Dark Poems by New Members

You think of a city, perfectly deserted,
and when someone asks what music
plays in their graveyard, a place
where nothing else exists, only bones
and in all his wisdom, God tells you
they are your mother’s and father’s bones
and their parents’ bones before them.

If you could pick any music to play
there, you would pick a violin concerto
and let it play until their eyes
no longer haunt you and their bones
are quiet and await with patience
all the splintered and crushed
bones of their children.

A scorpion will never face it’s own stinger. A bear will never maul itself.   Why then do some men have wounds they wont talk about?

It’s not always the arrow that kills you, it’s the infection.  Gangrene is a slow death, spreading slowly but surely.  It loves an open wound and marches it’s death brigade ever so gradually to the heart.

The unforgiven has a unique gaze his eyes.  It’s says he’s longed for the barrel of his revolver.  Looking at him is like staring right through a bullet hole.  And he knows the choice is simple, cut off the trigger finger that betrayed...

i have some skeletons in my closet
that come out to play and prod, to

rehearse those old wounds
that gave them away to the cobwebs, to

sing lullabies into my bruised ears
when momma says i’m a failed abortion, to

kiss the jaundiced soles of my feet
so i may learn to run, jump again, to

read bedtime stories to me
under the dying light of the moon, to

tickle a laugh out of my miniature lungs
when alcohol turns into rage and blood, to

teach me to tumble, fall, roll, cackle, gallivant,
get back up...

The world is scary
The world is cold
Theres no saving
That darling soul

Crystallised eyes
Lost voice inside
Empty shell
Emotions hide

Minds grow tired
Hearts grow cold
Salvage parts
Of my broken soul

Once was a light
Now filled with shadows
Demons summoned
By my design

Along came you
Walls now fall
You let the light in
Hard to admit

You bend my will
To take the knee
You spread infection
My own disease

The world ain't scary
The world...

May death come
for the deaf son,
who walk the test
of the vision-less,
meet the who
who'll do the voodoo upon to you,
my mind ran to Satan
turned me to his shaman,
from chosen one
to Armageddon,
get done get gone
shun the sun and gun-run,
the cyanide and your own suicide,
and abide the other side while in stride,
then create the endless
form of mend-less,
constipated hatred that's narrated
and fabricated by the self-proclaimed educated,
that brings conviction upon prediction,
never listen,
but...