Poetry competition CLOSED 17th November 2014 3:24pm
WINNER
RavenofSorrow
RavenofSorrow
Halloween
.:Shaytaan’s Clique:. C'mon get ripped. Hit some chords
Scrape nails against blackened boards
Lead like Genghis, his Mongol hordes
Get out your zone and screw some whores
Do some nasty; swallow swords
Race the clock; amazing' tours
Blaze some rock; pour some Coors
That Rollin Rock is growing’ spores
It’s Hallows Eve from shore to shore
Are you sure you locked them doors?
Check once more; then think what for...
Then pass that bowl its time to score
Time to score... its time to score…
DeGraded Dead
Now who wants more?
Its time to find
Who here ain’t blind
Who’s heard Our Chant that now its time
To get accepted to Our Scene
Come
Smoke
This
Quick
You
Flaming
Queen
After that
Come blow my thing
Come wet this thing
Until
Its
Green
Mine not hers she'll cum too quick
Take it slow,
Not teeth your lips
We know you think this piece is sick
But what you know you friggin prick
Do one better; pickup your pen
Drop one piece; c’mon hit send
Or leave this thread you worthless jinn
Unless you fight or need a friend
It’s what we do…that Devil’s Clique
We ‘tune the mood drinkin lick
Or steal who’s weak
guy
or chick
Either way, you
Still a
Trick
Hollow’s Eve
Y’all life is sick
Over and Out
Like
Ranger Rick
http://8020.photos.jpgmag.com/241213_79526_99d17e121d_l.jpg
...
photo: anthony reyes
"Puppet Lives!"
I don’t want to get laid down in this coffin again.
I think like I am human,
Wanting to be free of these strings.
But maybe I’m more like a vampire thirsting for blood at night,
Wanting revenge from these stupid kids.
They think I’m some kind of toy.
Been laid down in so many awful places that it just makes me want to decay.
But one day I’ll cut these stings and wrap them around someone’s neck.
So let us commence.
Off the streets you bring me in.
I almost thought I cared.
You told me stories till it got boring.
And I see you’re getting sick of me, too.
It got to the point where I’m left in a box for days and days.
And when you do play with me?
You throw me around like a fucking mutt.
But don’t you worry.
The day comes closer
For I shall have my revenge!
Play with me like I have no feelings,
And leave me with a broken heart.
Sew me and hold me,
It will never be enough.
You’re such a liar.
You’re like the others.
You just never cared for me.
So one day I will watch you bleed.
I can finally move my little hands.
I go to the kitchen to grab a knife,
And as I walk to your room I think about how surprised your parents will be.
I throw the pillow over your face.
As you try to scream I stab you in the gut over and over
And as the final act unfolds I set your room on fire for the both of us can burn!
I don’t want to get laid down in this coffin again.
I think like I am human,
Wanting to be free of these strings.
But maybe I’m more like a vampire thirsting for blood at night,
Wanting revenge from these stupid kids.
They think I’m some kind of toy.
Been laid down in so many awful places that it just makes me want to decay.
But one day I’ll cut these stings and wrap them around someone’s neck.
So let us commence.
Off the streets you bring me in.
I almost thought I cared.
You told me stories till it got boring.
And I see you’re getting sick of me, too.
It got to the point where I’m left in a box for days and days.
And when you do play with me?
You throw me around like a fucking mutt.
But don’t you worry.
The day comes closer
For I shall have my revenge!
Play with me like I have no feelings,
And leave me with a broken heart.
Sew me and hold me,
It will never be enough.
You’re such a liar.
You’re like the others.
You just never cared for me.
So one day I will watch you bleed.
I can finally move my little hands.
I go to the kitchen to grab a knife,
And as I walk to your room I think about how surprised your parents will be.
I throw the pillow over your face.
As you try to scream I stab you in the gut over and over
And as the final act unfolds I set your room on fire for the both of us can burn!
Here's a brand new one just written tonight (and just in time for Halloween, which is almost upon us!):
- Silent Meadows -
Crickets chirping across silent meadows, trilling fairly,
Give way to the sound of bats amongst the high trees…
Trees whose skeletal branches reach out desperately:
As if they might catch errant souls blown on a breeze.
But some souls cannot be caught, for they are so old!
Chill the wind when autumn’s frost first begins to stir,
And, well do the spirits of the trees weather the cold…
For they are ancient, and hath much wisdom to confer!
Though who speaks to the trees, and who can listen?
The bats know but they keep their secrets hidden well.
Stars bear witness as they sparkle forever and glisten,
Whilst, in the dark of the land, wait beings from Hell…
Some noble and some profane, of less angelic lineage!
For all demons were angels once ere they harshly fell,
But not all were created equal, in their maker’s image.
Some do hunt after evil mortals with dark souls to sell,
Whilst others oft prefer, far more complex diversions!
Wild are the hunts, bold the games of demonic mind…
And refined are their basest cruelties and perversions.
Woe, be unto the sorcerer who seeks them, to bind!
Mists forming upon cemetery tombstones, so ghostly,
Give way to deeper shadows that move with malice…
As, not an eye may fathom such darkness’ symmetry.
Far are they, from their home in some infernal palace!
Yet, they are closer to humankind than a loving god…
And more eager to partake in the affairs of humanity,
For they hunger and thirst, and never sparing the rod:
They torture and torment the awful fears of the saintly.
The imaginings of the pious harbor the worst of fires!
In terror of Hell, what wilt not all desperate men do?
I laugh at such fools, for they know no noble desires.
They long for some dream of paradise to come true,
Doing naught to make it so, unlike we fair children…
Sons and daughters, of the night, the kin of shadow!
We are the keepers of that which is eternally hidden.
Who else knows what lies in all the silent meadows?
When the black shades come, we welcome them…
For what hath we to fear from their darkest descent!
Let the damned shake, and let fools ever condemn,
Those things they cannot understand; so they resent.
Silent meadows slumber like ancient bones, heavily,
Their earthen beds, like sepulchers that ever hold…
The corpse of springtime as snow cometh suddenly:
Freezing crickets, and trees, as if perhaps to scold!
To chastise them for keeping the secrets of the night,
From all mortals, when they are meant for we only:
We children of the night, who partake of pure light!
The light of a knowledge that can be so very lonely,
And so, we seek companions and lovers to share…
The dark road that so few can walk and stay sane:
For there is much madness, even beyond compare.
Much insanity in the darkness, and immense pain…
Pain so perfect that it is more akin to pure pleasure!
Let the winter come, for it is fated once in Samhain,
The dark season, that hides many a secret treasure.
The crickets fall silent, all across humans’ domain…
And soon, the winds shall howl like wanton beasts.
Whilst, the shadows haunt the evening, giving vent,
To their desires as they indulge in forbidden feasts.
Autumn passes quickly when winter hath its’ scent!
- Silent Meadows -
Crickets chirping across silent meadows, trilling fairly,
Give way to the sound of bats amongst the high trees…
Trees whose skeletal branches reach out desperately:
As if they might catch errant souls blown on a breeze.
But some souls cannot be caught, for they are so old!
Chill the wind when autumn’s frost first begins to stir,
And, well do the spirits of the trees weather the cold…
For they are ancient, and hath much wisdom to confer!
Though who speaks to the trees, and who can listen?
The bats know but they keep their secrets hidden well.
Stars bear witness as they sparkle forever and glisten,
Whilst, in the dark of the land, wait beings from Hell…
Some noble and some profane, of less angelic lineage!
For all demons were angels once ere they harshly fell,
But not all were created equal, in their maker’s image.
Some do hunt after evil mortals with dark souls to sell,
Whilst others oft prefer, far more complex diversions!
Wild are the hunts, bold the games of demonic mind…
And refined are their basest cruelties and perversions.
Woe, be unto the sorcerer who seeks them, to bind!
Mists forming upon cemetery tombstones, so ghostly,
Give way to deeper shadows that move with malice…
As, not an eye may fathom such darkness’ symmetry.
Far are they, from their home in some infernal palace!
Yet, they are closer to humankind than a loving god…
And more eager to partake in the affairs of humanity,
For they hunger and thirst, and never sparing the rod:
They torture and torment the awful fears of the saintly.
The imaginings of the pious harbor the worst of fires!
In terror of Hell, what wilt not all desperate men do?
I laugh at such fools, for they know no noble desires.
They long for some dream of paradise to come true,
Doing naught to make it so, unlike we fair children…
Sons and daughters, of the night, the kin of shadow!
We are the keepers of that which is eternally hidden.
Who else knows what lies in all the silent meadows?
When the black shades come, we welcome them…
For what hath we to fear from their darkest descent!
Let the damned shake, and let fools ever condemn,
Those things they cannot understand; so they resent.
Silent meadows slumber like ancient bones, heavily,
Their earthen beds, like sepulchers that ever hold…
The corpse of springtime as snow cometh suddenly:
Freezing crickets, and trees, as if perhaps to scold!
To chastise them for keeping the secrets of the night,
From all mortals, when they are meant for we only:
We children of the night, who partake of pure light!
The light of a knowledge that can be so very lonely,
And so, we seek companions and lovers to share…
The dark road that so few can walk and stay sane:
For there is much madness, even beyond compare.
Much insanity in the darkness, and immense pain…
Pain so perfect that it is more akin to pure pleasure!
Let the winter come, for it is fated once in Samhain,
The dark season, that hides many a secret treasure.
The crickets fall silent, all across humans’ domain…
And soon, the winds shall howl like wanton beasts.
Whilst, the shadows haunt the evening, giving vent,
To their desires as they indulge in forbidden feasts.
Autumn passes quickly when winter hath its’ scent!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
- Space Graveyard -
In the void of space, betwixt the lights,
Of stars and planets in their turnings…
There is a place blacker than any nights.
A place of hunger and awful yearnings!
Once a temple where knowledge bore,
To a kindred ancient, secrets like fire…
But it became a husk, a haunted core.
A mockery of its’ builders’ true desire!
Shunned by its’ makers for a millennia.
Opened by none, lest the evils within…
Be loosed once more in a bacchanalia,
Of blood and horrors, beyond any sin.
The rocks of that place are blackened,
And the skies are filled with thunders…
In remembering of what had happened.
How ancients paid for grand wonders!
But they are gone, their doom enacted.
I cannot speak of what befell them all…
But the gods in their terror, so reacted:
Abandoning those ancients to their fall.
If man ever ventures to that graveyard,
Tread carefully, lest you wake ghosts!
For beyond where the gate is barred…
They hunger, seeking fresh living hosts.
Bones of fallen gods lay there in state,
Not in tombs, but where they chose…
For eons, to slumber and to thus wait!
Their sleep, led them to a final repose.
Machines dormant since time’s dawn,
Still hum with the energy that dies not.
They played their parts, like a pawn…
Growing cold with an unborn thought.
How fallen is that domain, from glory!
Pray man finds it not, whilst seeking…
Lest humanity learns the horrid story,
Of what causes the ghosts’ weeping.
In the void of space, betwixt the lights,
Of stars and planets in their turnings…
There is a place blacker than any nights.
A place of hunger and awful yearnings!
Once a temple where knowledge bore,
To a kindred ancient, secrets like fire…
But it became a husk, a haunted core.
A mockery of its’ builders’ true desire!
Shunned by its’ makers for a millennia.
Opened by none, lest the evils within…
Be loosed once more in a bacchanalia,
Of blood and horrors, beyond any sin.
The rocks of that place are blackened,
And the skies are filled with thunders…
In remembering of what had happened.
How ancients paid for grand wonders!
But they are gone, their doom enacted.
I cannot speak of what befell them all…
But the gods in their terror, so reacted:
Abandoning those ancients to their fall.
If man ever ventures to that graveyard,
Tread carefully, lest you wake ghosts!
For beyond where the gate is barred…
They hunger, seeking fresh living hosts.
Bones of fallen gods lay there in state,
Not in tombs, but where they chose…
For eons, to slumber and to thus wait!
Their sleep, led them to a final repose.
Machines dormant since time’s dawn,
Still hum with the energy that dies not.
They played their parts, like a pawn…
Growing cold with an unborn thought.
How fallen is that domain, from glory!
Pray man finds it not, whilst seeking…
Lest humanity learns the horrid story,
Of what causes the ghosts’ weeping.
- The Haunted Coasts of Cornwall -
As the waves crash like eager lovers upon the rugged coasts,
Of old Cornwall's ancient, picturesque, and legendary lands…
On the howling winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
Perhaps they are trying to point to us the way to old Lyonesse,
That kingdom long since vanished beneath the waters of the sea.
Mayhap they are merely seeking to achieve their most final rest,
And by that act, at last escape from the harshness of this reality!
Do their hands still bear the standards of old, long dead kings,
As they match in ghostly legions that are still too proud to die?
Mayhap they strive to ward off the wailing banshee as it sings,
As it serenades its’ victims with its’ sad and ever mournful cry!
Often, thou canst witness such strange things, and much more,
When the wraithlike shadows deign to part the crisp autumn air.
In these moments, voices call from beyond this mortal shore,
With words that only they can speak, both frightening and fair.
The barriers between worlds do fade, as we look on in fear,
Gazing ever timelessly into another world, and a foreign time.
Sometimes, the spirits move us to shed for them a single tear,
Or mayhap even to compose for them but one solemn rhyme.
I have seen the lost children of peoples once lost to red war,
Still playing, upon the pale greenish meadows of their homes,
Even though the old places that once were are now no more,
And long buried within the earth, are those innocents' bones.
They still call lovingly for their parents, who will never come,
And for friends, and playmates, who have long passed away.
They still pray that their wishes and their hopes will be done,
For such spirits, there is not to be any other foreseeable way.
They look upon the circling ripples in the cold waters below,
Whilst, if they yet walked in flesh, they might prefer to weep!
From this endless purgatory: not any respite, do they know…
Until, upon their souls, the dread of this existence doth creep.
Haunted are those broken cliffs and those gray rocky crags,
Wherein countless otherworldly spirits yet continue to dwell.
Whether they be the phantoms of beautiful maidens or hags,
The torment they endure, is more horrific than a burning Hell.
Upon the ocean can oft be seen sailing, a ghostly Viking craft,
Returning to slake an unquenchable thirst for glory and blood.
The smoke of burning villages, upon the wind in its’ sails doth waft,
Across centuries come the memories of ruins and soiled mud.
Look ye beyond the world thou dost know, and of sunlit life,
And gaze upon the night that exists beyond life’s final breath.
There, thou may catch a glimpse of the face of eternal strife,
The face of the realms that consist sometimes: of endless death.
There, the dead do languish and wait endlessly beyond all hope,
For many do not even so much as know about their true state.
They cling ever to the life that hath passed beyond their scope,
Some never even once suspecting their actually ordained fate.
Like a morbid play, the dead keep enacting of past lives’ joys,
Enacting still, their fears, their pains, and their suffered sorrows.
It is just easier for the living to ignore their clamor and noise,
With it's dirge of a thousand and one shattered tomorrows.
So the waves just keep on crashing, upon the rugged coasts,
Of that land called by men Cornwall and its’ ancient lands…
Whilst on the winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
As the waves crash like eager lovers upon the rugged coasts,
Of old Cornwall's ancient, picturesque, and legendary lands…
On the howling winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
Perhaps they are trying to point to us the way to old Lyonesse,
That kingdom long since vanished beneath the waters of the sea.
Mayhap they are merely seeking to achieve their most final rest,
And by that act, at last escape from the harshness of this reality!
Do their hands still bear the standards of old, long dead kings,
As they match in ghostly legions that are still too proud to die?
Mayhap they strive to ward off the wailing banshee as it sings,
As it serenades its’ victims with its’ sad and ever mournful cry!
Often, thou canst witness such strange things, and much more,
When the wraithlike shadows deign to part the crisp autumn air.
In these moments, voices call from beyond this mortal shore,
With words that only they can speak, both frightening and fair.
The barriers between worlds do fade, as we look on in fear,
Gazing ever timelessly into another world, and a foreign time.
Sometimes, the spirits move us to shed for them a single tear,
Or mayhap even to compose for them but one solemn rhyme.
I have seen the lost children of peoples once lost to red war,
Still playing, upon the pale greenish meadows of their homes,
Even though the old places that once were are now no more,
And long buried within the earth, are those innocents' bones.
They still call lovingly for their parents, who will never come,
And for friends, and playmates, who have long passed away.
They still pray that their wishes and their hopes will be done,
For such spirits, there is not to be any other foreseeable way.
They look upon the circling ripples in the cold waters below,
Whilst, if they yet walked in flesh, they might prefer to weep!
From this endless purgatory: not any respite, do they know…
Until, upon their souls, the dread of this existence doth creep.
Haunted are those broken cliffs and those gray rocky crags,
Wherein countless otherworldly spirits yet continue to dwell.
Whether they be the phantoms of beautiful maidens or hags,
The torment they endure, is more horrific than a burning Hell.
Upon the ocean can oft be seen sailing, a ghostly Viking craft,
Returning to slake an unquenchable thirst for glory and blood.
The smoke of burning villages, upon the wind in its’ sails doth waft,
Across centuries come the memories of ruins and soiled mud.
Look ye beyond the world thou dost know, and of sunlit life,
And gaze upon the night that exists beyond life’s final breath.
There, thou may catch a glimpse of the face of eternal strife,
The face of the realms that consist sometimes: of endless death.
There, the dead do languish and wait endlessly beyond all hope,
For many do not even so much as know about their true state.
They cling ever to the life that hath passed beyond their scope,
Some never even once suspecting their actually ordained fate.
Like a morbid play, the dead keep enacting of past lives’ joys,
Enacting still, their fears, their pains, and their suffered sorrows.
It is just easier for the living to ignore their clamor and noise,
With it's dirge of a thousand and one shattered tomorrows.
So the waves just keep on crashing, upon the rugged coasts,
Of that land called by men Cornwall and its’ ancient lands…
Whilst on the winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
- Upon a Cretan Wind -
Gray and chill, was the day upon the docks:
The place where stood the darksome maid.
Hidden between the hill, and the old rocks,
Where the foundations of empire were laid.
"Atlantis, thou art no more amongst all men,
Yet something still, calls them away to sea.
In like manner, I suppose, to such as them…
I am called to speak many a fair blasphemy."
The maid turned from the rough Cretan coast,
These dire thoughts were so upon her mind.
Like a fading portrait, or a vanishing ghost,
She was taken by the fog; swallowed blind.
In a house wracked by disgrace:
"Sodom, how were thou so wickedly base?
I see worse in zealots whom I have known.
They preach the words of false intolerance,
In seeking God, they have lost Him forever.
I have stared at the Devil in His proud face!
I have walked, where no guide hath shown.
There is no difference in Hell's turbulence,
And all Heaven's cruelly merciless fervor!"
This was fully written upon the note she left,
Read: by her parents who so wept thereupon!
Sometimes it is too late for any comfort deft,
When those sadly denied, are dead and gone.
And a family, by guilt wracked:
Yet no living hand had scribbled that script…
For there did stand the drowned maid's form!
For who could rest in suicide's watery crypt?
When all terrible deeds must needs be born…
"Mother… why ever didst thou to judge me?
Christian, why was love not full in thy heart!
So come with me: unto Poseidon's company.
Mother… it is the time for us to thus depart!"
That sad house, she haunted for many a year,
The maid's mother was made to truly grieve!
At length, when thus shed was the final tear,
Mother and daughter, as together, didst leave.
Death mercifully ends all strife:
Her father searched, for the rest of his life…
But departed were his daughter and his wife.
The old sailor put out alone upon the waves,
Now Poseidon would so harbor three graves!
Once in a while, that same gray fog rolls in…
And a sad song is heard, upon a Cretan wind,
Of a family so damned: by one mother's sin.
Gray and chill, was the day upon the docks:
The place where stood the darksome maid.
Hidden between the hill, and the old rocks,
Where the foundations of empire were laid.
"Atlantis, thou art no more amongst all men,
Yet something still, calls them away to sea.
In like manner, I suppose, to such as them…
I am called to speak many a fair blasphemy."
The maid turned from the rough Cretan coast,
These dire thoughts were so upon her mind.
Like a fading portrait, or a vanishing ghost,
She was taken by the fog; swallowed blind.
In a house wracked by disgrace:
"Sodom, how were thou so wickedly base?
I see worse in zealots whom I have known.
They preach the words of false intolerance,
In seeking God, they have lost Him forever.
I have stared at the Devil in His proud face!
I have walked, where no guide hath shown.
There is no difference in Hell's turbulence,
And all Heaven's cruelly merciless fervor!"
This was fully written upon the note she left,
Read: by her parents who so wept thereupon!
Sometimes it is too late for any comfort deft,
When those sadly denied, are dead and gone.
And a family, by guilt wracked:
Yet no living hand had scribbled that script…
For there did stand the drowned maid's form!
For who could rest in suicide's watery crypt?
When all terrible deeds must needs be born…
"Mother… why ever didst thou to judge me?
Christian, why was love not full in thy heart!
So come with me: unto Poseidon's company.
Mother… it is the time for us to thus depart!"
That sad house, she haunted for many a year,
The maid's mother was made to truly grieve!
At length, when thus shed was the final tear,
Mother and daughter, as together, didst leave.
Death mercifully ends all strife:
Her father searched, for the rest of his life…
But departed were his daughter and his wife.
The old sailor put out alone upon the waves,
Now Poseidon would so harbor three graves!
Once in a while, that same gray fog rolls in…
And a sad song is heard, upon a Cretan wind,
Of a family so damned: by one mother's sin.
Wow i won? Lol So glad to be a part of this. Thanks for the appreciation.. sorry for the late reply. It's always a pleasure working on this site. This is definitely a place where any writer can be part of something bigger and be appreciated. Thanks
