Tag Archives: self

Sadistic Assemblage

Afternoon, everyone! I should be reading the hundreds of pages I must read for my classes right now but instead I have decided to bring to you a delightfully terrifying piece that I’ve just written. Call it a gift from me to you, my darling readers. I do so value your affections. Without further ado…

Sadistic Assemblage

My heart aches.

I am beckoned

by hands I do not know

into the dark again.

They,

and the appendages to which they are attached,

would seek to hold me,

to constrict me,

in their warm embrace.

These hands would not allow me peace.

To them it would some great affront,

some catastrophe,

were I to be released from this gentle bondage.

I struggle to understand the reasoning,

despite knowing the impetus.

Perhaps,

for some,

it is the torture they find appealing.

Beasts and sadists that lurk in the shadows,

why should they not let me be?

Am I so magnetic

as to attract their undying attentions?

“Leave me be!”,

I scream in vain to the shadow.

It only advances,

for I am trapped by its gaze

and now its embrace.

Muffled screams bring me to wake.

The Devil’s Hands Do Idle Work

Good afternoon, everyone. I’ve got a pretty solid little poem for you guys today. Little sad, little whatever. I hope you enjoy. Without further ado…

The Devil’s Hands Do Idle Work

Beautiful there,

as it was,

there at the end of the tunnel,

bleak as it is,

a glimmering light.

Fingers trace,

in the dark,

the cool, dripping walls

on the way to the light.

I am surrounded by a calamitous black.

I cannot see the etchings,

nor identify that liquid which covers them.

I am alone here,

unbidden,

clawing my way forwards unto that little hope,

that distant light.

The darkness drives me.

It is not the light that I seek,

but the dark that I fear might take me.

I listen to the droning footsteps of the cavalcade that follows me,

their pacing only feet behind.

My heart has long since stopped racing.

Adventures End

Good afternoon, everyone. I have another poem today (shocker). I really hope you like it. Without further ado…

Adventures End

There and back again,

as in the style of old hobbits,

we go and have our big adventures,

on our quest against the dark.

We fight with swords,

we fight with knives,

we sail on ships

and meet old wives.

We’ll tread along the untread paths

and we’ll make friends

and we’ll make enemies

and we’ll fight the dark

and we’ll never lose

till the soles fall off our shoes.

And then will come the cobblestones

that form the path to home.

Why have you fought all this time,

but for to see that little village

and that spongy loam.

Now though,

that you are home,

what is it then?

The thing you must do?

When tyrants bend

and adventures end,

does it all simply go back to normal?

Who is this one that stands before you?

The same one?

The old one?

No, I don’t think so.

Peace On My Own Time

Good evening, everybody. Little later than my usual posts but I have a real nice one for you all to enjoy tonight. Side note: Did you know that “you all” as a plural form of “you” is a distinct feature of Kentucky and West Virginia english? Without further ado…

Peace On My Own Time

Beautiful lights

on beautiful nights

flitting over fluttering trees

and wispy puffs of cloud.

In the distance is heard

a siren,

far off,

as the blades of helicopters

slice through the sky.

What peace is this?

To know an evening of such bliss?

I am lost as I am found,

in the streets and in the trees

where weary heads would come to rest

beside the neighbors in their Sunday best.

Children play

in the street all day

just like I remembered.

Amphora

Good morning! I’ve got a poem inspired by ancient greek history for you today. It’s been one hell of a year for me so far. I finally graduate in December. I suppose I’ll have to change the About Me page. Exciting! Without further ado…

Amphora

Empty vessels,

these amphorae,

they stand the test of time

with so many stories

laid upon their old and tired skin.

They tell the tales

of long-forgotten ails,

of ancient whales

and ill-remembered pales.

On them are the histories,

the scorching, burning blisteries

that would assault you

at a touch.

They care not for you today,

locked in everlasting clay,

locked in everlasting decay.

Blood trickles down the face

of an ancient warrior

entrapped by monster’s embrace.

Entranced as you are,

you cannot stray,

you cannot look away.

Not from the sight of such dismay.

Crimson pools at its base

and soaks your filthy shoelace.

Perhaps there’s something to this old and empty place?

Battered and bruised,

you’ve made good on this chase

but coming to a head,

now you’ll realize that there’s just far too much red.