Content Warning : Do you want to continue?
This forum post contains content which some readers may find disturbing.
It is unsuitable for children or anyone who is easily offended.
This forum post contains content which some readers may find disturbing.
It is unsuitable for children or anyone who is easily offended.
YES
I am over 18 years old, I have been warned and I still want to read this forum post.
I am over 18 years old, I have been warned and I still want to read this forum post.
NO
I don't want to read this type of content, take me back to the previous page.
I don't want to read this type of content, take me back to the previous page.
Poetry competition CLOSED 5th July 2014 5:19am
WINNER
haleyunderwood15
haleyunderwood15
Blood, guts and gore!!!
Poetry Contest Description
Anything goes speak those horrific words
Take the flesh. Watch the blood flow. That smell of blood upon my hands. Soothe the pain burning deep with in my tainted soul. Popping of the eyeballs, the crunching of the skull, beneath my foot.
Can we use old poems or does it have to be new? And do we have to use " Take the flesh. Watch the blood flow. That smell of blood upon my hands. Soothe the pain burning deep with in my tainted soul. Popping of the eyeballs, the crunching of the skull, beneath my foot." in our poem?
Anonymous
There Gores Another One...
The bloody eyed demon of Four Horsemen’s screamin
for whores, guts, gore, filth, sex and more.
Guess he hasn’t heard that the pale zombie targets
were all stolen from the Bloodbath and Beyond store.
Now the skinned ones who are left with no Nazi to blast
boot scramble in dumpsters for new skulls to crush.
So march the headless who’ll shoot his dead horse.
O come all ye taints. Beat the hard rush.
Don’t you know ---yeh, now you know---
when you call for blood flow
you design your own damned death, you fool.
You smell blood? It’s your own
and no one gives a fuckin' groan
when your eyeballs pop out at the minions
who take apart your own flesh and drool.
The bloody eyed demon of Four Horsemen’s screamin
for whores, guts, gore, filth, sex and more.
Guess he hasn’t heard that the pale zombie targets
were all stolen from the Bloodbath and Beyond store.
Now the skinned ones who are left with no Nazi to blast
boot scramble in dumpsters for new skulls to crush.
So march the headless who’ll shoot his dead horse.
O come all ye taints. Beat the hard rush.
Don’t you know ---yeh, now you know---
when you call for blood flow
you design your own damned death, you fool.
You smell blood? It’s your own
and no one gives a fuckin' groan
when your eyeballs pop out at the minions
who take apart your own flesh and drool.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Dead Meat
Six foot six and six hundred sixty six pounds
He swings a massive blade to the chopping block down
Grunting and growling as he cleaves the meat
Crunching through bone not leaving it neat
Blood stains the walls been splattered galore
Still can't amount to the pools on the floor
His cloven hooves trudge through the puddles
Toward the next victim people scream as they struggle
Like deer they are skinned peeled and still conscious
Torn from the scalp down to the haunches
Rolled in salt to flavor the savagery
Then thrown on a hook to savor the agony
Slow dying eyes helplessly watch
As the demonic butcher readies the pot
Licking his lips with a blistered forked tongue
He chews on the skin from a body been hung
Slurping down the last bit of a face
He reaches for the hilt of a scab covered blade
Above head and horn the swing comes down
Dismembers the body with a thumping sound
Tearing through the abdomen reaching inside
Gutted like a fish the body now dies
The entrails are then hand selected
Then fed to the next to be dissected
And boiled for a month until the bones are the softest
Then fed to the monsters who hide in your closets
Six foot six and six hundred sixty six pounds
He swings a massive blade to the chopping block down
Grunting and growling as he cleaves the meat
Crunching through bone not leaving it neat
Blood stains the walls been splattered galore
Still can't amount to the pools on the floor
His cloven hooves trudge through the puddles
Toward the next victim people scream as they struggle
Like deer they are skinned peeled and still conscious
Torn from the scalp down to the haunches
Rolled in salt to flavor the savagery
Then thrown on a hook to savor the agony
Slow dying eyes helplessly watch
As the demonic butcher readies the pot
Licking his lips with a blistered forked tongue
He chews on the skin from a body been hung
Slurping down the last bit of a face
He reaches for the hilt of a scab covered blade
Above head and horn the swing comes down
Dismembers the body with a thumping sound
Tearing through the abdomen reaching inside
Gutted like a fish the body now dies
The entrails are then hand selected
Then fed to the next to be dissected
And boiled for a month until the bones are the softest
Then fed to the monsters who hide in your closets
born to kill
he never was a scholar, quit school at seventeen.
he heard about the war, and that became his dream.
he joined the Airborne Rangers, and trained like one possessed.
as fighting skills emerged, humanity regressed.
when he was home on leave, he wasn’t out there scoring,
or drinking with his buddies; peace was too damn boring.
he fought like warriors fight, and medals filled his chest.
but when the war was done, it wasn’t laid to rest.
blood-lust was his hunger, delivering death a thrill.
a soldier once, but now: a demon born to kill.
he’s lost and loose and stalks the silent street.
so if you’re out at night, and you and he should meet,
keep a gun at hand.
if bravery you lack,
just hide behind your woman,
and shoot him in the back.
he never was a scholar, quit school at seventeen.
he heard about the war, and that became his dream.
he joined the Airborne Rangers, and trained like one possessed.
as fighting skills emerged, humanity regressed.
when he was home on leave, he wasn’t out there scoring,
or drinking with his buddies; peace was too damn boring.
he fought like warriors fight, and medals filled his chest.
but when the war was done, it wasn’t laid to rest.
blood-lust was his hunger, delivering death a thrill.
a soldier once, but now: a demon born to kill.
he’s lost and loose and stalks the silent street.
so if you’re out at night, and you and he should meet,
keep a gun at hand.
if bravery you lack,
just hide behind your woman,
and shoot him in the back.
Anonymous
Anonymous said:<< post removed >>
This is all over the internet... google up the lines and you will see it. prove it's yours. We have too many plagiarists popping up here.
http://quintensangel.deviantart.com/art/Cutters-Lullaby-48926956
This above shows an author but even she was accused of plagiarism in her comments. Many have copied this poem:
http://hellopoetry.com/collection/1623/cutters-lullaby/
This is all over the internet... google up the lines
and you will see it. prove it's yours. We have too many plagiarists popping up here. http://quintensangel.deviantart.com/art/Cutters-Lullaby-48926956
This above shows an author but even she was accused of plagiarism in her comments. Many have copied this poem:
http://hellopoetry.com/collection/1623/cutters-lullaby/
Sacramental
It is time to lower our heads and prey
on thick tendons, blood-worn thin.
The grey ones stumble and shriek,
necks outstretched past the eucharist.
We bound and leap for tender young,
fresh meat scurrying to futility.
Savage rhythms bless torn verdure —
anointed bones on which we feed.
It is time to lower our heads and prey
on thick tendons, blood-worn thin.
The grey ones stumble and shriek,
necks outstretched past the eucharist.
We bound and leap for tender young,
fresh meat scurrying to futility.
Savage rhythms bless torn verdure —
anointed bones on which we feed.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
LMAO!!!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
