do they prove you right?

my bloody hands
do they prove you're right?

darkly red
dripping as i walk

the soft pitter patter
of my latest victim

with the music blasting
my ears blaring with anger

angst, rebellion, destruction
all that i hear

visions of games
more violent than any you've seen

mutilation, torture, death
all that i see

all these people you blame
driving their lives downward

yet downward to you
is upward for me

the more you blame and hate
the more i love and enjoy

death to the protesters
to the haters

death to the people
whom blame the innocent

my bloody hands
do they prove you right?

More Than One Muse?

Oh muse, oh muse
where are you?
I've images in my mind
of the dark and the deep
the demented and the psychotic
just like the poems I seem to like writing
yet I have nothing
where have you gone?
many poems I have written
with you at my side
but now you are gone
you seem to be hiding
what did I do
why do you do this to me?
when I'm on a roll
seriously
well I guess I have more than one muse
because you sickly dark demented thing you
seem to still be in hiding
though I've written yet another poem
without you.

Om Nom Nom

Om nom nom
says the cute wittle kitty
rolling around on his back
meowing furiously
pulling and tugging
on the yarn-like material
playing, pawing, kneading
tangling himself in it
chewing little bits
the red stringy substance
he pulls on
until he reaches the end
covered in its maroon secretion
it oozes slightly
as he nibbles into his master’s eye.

the blue bolt of thunder

Thanks for the inspiration Mirabelle :)



there she sits
arms folded in two
legs crossed over
staring blank
motionless
into the abyss
this grey cloudy purgatory
forever inescapable
terror lurking behind
in front
from side to side
this purgatory of feelings
wound up
inside of her little blonde head
drowning out the life
that she once lived
her hair dangles over
her spine
which shivers with at it nears
her lover
the only thing that makes her feel
coming fast, racing towards her
galloping in the wind
through the fog
he strikes her
softly
he reaches her spine
the blue bolt of thunder
hair standing up slowly on her head
the bolt shivers at her neck
it travels to her shoulder
the blade reflects its touch
it moves faster
reaching her next shoulder blade
reflecting its touch once again
slowly faster, faster than the wind
faster than the brain
as fast as possible,
moving through the blades on her back
bounding from one to the other
one to the other
one to the other
ricocheting fluidly but gathering speed
gathering energy
gathering it all up
it yelps
as the energy releases
it jumps upwards
into the sky, into the grey abyss
she stands quietly
unfolds her arms
and steps back into her life.

The Gothic

Inspired by all of the frantic feelings we explore through the reading of Gothic literature.

Racing the track
Running the hamster wheel
Loop spinning
Fire ablazing
Mind bending
Defenses attacked
Heart pounding
Senses distracted
Mind penetrated
Thoughts implanted
Models of horror
Creation of uncanny
Pain constructing
Soul embodying
The Gothic

You Still Matter

Those things you do
the pain you inflict
why is it worth it
why can you stand it
I love you, you see
blood or not
you are still family
and family with me
means never having
to be down on yourself
you are amazing
you must understand
no matter the shit
that gets thrown at you
and the people that hate
you still matter to one person
you still matter to me
you still matter.

Staring at the Clock

Psychosis, Psychosis
staring at the clock
the clock strikes three
and then it goes to stop

I pull the rigid knife
out of the bleak body
as the blood protrudes out
like the branches of a tree

the sweat beads drop
off the bottom of my chin
as I unnecessarily worry
how much trouble I'll be in

the antennae come out
from the slit in his thigh
from the first wound inflicted
and unfolds yellow wings to say "hi"

he states his name is 'France'
unlikely as that can be
though I break his binding chains
so that from this corpse he can be free

the shattering metal
attached to the trunk of the tree
slips away from beautiful 'France'
as he flutters away shouting "Savior is he!"

the blood clumps and crawls away
draining his body, every which way

out of blood
I look at the clock
crazy must I fucking be
as it shouts "2:59" with a tock.