"torturer" poems
What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell?
None of the sins,—but this and that fair deed
Which a soul’s sin at length could supersede.
These yet are virgins, whom death’s timely knell
Might once have sainted; whom the fiends compel
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves
Of anguish, while the scorching bridegroom leaves
Their refuse maidenhood abominable.
Night ***** them down, the garbage of the pit,
Whose names, half entered in the book of Life,
Were God’s desire at noon. And as their hair
And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his worthier wife,
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there.
2.4k
Dearest jewels of my crown motherhood
Go to the nearest FBI office
Accuse all you call friends of a hate crime drugging you without you knowing to make you feel **** and think you are nuts hallucinogens and methamphetamine s do that
Do not go to psychiatrist they will trash you
your Mom and remove your parental rights forever a Susan and Arthur and Elizabeth already bought you from Haralsmbios a human trafficking psychopath sadist torturer like kiriaki and many more in Greece
Those you trust here in USA hide Crimes they are a team of murderers and thieves since 1980
They assimilated Jeff and John through drugs
Free yourselves.
They all are your deadly enemies they document all lies half truths use assassination of character and fear of your Mom to hide their crimes
They are who lie divide you and plan to ****** your Mom too for financial gain.
They made credit cards with your name in it to finance murders for hire ..
And tell you it's Mom buying thousands of dollars in clothes that's a lie from Satan
They are black mailing you.
to extort money to **** Mom.
~~
Remove your blind folds fight for your freedom take your children run to FBI office use me as a living witness I am on your side.
I love you all my children.
~~
~My Story poem.~
The greatest deception is calling everyone
a friend
Today I admit that from ancient times
am blessed to have had his intimate
piece of heart
thus my life was worth while.
I declare that even here
I was blessed with this
Outer Limits De-Javus;
~~
I am forever a grateful Mom,
granted to sacrifice my
love, my life along with everyone
I ever loved the most.
There's still justice to be granted; triumph waived
with defeat acknowledged.
Not only have I waived and yielded to every misfortune
but was trashed to the eleven winds as my evil enemy
lied to divide me among my dearly beloved offspring
planning as in above the law to profit from my demise.
~~~
By: Karijinbba
All Rights Reserved.
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 1:32 AM UTC
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
2.3k
I am both the wound,
And the blade. The torturer,
And he who is flayed.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
The voices in my head are telling me to slit your throat.
And I want to torture you, so I guess we're on the same boat.
It's okay, we'll make it painful as can be.
Oh, you'll love it. Just wait and see.
Wait, what tool should I use?
I want to leave more than a bruise.
A dagger, hatchet, drill, or a knife?
Either way, you know I'll take your life.
Just lay there and be real still,
As I drill into your heart with all my will.
I said Be Still
My intentions are only to ****
Why didn't you see this coming?
Was I too distracting with my psychotic humming?!
You started this. Oh, yes you did.
Didn't it bother you she was only a kid?
Let me ******* you.
And rip out your ribs, too.
You dont need them. Ribs are the cage of the heart.
You never had one from the start.
I'll pull off each nail. Fingers and toes.
Maybe put a wet towel to your nose.
Do you feel that? Do you feel yourself drowning??
That's what she felt like, everytime her heart was pounding.
It hurts, doesn't it?
Wonder how it feels to have your skin lit.
How does it feel? The fire's melting you like a lit candle.
That's how her soul felt when everything became too much to handle.
One last thing to do.
Before I am through.
How would it feel to have no ****
slice
Now, maybe you'll stop being such a *****
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
My little box, tell me the truth
I can't see brightness
I can't hear happiness
I'm torn in little pieces
I'm within fire storm
My little box, don't blame me
When I miss my torturer
When I miss my torture
When I miss my pain
My little box, it's not your fault
It's my fault to love
It's my fault to trust
It's my fault to be hurt
I'm the only one to blame
My little box, show me
The way to my agony
Feed me with your misery
Jail my hopes and dreams
And have me put to sleep
My little box, grant my wishes
To never have a life
To never be happy
To never wish for coming days
And never let her leave you again
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, never and I mean ever skip a song because of a childish intro!!!LISTEN TILL THE END:>
blame me for my blind eye
hesitant on the hearing not the see it dies
blame me on the reason
my last years gone depressed season
began so dull so dumb a childish try
turns out to be so **** hard to deny
drunk on the chorus that switches its motives
its so called focus
pleasant for the ear
a fancy for the crescent defeater
one with a furious raged demeanor
on the mind a wild falling pleader
thief of previous cherry symphonious instrumental feeder
to be a runaway to the arrogant feels a betrayal
when it absolutely sways the Venuses to the ultimate portrayal
to be so precious a part in the hallway gone crazy gone jealous
to be so malefic in the addicting becoming a bit waste of the Chellos
to be so lonely on the glared faults
on the failed dreams of filling constant thoughts
repressed upon charmed up lingering past fonts
plastered on the admit
flustered on the submit
a fine line between
some
savior a haven an unknown felon
some
killer a torturer soured up lemon
------ravenfeels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 12:31 PM UTC
Beyond the moon and the stars,
Over the horizon,
Piercingly silent was a crash.
No one knew what it was.
Sinful or sacred?
Sane or insane?
They told me to choose my own adventure,
But told me it best not be with you.
You held me underwater
And I held you up on a pedestal.
The dangerous cocktail was brewing from the start.
We pushed and provoked,
I was kicking and screaming all along
You suffered oh so silently,
Like a bomb waiting to explode.
But all I wanted was you.
And you would not deny me that.
So vulnerable was I
So understanding were you
And you hacked the motherboard of my emotions.
My mind would say,
"Abandon ship!"
But my heart loved you more.
The lust, the sweat, the lies
Tangled in between sheets
And empty promises were left there,
Running from our mouths before we could catch them.
I showed you my heart
As the real me seeped through my pores
You kept yourself discrete.
That is, until you were angry.
I knew goodbye was coming,
But every time, it was not for real.
We would break up and then lust
And do things we could not take back.
Then forgiveness became my torturer.
The death of us was near.
It became a game,
Our sick little game.
We would poke each other to see
Who could cut the deepest
Without leaving a mark, a scar
Or any permanent damage.
But we can only play for so long.
Our final kiss, touch, ****
Did not come easily.
I could not bring myself to say goodbye.
I fought, but it was not enough.
You held on, but it was not strong enough.
So we let each other drift away.
A violent affair, stained red.
A love war, tainted with arsenic.
An emotional battle, like the tip of a needle
It came and touched my heart.
Beyond the moon and the stars,
Over the horizon,
Piercingly silent was a crash.
It was my pain, my curse, my love.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
For the wolf
the Moon is a curse
a foul transformation of pain and shame
forced upon him by nature herself.
For the Sea
the Moon is a cruel lover
forever sending her away pushing her aside
only to draw her back in again endlessly.
For the Poet
the Moon is a torturer
forcing upon her emotions of all sorts
we feel happiness, and love, life and death under it's light.
The Wolf picks himself up once more, survives another night.
The Sea cries salty tears of scorn, but yet she returns once again.
So also must the poet pick herself back up, and carry on another sleepless night.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Dry timber under that rich foliage,
At wine-dark midnight in the sacred wood,
Too old for a man's love I stood in rage
Imagining men. Imagining that I could
A greater with a lesser pang assuage
Or but to find if withered vein ran blood,
I tore my body that its wine might cover
Whatever could rccall the lip of lover.
And after that I held my fingers up,
Stared at the wine-dark nail, or dark that ran
Down every withered finger from the top;
But the dark changed to red, and torches shone,
And deafening music shook the leaves; a troop
Shouldered a litter with a wounded man,
Or smote upon the string and to the sound
Sang of the beast that gave the fatal wound.
All stately women moving to a song
With loosened hair or foreheads grief-distraught,
It seemed a Quattrocento painter's throng,
A thoughtless image of Mantegna's thought--
Why should they think that are for ever young?
Till suddenly in grief's contagion caught,
I stared upon his blood-bedabbled breast
And sang my malediction with the rest.
That thing all blood and mire, that beast-torn wreck,
Half turned and fixed a glazing eye on mine,
And, though love's bitter-sweet had all come back,
Those bodies from a picture or a coin
Nor saw my body fall nor heard it shriek,
Nor knew, drunken with singing as with wine,
That they had brought no fabulous symbol there
But my heart's victim and its torturer.
1.4k
I'm the verse,
I am the blanket of the cold night,
I am the night in a blanket
like caffein in a coffin,
like grey in gray.
The above text read now by a torturer to its victim.
Everyone is the author of every thing
before being made
of flesh and brain.
Sustain.
Go straight
with no paths.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
The dreams of yesterday linger,
They mock and torment my
Sad shattered shell,
You whom I loved, you torturer of my heart,
You violated my pure love to one I truly loved,
I thought the very angels themselves gave you innocence,
The red rose your deliciously curled locks and lips,
The early morning dew your sweetly curved body,
The delightful sky your eyes,
But...
This heavenly beauty was skin deep, you
Lied, despised, cried, tried
And succeeded in the burglary of my heart,
Many innocent hearts have you stolen thief,
Do you never think of
The train of pain
You have made me a passenger of?
I am not alone on my lonesome journey,
There are many others,
Your victims,
One way ticket to Nowhere,
Oblivion.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 8:16 AM UTC
Two men in a jail cell.
One with a scalpel.
One roped to a chair.
The man with a scalpel,
He is no medicine man—
He is a torturer.
The man in the chair,
He is no prisoner of war—
He is a civilian.
Weeks pass by and
The door never opens
Until—
On the one-hundrenth night
Out of the cell, crawls
Only one man
On his skin, there lies
A masterpiece.
A raised rendition of "Starry Night."
Eyes glance back into
His previous prison,
Only to find—
An empty chair.
A scalpel.
A reflection.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
I could swim in your oceanic eyes;
But when you give me that look
You lay dynamite on my iron skin
And you open me like a wound:
Spirit of fire that burns
Like a blade of sunlight
I sacrifice myself as I die
Into you, you ancient name of fire;
And your temper between the jaws
In the abstract geometry you propose
Lays me in an impassive torture
And you load ghosts of yesterday
Into Tomorrowland,
My cry and the cries of the torturer.
Be it the first dawn,
The last dawn,
We are bigger than the night
But the dream of us fits on the bed,
The bed of rain,
The bed of storms,
The liquidity of our bodies
As the moon wakes and asks
For our spirituality,
Souls entwined, we tear the night apart;
But we aren't always in the mood
At the same time,
Vehement bodies on invisible clocks
We can't see ticking,
You speak in Winter,
I speak in Summer;
Our words vanish like
Syllables of vertigo;
We are lost between the argument.
For all the good and the bad
I would make love with you
At the precipice,
Hanging at the cliff;
To fall in love or fall to our death,
Each is a timeless matter
And through it all I
Know that I am alive between
The polar shifts.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
You Were Fire
Once upon a time
How cliche is that?
But it fits with you
I read a poem you wrote
And I knew I had to meet
The dark fixated poet
And I fell so long ago
Though it seems like yesterday
We were wrapped in each others
Lustful digital arms
You stared in my dreams
It was you I wrote about
You, the darling torturer
I, the willing victim
Sometimes I remember how you burned
Seemingly just for me, what a fool
I was to think you wouldn't change
What a little girl I was
Hoping to catch you and put you in amber
Keeping that fire burning forever
As I'd hold you up in the moonlight
But you changed... And so did I
I wanted things to be set in stone
And I didn't know fire... when caught tends to burn...
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Why do people leave me?
Why do love only give birth to be slaughtered by your hands?
I am so afraid.
You won’t listen.
You won’t tell me the words I want to hear.
I bring myself into the fires as I scream and smoke fills my lungs and the fire licks my body angrily - the same way your hands are all over me. I scream. Nightmares.
Daymares.
Reality.
I wish I didn’t end up like this all the time
I have a tortured soul, and one day, Jung and Nietzsche told me, I will too, become the torturer
But ******
I fight, and I fight it so hard
I fight so hard to not hurt others
It’s all I ever do
I fight, and
I fight but I never seem to win
I had given in, accepted my fate
Why did you have to tear down
all
I
built
?
Maybe this all I really am;
a punching bag;
dust;
pulp;
Please, one time.
Help me up before you throw me out the window.
Next time, don’t let them get so close.
Don’t let them
Them
and
me,
against the world.
I should know better.
I sink.
No metaphors.
No similes, please.
No poems. Please.
Just empty words after all.
Yes, beautiful. But
empty.
...
Take it all away.
Please.
Leave your knives,
leave your swords,
leave your guns.
Stop killing me.
Stop.
Please, stop me before I dive into the dark, freezing ocean -
there is nowhere for me in this world.
So, to sleep.
Perchance to dream…
and all of that.
Let’s be true.
I don’t really know Hamlet’s soliloquy.
But **** Shakespeare. He doesn’t know how hard it is.
Ophelia didn’t drown herself so easily - I don’t sink so easily, but I still do - and every night I dream, I go away.
Forever.
I’m not alone.
I tell lies.
Okay, so maybe I’m not okay.
But when will I ([n]ever) be?
I am born with this heritage.
With this scarred soul.
And William, Friedrich, Carl…
- well, this is just another story of loneliness and giving up.
The crazy bunch.
Maybe, this is the last straw.
Maybe, I’ll finally go crazy.
The inevitable will happen.
The lonely will be left - completely alone.
The self-destructing fool,
finally, self-destructing oneself.
It’s so difficult to climb this ladder.
…
I’ll just go down.
The water is cold.
May 29th 2014
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
A ghost
Trapped and wandering
A host
Lost and wondering
A conception
Of a fatal reflection
An unknown deception
That spreads it's infection
A specter who needs a confession
To be known
Not thrown
Into the dark
Hark
Who comes to pass
When a tortured man breathes his last
But cannot speak his fears
Horrible and grotesque were his years
A torturer becomes tortured and true
When I lay my eyes upon you
I see through
The fog that faintly filters forgettably
Regrettably
He dies
And is trapped watching you
Trapped in a dimensional center
He is dead and gone now
Nothing but a starry eyed specter
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 1:30 AM UTC
.i said what? all i heard was the sound of a keyboard clicking: click click click... the breaking of bones in the fingers... the wind brushing the craniums of trees... a siren... a bottle being opened... a blank page being filled (a variant of a one man squash match being played out)... and... you're free to peer on this, but this is not speech... well... either your tongue or your eyes; since technically you didn't hear this, you saw it... so what? i don't care for the freedom to speak, but i am all for the freedom to think; and unless you're strapped to a chair, about to be tortured, and the torturer says: blink once for YES and twice for NO... well?
like Kierkegaard said:
people busy-body themselves
defending their "freedom" of speech,
and take little concerning
for the freedom to think,
-of speech
-to think...
it's like that grammar game:
to think is to do, something,
a freedom of?
doesn't tell me much...
that apple vendor at Romford market
is talking... let's listen...
two for one love!
quid a half kilo bag!
talking...
i much prefer giving
my hands to the devil,
than my tongue to god...
honest sailor, prior to a boy scout,
and his virginity, and honor...
it's so... invasive...
talk...
writing? that's not talking,
not unless...
'and i said this', see? quotation marks...
i really did say that out-loud simultaneously
within the confines of writing this...
and there's no "ambiguity" to go with it...
comments section: technically talking...
throwing words onto a blank piece of
paper, while having a stitched-up mouth?
well...
i guess what i am doing is
showing you my thought...
this... this is after all the P.E.A. meeting?
the phonetic-encoding "anonymous"?
yeah? great!
good thing i brought a bottle of
whiskey with me, to pass the time.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
To have your legs blown off
To blow off somebody's legs!!
----
While WE
Torture!!!!!!!!!!!!
Maim!!!!!
.--.
Jesus ****
.
Tea party **** suckers!!!!!!!
Every **** fool here
Playing **** of the hill!!!!!!
.
Strut dickng around!!!!
.
Sick
....
So here we are!!!!!!!!!
.
Pretending love
Pretending hate
Pretending pretense
.
Blowing off each others legs!!!!!!!!!
--
So
Little boy
What do you want to be
When you grow up??
--
IT DONT MATTER WHAT I WANT!!
THERE IS ONLY ONE THING TO BE!!
A **** HEAD !
A KILLER!
A TORTURER!!
THESE ARE THE ONLY--JOBS--IN TOWN!!!
--
BLOWING LEGS OFF!!
THE ONLY JOB IN TOWN!!
--
Well
You can always fly drone airplanes over schools and cluster bomb them
While saying you are aiming at terrorists
And know you are doing it for god and country !!
..
You can join the NRA and ......
Play that game
Any game
Any **** HEAD game in town
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC
Im trapped
Chained to the floor by my ankles
Bound with y hands behind my back
Naked, exposed
But I can see clearly
Im watching him fearfully with delight
Carefully choosing the instruments of my demise
He selects a thin knife from his bag of tricks
He thinks he has the upper hand but he does not
For he does not know, how could he, that I thrive on pain
He is my torturer
The man who will give me the most pleasure as he kills me
Walking towards me I shiver in anticipation
And brace myself for his assault
He ***** is fist and suddenly I taste blood
My mouth fills, coppery warm trickles down my face
Repeatedly he hits me in the face, stomach, and chest
My face stings, my core is throbbing and my chest is sore
Hes pulling up my eyelids as I open my eyes
I cant help it, I smile
It’s a wicked grin that makes him take a step back in confusion
I hear myself asking for more
Hes stunned and surprised
I can only imagine him thinking ‘what kind of monster did I abduct?’
He comes back to me
This time with his thin knife
He starts to carve up my skin
Hes going nuts, I think hes as excited as I am
My skin is a piece of art
An intricate ****** piece of lace
He has me on the floor
Straddling my stomach as he looks at my face, into my eyes
I can physically see and feel his excitement growing
Me all cut up ****** and bruised is a turn on for him
He fumbles with his zipper and proceeds to **** me
(but is it **** if you enjoy it?)
Hes biting
My neck, shoulders and *******
Really taking chunks out
His hands around my throat
I feel myself fading as he rages on
Its to the point where my vision is black
And I can see white spots
I hear a ringing in my ears
I feel my chest convulsing
As I suffocate
Just as I drift off into death I feel his ******
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Sizzle, sizzle, frazzle, froom
I sweep you away with my broom
Out of this house you no longer welcome
Shed not a tear, you don't deserve to
You torturer,
you leave me emotionally maimed
and bleeding on the floor.
I close my eyes, I close my door.
To look upon you never more.
Rash decisions of the past poison you now.
I am merely a temporary escape,
Or the freedom you seek perhaps?
Now look on me no more
For I havent the strength to help you soar.
I'm left bleeding on the floor
Are you sorry? Want me to stay?
I can not, for I've found my way.
Finally I am free to be me
Whatever that is
Will part of me remain, bleeding on the floor?
Time will tell,
I leave you with your thoughts to dwell.
© Crystal Erickson 12/03/07
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Time does not heal,
but pours salt in my wounds.
In the seconds and the minutes,
the hours in each day, every day,
it burns a hole through my heart.
Time seems to disappear and drag,
all at once;
And no matter if I keep track
or forget the amount passed,
the hurt remains.
Time is the torturer,
and it never softens its grip.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
We are the poets,
A mass army
Of tortured souls
Writing about our suffering
In hope to gain
peace of mind
When in actuality
The world is our torturer
And we are nothing but the victims
Writing of our experiences,
Putting words together,
Perfectly,
Into a mass
Of meaningless lines
To entertain
The ones who cause
Us to pick up the pen
What is a poet
Without a broken mind
And a damaged heart
Well, nothing but
A horrible writer
attempting to
Rhyme verses
And put together stanzas
In hope to get the
View from the world
A true poet
Is not sane
They have no belief
"Sanity" exists
They are outcasts,
Not normal
to the eyes
Of the world
But a person
More beautiful
on the inside
than a poet,
Does not exist
Poets have been
Driven past
Their breaking point
Pushed until
The damage done
Was far beyond repair
We are the poets
A mass army
Of tortured souls
Fighting a war
Of cruelty
enflicted by
The human heart
Hoping our words
Can bring peace
To the people
Who can't find peace
Within their selves
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
where chains
and the bite of a whip
once dug into our backs
and our shoulders,
backpacks
now leave chafed ruts
in their stead.
taskmasters
bid us to bake our own bread
if we want to eat
pass this exam
if we want to keep
our families
we will be taken
and beaten
if we do not comply
GPA:
the silent
torturer.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC