deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dark Paradigms
The ghost of words lost in rhyme,
a haunted poets paradigm,
dark specters living in the night,
ink stained spirits of metered fright
Hidden in the shadows of our minds,
the depths of our souls we have mined
fighting demons our daily bread,
raising spirits of the unsaid,
writing poems of hope and dread
Frankenstein-esque we bring dreams to life,
dark desires and internal strife,
monsters are alive within our verse,
this our calling and our curse
but for joy we could do far, far worse
a haunted poets paradigm,
dark specters living in the night,
ink stained spirits of metered fright
Hidden in the shadows of our minds,
the depths of our souls we have mined
fighting demons our daily bread,
raising spirits of the unsaid,
writing poems of hope and dread
Frankenstein-esque we bring dreams to life,
dark desires and internal strife,
monsters are alive within our verse,
this our calling and our curse
but for joy we could do far, far worse
Published 18th Sep 2022
| Edited 4th Oct 2022
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21st Sep 2022 5:29pm
The picture is an amazing compliment to the words....
'The ghost of words lost in rhyme' has such a haunting and dark feel, you know I love that.
Perhaps we are all haunted poets, I think that's part of what drives the passion.
Living in the night and darkness as shadows, demons of the past and present writing us.
The shadows of our minds and the depths of the soul, burning... hurting...
Passionate specters that must speak, taking hold of the hope and dread.
Assembling body parts into something scary and beautiful. Bringing life and showing death.
And what lives inside of us comes alive or maybe it dies, but it is resurrected too.
'The ghost of words lost in rhyme' has such a haunting and dark feel, you know I love that.
Perhaps we are all haunted poets, I think that's part of what drives the passion.
Living in the night and darkness as shadows, demons of the past and present writing us.
The shadows of our minds and the depths of the soul, burning... hurting...
Passionate specters that must speak, taking hold of the hope and dread.
Assembling body parts into something scary and beautiful. Bringing life and showing death.
And what lives inside of us comes alive or maybe it dies, but it is resurrected too.
21st Sep 2022 7:13pm
If life is poetry and poetry is life, we are all haunted by what's hiding from the light. We hide from our demons and hide from life but sometimes writing poetry we are one with the night. I am on the outside looking in, you are on the inside looking out. This separation is a prison as i gnaw at the bars of my cage. I reach for you with my rhyme, you reach for life no longer blind. An eternal chase for an immortal fire, a moth to near the flame, longing for the blistering scars of the pyre. [you always set my mind free, maybe a poem in progress] - Witch, muse, and siren.
21st Sep 2022 9:16pm
Ah, getting me excited with the prospect of a poem in progress, huh? Witch, muse, and siren... oh yeah.... three in one inspiration - what could be better. ;) And your comment is a poem in progress. Just saying... As always...
27th Sep 2022 5:20pm
I kept it simple.....
.
Letter to a Witch
.
If life is poetry
and poetry is life,
we are all haunted
and hiding from the light.
We hide from our demons,
cowering from strife
but sometimes writing poetry,
we are one with the night.
I am on the outside looking in,
you are on the inside looking out.
This separation is a prison
as I gnaw at the bars of my cage.
I reach for you with rhyme,
you reach for life no longer blind.
An eternal chase for an immortal fire,
a moth to near the flame,
longing for the blistering pyre.
.
Letter to a Witch
.
If life is poetry
and poetry is life,
we are all haunted
and hiding from the light.
We hide from our demons,
cowering from strife
but sometimes writing poetry,
we are one with the night.
I am on the outside looking in,
you are on the inside looking out.
This separation is a prison
as I gnaw at the bars of my cage.
I reach for you with rhyme,
you reach for life no longer blind.
An eternal chase for an immortal fire,
a moth to near the flame,
longing for the blistering pyre.
