Category Archives: Horror

The Sleep

Good morning, all. I’ve got a short poem for everybody today. Let me know what you think and please enjoy!

The Sleep

The light of his eyes

escapes

and wanders through you,

venturing through all those many layers

of your most precious soul,

finding lamps that light the winding path

that leads around a gentle knoll.

It searches along

meandering paths

into all your nooks and crannies,

working your mistakes

and knowing all those things it takes

to truly see the heart that breaks.

You rest with him in sleep that wakes.

Much Ado About What To Do

Welcome back! My first post in July. A crazy month, it’s been. I have been busy at work and trying to center myself which of course are both massive time-sinks. I hope everyone has had a wonderful few weeks despite my absence from that little corner of your mind I usually occupy. Please enjoy the poem today! This one is a new favorite of mine.

A Real Boy

Falling through into the floor

and open there below, a door

that lies beneath the writhing ground

all atop the burial mound.

Inconceivable,

a child

never born

and never made

without a mother,

but some other.

It haunts and taunts,

lies and cries,

hears and speaks

as a child would,

as children do…

Eyes of glass

and flesh of polymer,

but listen as it speaks

for it opens the door that creaks.

Listen as its blood,

from the windows of its soul,

leaks.

Believe the truth.

The boy but says

those things which are his.

All those things

which have always been

and will always be

His.

Perhaps you’ll show him some compassion

as you listen to his story?

To know the things that you can know

as you sink down deeper and deeper below?

He only wants to help.

He does not know who you are!

…

Perhaps you are the monster in the dark?

Horrid Passions

Before you sits a monster, in a chair. It looks at you from across the table with beady, piercing eyes. It feels no remorse, no consequence. Your anger at the pain of the victims… There will be no closure. As if screaming into a brick wall. Enjoy the poem, friends.

Final Interrogation

Hardened hides,

cleft in two,

shorn apart

by sharpened knives

that perform their duties

with devastating precision.

Weapons,

not tools.

We both know the purpose

was never

for rope and fish,

but men and dogs,

carefully dissected.

You monster.

They had families!

Those poor little men

and their poor little puppies…

You’ll hang for this.

You’ll burn for this.

Won’t be long now

before the jury comes up guilty

and you are sent away

to be eaten by worms.

“Worms,” oozes and bubbles out from between the monster’s lips.

Things of Glass and Ire

Good morning, friends! Lost souls and faceless monsters cry out from the deep, hoping and praying for a respite from their torrid fate. They sing their ghastly hymns and haunt their hallowed haunts, awaiting someone who will never come to take them away to a place they’ll never go. Heaven seems a place just out of reach. Please enjoy the poem.

The Faceless One

The faceless one

so watches in the mirror

as fog covers eyes

so he cannot see

and as fog covers his mouth

so he cannot speak.

“I have no face, yet I must be!”

he cries into the darkness.

Now if only words came out

and anyone could hear them.

He’ll move his hands to where his nose should be,

feeling nothing but a smooth facade,

knowing not the way he breathes

and ending with a somber nod.

How broken is the machine

when probing diagnostics

find no extant diagnosis

and all there is to show

are fields of broken things

and the tips of deftly clipped wings?

As the fog closes in,

it gets harder to breathe.

Missed Call

Not a whole lot to say today, friends. I hope you have a wonderful mother’s day! Please enjoy the poem !

Missed Call

That’s what gives you hope?

The stinging, ringing feeling

of some unknown isotope.

Always leaves you reeling.

A good man, you say.

Do you know what that means?

Those words…

How deep they cut.

I hope one day

for a cushion

instead of a knife.

I hope to lie in peace,

perhaps,

rather than on a bed of nails.

Always poised

as if to be struck.

Now what kind of life

does this one make?

What kind of life

does this one take?

Broken and unbroken…

I don’t know how the pieces go together.