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Hypocritical

Hypocritical,

These thoughts critical,

To my growth, spiritual

Yet daily I lack the strength and conviction to remain biblical.

Yet Prayers,

On barred heavenly layers,

My heart joining nay-sayers,

I’m disease ridden, call the CDC, I’m just an NPC among real players.

*

Hypocritical,

These thoughts heretical,

I’m at a stage critical,

Falling within pyres and hell’s fires where grace is my only miracle.

Daily invocation,

Sins of a generation,

Lost. I’m in a state of desolation,

No hope just trying to grope the rope leading to salvation.

*

“For by grace you been saved,”

Yet by sin I am enslaved.

Actions so despicable.

I am… Hypocritical.

 

 

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The Dead Tell No Tales

Like leaves, green in morning spring,

Decayed flesh rises from watery ring,

The early bird catching the worm,

Maggots in eyes wriggle and squirm.

*

The dead tell no tales,

The Devil in the details,

Slashed throats tell no lies,

The Saint in the widow’s cries.

*

As darkness descends, it stalks the night,

Stars illuminating the victims plight,

Winter’s cold breath with gleaming steel,

Plunging through skin with religious zeal.


Been discovering and reading interesting horrors from authors Ramsey Campbell and Tom Piccirilli among others. Have you read something that inspired your writing?

 

Grow Up!

I guess it’s time to grow up,

Someone should have told me it was hard.

I guess it’s time to clean up,

All these childish things I must discard.

Responsibility was something for future me,

Didn’t realise I was already him.

Suspending disbelief to quell maturity,

Because part of me knew reality would be grim.

Kinda difficult to suddenly come of age,

But it’s long overdue.

Yes, I guess I’m already at that stage,

To tell childhood, “I’m through.”

 

Shallow

We’re emotional creatures,

Living from moment to moment,

Making choices based on how we feel,

Putting ourselves first and justifying the means to that end.

Easier to agree to what we want than sacrifice for the sake of others.

*

And sometimes being the “good guy” puts us at a disadvantage.

Telling the truth hurts: either them, us or both.

Doing the right thing means we miss out or lose.

Being selfless leads to sacrificing when we don’t have to.

Taking the punches and not retaliating leaves us bruised and broken.

*

When our right comes before considering others,

Who then can we trust?

Who then can we rely on?


“In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you”

“Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is broad that leads to destruction, and there are many who enter through it. For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life, and there are few who find it.”

~Matthew 7 – NASB

 

Momentary

Suspended disbelief is only momentary.

The engulfing emotions so temporary.

We fill reality with useless garbage to feel,

Something other than what is real.

*

Pain is only momentary.

Yet the scars are etched into memory.

We may stop the bleeding,

But the memories are never receding.

*

Happiness is only momentary.

We clutch at it, fearing the scars we carry.

We may be elated for years , months and days,

While insecurities tell us it’s only a phase.

*

What then is not momentary?

Casting this poem as temporary.

If I knew I would share that truth.

For now I pretend to forget. To soothe.

*

It’s all just… momentary.


What helps you escape the difficulties of life? What emotions do you find overwhelming you?

I want to be Sedated

I want to be sedated.

Escape the cold grasp of reality,

To slip the thin realm of insanity,

To experience all things – elated.

Dare You Not…

Dare you not hear the beat of your heart?

The silent thrum,

The quiet hum,

As constant as memories, and just as forgotten?

Loud as fear,

Heavy as woe,

Deafening to afflictions tearing it apart?

 

Dare you not feel the beat of your heart,

The timid quiver

The faint whisper

As constant as regrets, and just as forgotten?

Brittle as grief,

Fragile as despair,

Indelicately manipulated till our souls depart.

 

Can you hear the silence?

and Remember to forget

Can you feel the imperceptible?

but forget to Remember.

 

Dare you not live?

 

We are! We are!

Our shells decay over time,

Souls trapped in finite casings

Ghosts of a terrestrial plane.

We are, we are, sublime.

 

Consciousness captured through ingenuity,

Subconsciousness fueling creativity,

Driven by proficiency,

We are, we are ambiguity.

 

Disparity in human principle,

Purpose defined objectivity,

Time is running out, yet

We are, we are, invincible.

 

“Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.”
― George R.R. Martin


Camp NaNo is around the corner. Let’s take the world by storm!

 

Addicted

station-1848972_1280

I am consumed, daily.

Intensity of need, convulsing the heart.

I am addicted. Plainly.

 

Every waking thought,

Devoured by obsessive appetite.

Insatiable, I am fraught.

 

Yearning. Craving. Greedy.

Dreams both day and night assault me.

Passionately, I am needy.

 

Is this love?

The Vulture

February 14, 1847

carriage-ride-585056_1280

 

Squalid streets buzzed with soot stained faces,

Bedraggled coats pulled against winter paces.

Dim lampposts illuminate shadowed vagrants,

Unwashed skin, waste, stagnant water – the fragrance.

 

Dazzling amber light washes over lonely streets.

Many, this night, have succumbed to their sheets.

Sleek carriage clops smoothly towards a juncture,

Where I shall meet him. The Vulture.

 

Damsel in distress approaches in glistening carriage.

I wait in shadow so none see this unholy marriage.

At the juncture I dart into carriage quickly,

She cringes at my sight, I merely smile thickly.

 

The Vulture nauseates, not only from stench.

Scarred face hidden behind long dark trench.

Sinister grin of missing teeth is bared,

Within his presence I am truly snared.

 

The warmth of carriage thaws prickling fingers.

Freesia scent drifts about like Lolly’s singers,

Yet this is a woman of class, so I present a souvenir

It is packaged carelessly, slick and dripping yet sincere.

 

He pulls stained parcel, pungent stench whirls.

It stains his fingers scarlet like lips of call girls.

Crinkling paper reveals plump flesh.

He grins wider “It’s his heart, still fresh.”


Happy Valentines day from the dark side!

One Lazy Robot

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