dropped dead in midflight.
Blind and weeping, lifeless attle,
What you see is your own soul,
Burnt and weary from the battle.
Disenchanted from its goal.
In the ash, a spark she smoulders,
Crackling, rasping, wounded warrior,
Briars squeeze her neck and shoulders,
Suffocating in smog-fill'd air.
Deep within stagnating waters,
Crystal-clear elixir tear,
Movement rippling, life astir,
Phoenix rises from the slaughter.
Still she rises, Golden Daughter,
Fears no longer yonder fright,
Strength within from those who fought Her,
Blackest night turned brightest light.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
Your head feels foggy
you sense yourself unwind,
It’s the same dreadful demons
toying with your mind.
They wait till it’s dark
or the lights are down low,
unnerving sickly attacks
through your blood and bones.
You can’t hide your black heart
the demons can see,
they don’t allow any space
in your head to breathe.
They tear your reason to shreds
you need fixing.
A worn stone sinking
in an ocean that’s rotting,
you decay miserably since
you're forced to bend the knee.
How much more agony
can the universe bring.
Not even your screams
can get you out of the cold,
and you’d rather give up
and drown,
than go it alone.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend
5 years ago - other furies other losses -
America's
trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice
The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind
I'm
all thru playing the American
Now I'm going to live a good quiet life
The
world should be built for foot walkers
Oily
rivers Of spiney Nevady
I
am Jake Cake
Rake
Write like Blake
The
horse is not pleased Sight of his
gorgeous finery
in the dust Its silken
nostrils
did disgust
Cats
arent kind Kiddies anent sweet
April
in Nevada - Investigating Dismal Cheyenne Where the war parties
In fields
of straw
Aimed over oxen At Indian Chiefs
In wild headdress Pouring thru
the gap
In Wyoming plain
To make the settlers
Eat more dust than dust
was eaten In the States From East at Seacoast Where wagons made up To dreadful
Plains
Of clazer vup
Saltry
settlers
Anxious to ********** The Mongol Sea (I'm too tired in Cheyenne -
No sleep in 4 nights now, & 2 to go)
9.1k
"The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
Always tortuous."
"When he looked the cave in the eye,
Hercules
Had a moment of doubt."
Leaning out over
The dreadful precipice,
One contemptuous tree."
8.5k
At times I feel socially awkward
hiding away those eyes from contact
mumbling and stuttering
as though I were stumbling,
upon the words as I was discovering.
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk
when I rush out,
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk,
when I don’t open your messages.
I escape out of nervosity
I feel the fuzziness in my head
butterflies in my stomach
nervosity in my nerves
lack of air in my lungs
tremble in my muscles
and the gritting of my teeth on my nails
as it drains every ounce of energy out of me.
I hide behind shadows
so I don’t encounter any social interaction.
No matter how many times I plan
and play a conversation in my head
I shudder and fret in reality,
making myself look like an awkward mess.
I want to be friends
I want to say hi
but the words do not escape
for I feel tongue tied.
I feel conscience and dreadful
for being such an awkward mess
choking on words
unable to let them
escape my tongue.
I am thinking
more than I am speaking
I can have a conversation in my head
but somehow, I find it difficult in reality.
But then you reach out
and make the first move
It makes it easier;
only to find myself
being an embarrassment once again.
But you don’t judge
you play it cool
and remain patient
you still show an eager to talk
and maybe that was what I needed
to be comfortable and me.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, “My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.”
8.3k
I have been in the moon
In search of love all noon
Searched through deserts
Even through garden of Eden.
I have Searched beneath the sea
Travelled wide even to overseas
Still could not find love.
I went to Vatican
Even to Mecca
Driven through the romantic sites of Paris
Bath in the Brazilian beaches
Flown across the Atlantic
Pitched my tenth for few days on the Antarctic
Spend some more on the arctic
Still I saw no love.
All I saw was lust
Angels with broken hearts,
Rotten roses,
Withered lilies,
Death faiths and monsters on beautiful faces.
I saw bullets in church offering boxes
Just wedded on number plates of ambulances.
I saw wars in diversity
Pain and mourning crowding all cities
The devil celebrating the dead of peace.
I saw three wise men
Where went love, I asked them
They said love has been nailed on the cross
Buried with trust
They are heading to Galilee
To await his return.
I followed with dreams
I met many returning with smiles of frustration
From where I was going with pregnancy of expectations.
We arrived to the scene
Like a nightmare, I witnessed higher sins
I saw men taking pleasures with men
Some with animals, some women with women.
Gun everybody walking sticks
People feeding on people flesh
With human blood the thirsting ones quench their thirst.
Is this where love is expected to return?
The wise men retorted,
Yes, the saints have been raptured
And his seven years reign has just began.
Then in a flash, I remembered that I have been taught
Taught about this dreadful end
I had also taught kids
Under trees at nights
Just to threaten them to live right.
What I thought was a mare threat or a fallacy
Has been awaken against my fate in reality.
Oh! We are among the leftovers
Left to reprove ourselves or be doomed forever.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Darkness,
you always surprises me
of your appearances.
Sometimes you would appear beautiful and nice.
Sometimes you would appear
scary and dreadful.
Darkness, would you find me
Someone who would make me friends with you?
Just by holding his hands
I won't be afraid of you.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
Though authors are a dreadful clan
To be avoided if you can,
I'd like to meet the Indian,
M. Anantanarayanan.
I picture him as short and tan.
We'd meet, perhaps, in Hindustan.
I'd say, with admirable elan ,
"Ah, Anantanarayanan --
I've heard of you. The Times once ran
A notice on your novel, an
Unusual tale of God and Man."
And Anantanarayanan
Would seat me on a lush divan
And read his name -- that sumptuous span
Of 'a's and 'n's more lovely than
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan" --
Aloud to me all day. I plan
Henceforth to be an ardent fan
of Anantanarayanan --
M. Anantanarayanan.
7.9k
I know I'm not the only one,
With scars from your lips placed on my body,
Who wears scarfs to hide because you don't want her knowing,
How dreadful that would be,
For her to know she's not the only one,
She's not the only one,
With the lights off,
As well with the clothes,
How lovely that would be,
To be the only one,
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
*
The fume
A thick dark fumy cloud
Dormant it lies, but often loud
Precariously overhead, it flowed
The sunshine of the life, it swallowed
It rained, challenged by the mighty peak
In the heart, It pained, to see it weak
The cloud was small but heavy
However dusty and floaty.
The doom and gloom
Embracing in its shadow
In desert, plains and meadow
Eclipsing the days, sunny bright
Dreadful, with the darkening night
With me, always hanging around
When noticed, nearby it's found
Haunting me with a sadness
Flaunting its darkness
A lot in the cloud explored
Then consciously, It was ignored
But dancing at the back of the mind
Past hurts and pains, it put to rewind
The boom and bloom
And then, letting it flow across, I got immersed,
In fine tiny droplets, the cloud
dispersed,
Now each droplet addressed
separately
Was dried in the shiny sun
completely
All of the cloud, dripped to
evaporate
Condensed eventually, as
distillate
My pains, by that elixir,
cured,
Alchemised me
into
24 carat gold
*
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC