Submissions by Gothic_Brown_Eyes
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I love Gothic literature and dark poetry. I suffered a lot in my years, and my ability to write has helped me through some very hard times. "Normal is an illusion, what is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly." Boop!*
DARK POEM
Published
12th Jul 2015 8:42am
12th Jul 2015 8:42am
The Shady Roses
The roses are always shady,
you think their friendly
but then when you pick them
their thorny.
Shady are we
beauty lays close
but our roots are deeper yet,
and our thorns now they,
they are known to bite.
thorny
thorny are we.
Roses a perfumed bed
for a drowsy head,
thorns will prick
but dreams will slip
and the nightmares will take grip.
you think their friendly
but then when you pick them
their thorny.
Shady are we
beauty lays close
but our roots are deeper yet,
and our thorns now they,
they are known to bite.
thorny
thorny are we.
Roses a perfumed bed
for a drowsy head,
thorns will prick
but dreams will slip
and the nightmares will take grip.
542 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
9th Jul 2015 7:34am
9th Jul 2015 7:34am
Death Aways Gets His Man
I protest with my fest against the tombstone,
never did I see the ghost.
He pines away in his grave,
waiting for what?
When the dirt has been digged away,
He will rise
and live another day.
Poor ghostly man,
knows nothing of death's demand,
or the promise made too man.
Death always gets his man.
never did I see the ghost.
He pines away in his grave,
waiting for what?
When the dirt has been digged away,
He will rise
and live another day.
Poor ghostly man,
knows nothing of death's demand,
or the promise made too man.
Death always gets his man.
494 reads
0 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
9th Jul 2015 7:24am
9th Jul 2015 7:24am
The Velveteen Dream
The night falls in a heavy,
suffocating cloak,
entwined in darkness.
The night for which we sacrifice
our passion’s
flares once,
then dies,
crushed by a velveteen love,
entangled with
dark desires.
Your passion throbs
for this night is one
you never will forget.
Our emotions surround us,
crying, surrender.
Yet the air is clear,
for this is but a dream.
suffocating cloak,
entwined in darkness.
The night for which we sacrifice
our passion’s
flares once,
then dies,
crushed by a velveteen love,
entangled with
dark desires.
Your passion throbs
for this night is one
you never will forget.
Our emotions surround us,
crying, surrender.
Yet the air is clear,
for this is but a dream.
706 reads
2 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
7th Jul 2015 9:00pm
7th Jul 2015 9:00pm
Pain
The needle poked
stings my veins.
The heart rushed
and the blood pumped in vain.
stings my veins.
The heart rushed
and the blood pumped in vain.
599 reads
0 Comments
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
30th Jun 2015 11:42pm
30th Jun 2015 11:42pm
Fallen Star
My shadow crawls from the darkness,
once I lived deep within its depths
Now I am within the light again.
Shine my soul does,
like a fallen star
zooming by in your night sky.
-------------------------
Live not in the past,
but for the adventure
that follows you into the future.
once I lived deep within its depths
Now I am within the light again.
Shine my soul does,
like a fallen star
zooming by in your night sky.
-------------------------
Live not in the past,
but for the adventure
that follows you into the future.
499 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
30th Jun 2015 11:21pm
30th Jun 2015 11:21pm
Clothed Roses
The roses died so long ago,
I forgot the small of their perfume.
Their radiant glow no longer show,
within these realms of blackened roses.
A thorny bed for their petaled little heads,
each one with a headstone of their own.
Never overgrown,
time keeps them prim and proper.
Yet if you come a little closer
you’ll see for yourself,
these pretty little posers
are nothing but pansies.
Made of cloth, silk, and thread
these flowers made no bed
for how could they,
their dead.
I forgot the small of their perfume.
Their radiant glow no longer show,
within these realms of blackened roses.
A thorny bed for their petaled little heads,
each one with a headstone of their own.
Never overgrown,
time keeps them prim and proper.
Yet if you come a little closer
you’ll see for yourself,
these pretty little posers
are nothing but pansies.
Made of cloth, silk, and thread
these flowers made no bed
for how could they,
their dead.
550 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Gothic_Brown_Eyes
