In the entrance of a fabled old oak door
She wore black lace draped to the floor
Upon her face a crested precipice gaze
Though her eyes were blackened from the haze
I could not see nor could I fight
Nor could I flee this thing of night
Her ice cold touch brought me to this
For all I wished was one final kiss...

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knucking futs


let me get this straight

i can fail and you'll still fight me

i can get it right and you'll still accuse me

its my life

i'm laughing while being burried

crying while being born

i cry for those who fail

i'm not a failure but i know what it's like

i'm going knucking futs

who gives a flying fuck seriously

if i want to to fail i can

if i want to win i can

its my life

so leave me alone

drop me off at home

where i'm alone

so i can go knucking futs

when every door shuts

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Darkness and Light

Beautiful Dawn-

how fair thee?

How did you sleep,

did you dream?

Did the Sandman

find you in good health?

Did he bring you

your desires, your wishes?

Did he free you

of nightmare visions

so you could rest easy?

Not I, he did

me no good at all.

I dreamt of hell

a house full of cockroaches

crunching beneath my feet

And a love never meant

to be.

The years have done me

no good

Just left me with

this desert dry land

my private wasteland

that makes me broken promises

unfulfilled wishes

and dreams I will never reach.

Oh, beautiful Dawn!

Alas, let me look in your eyes

and glimpse into a world

I can never live in.

Let me smell the flowers

of your happiness

And feel the presence of

your God.

For I lie in the dark

shadows of the night

And will never be able

to bask in the beauty

of the day.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

"Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer."
- T.S. Eliot

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daylight so pale


memories cut likes broken glass

               darkness shrouds my mind like tombstones of the dead though the names remain silent

                     the night so young and the pain so real

            the day never seen by likes of these eyes

       the night rose very pretty  stained in blood and piercing with it's thorns

                       the day now gone memories fade


                                the pain stayed

                        the heart aches from the blood stain

             trust broken

           a heart bleeding

           a mind shrouded

           the night feeds my guilt

               the night so beautiful

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she moves like scarlet oceans

blooming forth into sly july

smiles like fine jewelery

this is the edge of despair

a dozen words and a dozen sharp objects

slugs to salt, criminal to fault

sitting alone with yourself

you know the anxiety in appetite

her forward dancing me into trap doors

cutting myself on pieces of her allure

symmetry like lions in cool water

don't open this gift yet

the law the binds romance in night skies

trembling in the dark for this image

create me to destroy what's left of you

fragility in slow motion falling faster

shelter my despotic occurence

no meat for the open mouths

like clouds hanging over our embrace

just swallow me then

I've felt her once and never enough

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more than forty






For all intents and purposes man is now the number of the beast.

Is the Poet yet aware? Did he knoe that men were killing men that wars were being fought again whilst he dared to dream even pen love he felt inside for them? Words so eloquently displayed for all the students of the English Language to critique and study how many poems does the English teacher use? in classrooms long abused by drug and alcoholic use the poetic foibles of a systematic killing of the individual pursuits. Completed in the Identification system is the number of the beast the system is the thing. The use of numbers to Identify the people is nothing new the Military in Ancient Worlds numbered troops on the Identification Chalk Boards the ICB were set up in the surrounding rocks so that the Trolls could change the numbers during the battle they had to be quick whitted adding and subtracting the smarter ones soon figured out to count the men's legs and divide by two. The Roman Government even instituted the Social Card but the elite only had them they used them to get in the better areas of the Roman bathes. The Poet Edgar Allen Poole was made most famous by his Raven died it seems after the Cival war was over. Poole, (-----), Mr. - PE 16 Nov 1889. Walter Whiteman was next One Time People Search Report for Walter Whiteman unfortunate this search wanted money to complete the search this Poets death remains uncertain.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

very dark (^^^) (666)

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The relief of fiction

with the discern of frailty

all the stick figures spread out evenly

like cancer butterflies with three days to fly

pale featrures concern many

I need the perfect parade

of shitheads, scientists, and paparazzi

tie cement to their ankles

throw them in the endless gallows

await your cruelty with a bag over your head

scum become the plucked jewel

bastard fragrance awakens nerve challenge

no 10 mintues without a wire of incident

the summer of apocalypse

melted into the winter of dead eyes

swallow me with foul medicine

our strings are pulled by drugs

not some ghost asleep in cold sky

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Walking crimson

Book 6

In this hour of dread. I have seen the mask

A mask of plane make, Simple of design

Not a face of wonder but of madness.

It is within this crimson face I see my end.

Yet I wonder who would show me this in my days?

For the hour is young. The day is old, and there are many tasks.

For them to come to bear, I must plan out a new design

One that will not end in total sadness.

I must seek out those that I call love, and friend.

I must seek them out while I have this blurry gaze.

For I am seeing what can not be true.

Darkness shadowing the light before me.

Things moving were they were once whole.

Endless hours spent watching both front and back.

Never knowing what to do or where to go.

For what I see there must be a lie, for this can not be true

Shadows causing the light to die and allowing me not to see

From the shadows are whispers of an unseen foe

Is this truly an enemy that can not be seen? Or is it just behind my back?

Is this my end, this crimson face in my eyes? Is this really my foe?

This light that I see turning my vision milky.

The endless days marked by the hour.

Then out of this shadowy night,

Is it a false impression, this can not be.

Is it my life that is falling into madness?

No, its true light of the heavenly sky and clouds so silky

No marks the time that I stand up, and great my hour,

I will not go into my own darkness with out a true fight.

So what must a man do for this to be a life?

For I see my family, my loves, my friends, standing with me in sadness.

For them I must rise from the ash of death.

For them I must bear the mask of crimson.

For them I will walk to the ends of every day.

Holding my head up high, so everyone will know death.

For I will be the death of my families enemies!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I woke from a dram and started to recite this. I feel as if I could read to poems at once and found a way of melding them into one. I know one is from Edgar Allen Poe, the other I believe came from The book of The Blind – Diablo. I just hope that someone might see some of my own words and how I made it in my own fashion.

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I want to cut a hole
Deep into my skin
Deep into my chest
I'll cut it with a grin

I want to cut a hole
So I can see inside
I want to see if I will bleed
I want to see if I'm alive

I once heard a story
About living after dying
I want to see if that is true
I want to see if they are lying

Because there's hurt within
And I want to take it out
The hole will let it pour
Then I'll be happy without doubt

So I shred open my heart
And I look for the pain
I want to find where it starts
I want to find where it has lain

But it buried itself far down
My eyes began to weep
Because I could not find it
Before I drifted into sleep

I slept for years to come
And the hole kept on bleeding
So I guess I was alive
I guess my heart was what I was needing

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspiration credit: Surgery by Jack Off Jill and The Sadness in My Chest by August Hell.

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