Best Damned Poems
Sisyphus pushes his rock up hill
While Atlas bears his load.
Damned by the ire of capricious gods,
Forced down a toilsome road.
And so it is with the gods of thrill
Who trap and hold you fast
With opioids and images,
Perniciously unsurpassed!
Beware the promise of wealth or skill
Contained in a bottle brown.
Hold to the rod of simple truth
Lest you be taken down!
June 29, 2017
I never asked to be born,
so these sins leave me torn,
between living and dying.
I'm laughing, but begin crying,
because I've lost all affection
for my mirror's reflection.
You think... I'm just a psychopath,
as you don't understand my wrath.
Such judgement, leads me on a warpath,
as voices tell me to start a bloodbath!
These pills offer no remedy,
so my heart's not beating steadily.
so, I stab the world and let it bleed.
Hey death, increase your speed,
avenging angels have been freed,
and I'm not one who's gonna plead.
Damning demons provoke my mind,
to behave in ways that aren't kind.
Revenge will turn one blind,
when fate has been sealed and signed.
I can't leave retribution behind,
as forgiveness has been declined.
Destiny calls my name loudly,
Satan claims I've sinned madly,
hounds of hell devour me badly.
I'll give you my soul gladly,
keep on smiling sadly
and accept my fate proudly..
It was her kitchen, her family, and my newly-married man, and I aimed to please her by properly being fed.
With a smile and a swish, “We have butterscotch pudding pie for dessert!” My brand spanking new mother-in-law said.
Her excitement had no knowledge of the instant memory of horribleness that leaped instantly to my own quickly confused head.
I tried to take an invisible pretend bite while the family all watched, eagerly waiting but my traitorous mouth played dead.
Tears filled my eyes, as I was unnaturally smothered with the sad, angry hurt of my long-ago favorite butterscotch pie.
The feelings came so damned fast, I could not stop them at all or even slow them down, and they surrounded me, and made me cry.
When I was eleven, my family of origin was in the kitchen, laughing, and playing, and goofing around.
When the phone rang, I was asked to get it, because it was wire-attached to the wall, and I was the closest to the retched sound.
I had never heard my mother wail or keen until that day, certainly never heard her yell, “DICK!” or fall without any game to play.
Our big Dad jumped up faster than we had ever seen, grabbed rag-doll Mom before she hit the kitchen counter in a not so great way.
We all turned pure white, which was odd because we were usually pink. Fascinated, yet, hungry, I took my first bite, and heard the words “Mom is dead, and Dad’s dead too.”
We kids started shaking, sad and scared. Grandma and Grandpa were our king and queen. When things calmed down in a second or two that damned butterscotch pie tasted like glue.
Everyone wailed wild-eyed, faces red. The cousins came, and we huddled together and cried and screamed how great it was sob, sob, that they both went to heaven.
Yes, I know that was many years ago but when my feelings took my body over loud and clear, they clamped my mouth tightly shut, because I was back to 11.
As gently, she drifts through the darkness
Waiflike, she flows on the breeze
Her eyes never resting on anyones
Appearing to all Ill at ease
She wades in the depths of her carnage
Pressed by the weight of her sins
The humans, mere collateral damage
Ever conscious the thirst always wins
Her games will be played in the darkness
She's queen of the damned, you're her pawn
And the best, of the worse, you can hope for
Is to last 'til the break of the dawn
Lost in the wonder of bloodlust
A little too long in the tooth
She's witnessed her friends turn to dust
While she Lives on, enchained by her youth
The curse of the love of a demon
Taints the flow of the blood in her veins
It has ended her innocent dreaming
Now none but her nightmare remains
As she calls to the night, ever knowing
Her hunger can never be filled
An insatiable thirst, ever flowing
Through rivers of blood that she's spilled
As Black as the night that enfolds her
As dark as the road that she travels
She moves with the grace of an angel
Whilst waiting for time to unravel
They were as Jonah was,
cast down into the belly of the whale
They were soon to experience
every unimaginable horror on this ship of hell
On the voyage of the damned,
you hear the cries of the condemned
Be prepared to die as well,
unless God chooses to intervene
A lot of souls won't make it
on the food they were given to eat
Rancid water, spoiled bread
and maggot infested meat
That rank disgusting swill,
you wouldn't even give to a dog
It had the most foul stench ever,
as if dredged from the filthiest bog
On the voyage of the damned,
you hear the cries of the condemned
Be prepared to die as well,
unless the captain wants to hear you sing
You got whipped for moaning too loud,
'cause you're hurting from being whipped before
You got beaten longer than the last time,
as someone you knew was getting beat even more
The drunken prince and the devout priest
are both chained and bound together
The greatest as well as the least
are each tossed off during stormy weather
On the voyage of the damned,
you hear the cries of the condemned
Be prepared to die as well,
unless the cook becomes your friend
Tortured wails in the night
prevent you from getting much sleep
You can't afford to get too sick
from the rough waves of the deep
Or you'll get pitched overboard
to the insatiable trailing fins
Don't be the last to follow orders,
or you'll be the next one thrown in
On the voyage of the damned,
you hear the cries of the condemned
Be prepared to die as well,
unless your body can satisfy ten men
You're surrounded by diseased walls
and an unbreakable trap door
Your clothes reek of a piss odor
from laying on the excrement covered floor
Each day you desire death
within this cruel house of motion
Each night you always pray
this death ship sinks in the ocean
On the voyage of the damned,
you hear the cries of the condemned
But if that ship of woe reaches land,
a new and different kind of hell is awaiting
Her devilish eyes beat at me
taking flesh with every blow,her
rendered heart beat sounds like
tribal drum rolls an her skin
drips venom from its pores , I
find myself helpless and
paralyzed , everything else
seems trivial and meaningless
to this moment,..she exhales
smoke and lightning flows from
her finger tips ,she is the
antichrist the source of my
device, but I can't help but give
her my heart,I question my gift
but remain entranced caught in
her red moonlit ritual
dance,sight of her is blinding ,
she is what Every man desires
but can't reach, it feels like
heaven but I sweat from the
heat,the pain she inflicts is
bitter sweet an burns like salt
in a wound ,she is gods most
regretted creation born for the
night with a hunger that cannot
be fed,hold her down chain her
up she cannot be contained ,
pentagrams burn white in her
eyes,she's a shape shifting
voodoo angel that sleeps with
vipers ,yet I seek her and
desire her with every thread of
my existence and have turned
into an insomniac who day
dreams of her , cut by the
thorns of the rose she wears in
her hair , always the day of the
dead and raining razorblades,
the tree limbs reach out for my
embrace but every one of them
are shadowed with her face,I
close my eyes I can always find
her there , lay with her in the
ground every breath she takes
is sin ,she's a black rosé that
cannot be changed a black rosé
that cannot be contained ,
ashes to ashes dust to dust I
cut my heart to be with her and
bleed undying trust,it's only
her....everything else I feel is
not real .....
And so, I have made up my mind, once more.
I have decided to depart, to bid this husk farewell.
In order to do that, I must save coins if I desire to save myself.
For with it, I will be able to buy my ticket out here to a more blessed realm or the eternal void. Either way, I will be winning.
I mustn't, any longer, feel the starvation of affection and no more I shall be fed by the crumbs of fleeting joy they toss at me.
Thoughts of finishing are always in my mind, flooding it, making hard to go day by day, making hard to sleep, to have hope.
I fail to see where the hope is, I like to think that it can be find inside of one's heart.
But even so, I think I am mistaken, and when I glance at myself in the mirror, I quickly lose any spark of what could-be hope.
With the aid of the metallic sling, I shall leave this husf behind, heavy with its sins and sorrows, to no more nourish hatred.
For it does only to hinder my advance towards elevation.
With my metallic sling, I shall pierce, first, my heart, where lies the sorrow, then, my mind, where resides the sins.
Whilst the life in me start to wane, regrets I will not have, when my consciousness fade, my spirit will be no longer be trapped inside this imperfect cage of flesh.
Being free, my spirit shall roam far and beyond to, before, unseen places by men, to untouched places by men.
Another day,someone inquired me "Are you happy now?" and for that I just said "Yes". How else could I have responded if not with a lie?
How could I tell them that I yearn for a premature closure in order to stop thinking and feeling but I also yearn for love.
"I am not absolutely happy, as per say, but I do suffer less when I am asleep" I could never say that to anyone...
I could smell the ballpark in my glove
Lose myself in the crooked sky above
Hear the roar of the crowd in my bat
Oblivious to your epitaph called stats
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
So you bought a curse named Ruth
Not to mention 26 Octobers to boot
Did you do it to spite this game
Integrity sold for the price of fame
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
You built a cathedral from which to boast
Helped the Babe exorcise Gehrig’s ghost
Buried Maris beneath a Mantle of shame
Sleeping with a bottle and two dames
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Joltin Joe swinging that Marilyn clout
The mighty Casey you struck out
Too old for a springtime affair
Welcome Jeffrey Maier
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Three times a charm in the Bronx zoo
Reggie’s knockin them out, Billy too
Who needs a bookie if you have a boss
You can bet you’re fired after a loss
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
Beware the seduction of pinstripe sin
Immortalized by Jeter’s cocky grin
Four more pennants in five years time
Selling out is winning’s soul crime
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I say
Damn Yankees
So tell me George, when will it end
Is 200 million a salary cap or a trend
If it’s a general manager you seek
I hear the Devil comes real cheap
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But that was all taken from me
From an evil that does not sleep
Forgive me if I pray
Damned Yankees
I could smell the ballpark in my glove
Lose myself in the crooked sky above
Hear the roar of the crowd in my bat
Oblivious to your epitaph called stats
Dreaming a dream, called baseball
But now, I wonder "Will I have the bravery to follow?"
Demise shall follow if I am to attain redemption and cleanness of my sins that tarnish my soul.
Sometimes, I cling to yes, sometimes I cling to no.
When the dark clouds blur my sight, I ask myself "What is worth living for?", some believe in god, some in money or in even a more mundane wish.
I lack this one thing, I lack the purpose that would impulse me forward. But then, I speculate "For me, must be love", but what is love? I do not know, I am an strange to it, perhaps this wasn't reserved for everyone.
Well, one thing is right, my passing will not be mourned nor missed. It will go like the wind, now here then gone and noone noticed a thing.
Many leaves were shaken, many tears soiled the ground, yet, none of this was spotted by anyone.
To the people I did wrong "I am sorry, please, do forgive me".
To the people that hates me, hate me more, be genuine with it and be the fuel of this endeavor. Hurt me more, make me bleed, cut open my flesh, as he once did when I was an infant, paint the wall with my crimson tint...
Make me regret to have been born, actually, this will require little effort, since I already regret that.
My mind is set, termination is the way to go if I desire to do something good, at least once, in this life.
No hope can be spied nor a glimmering light to lead this one to safety.
In a colorless world, only with shades of black and gray, thoughts of demise haunts me day after day.
I see the people around me, at work, on the the streets, everywhere and I cannot help but to feel disgusted and out of place and helpless.
I am tired of pretending, behind my mask, I weep, behind their masks, they laugh at me.
I am tired of being fed by deceiving tales and to feed other with my lies.
The lies... It is everywhere, one must tread lightly between them, or else will fall their prey.
I put my hands around my wife's throat and I squeezed.
What disturbs me is that when she died, I was pleased.
When it came to having morals, I used to believe that I had some.
But every time I look in the mirror, I'm horrified to see what I've become.
My wife was so mean and she loved to provoke.
Life became intolerable every time she spoke.
She told me over and over how ugly and stupid that I am.
I snapped and killed her and now my soul has been damned.
I want to go to the Cops but they would lock me up for life, I would never again be free.
But that's only if I would get lucky, it's more likely that I would receive the death penalty.
When it came to my problems, she was the source.
If I hadn't snapped, I might have considered divorce.
As each day passed, that witch became even colder.
I'll spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder.
She was a horrible Human Being and she loved to annoy me.
I'll never stop fearing that the Cops are closing in and that will eventually destroy me.
(This is a fictional poem)
In a world where love is hatred
I'm the only one who makes it
Alive and well
Enjoying hell
But no one else can make it
Vegas be Damned!
Vegas took him off the board at 80.
As the cards were dealt each day, passersby
would swear the deck was stacked –
against him. Fate had, for some reason,
chosen him to constantly be in the line
that closed for lunch, watching the bus
he just missed - leave. Youth, street kid,
pin setter in a bowling alley, living at the
kindness of friends parents, eating as the
opportunity presented. 17, enlisted,
good duty, three hots and a cot. Re-enlisted,
war, Korea, PTSD (before it was PTSD).
Discharged, returned to the streets of
his youth – no longer a youth. The drink,
elixir of the damned, damnation of the
scarred, comforter of the comfortless.
Arrests and jail time, flop houses, back
to the streets. Early in his forties, fate’s
dealer broke open a new deck. A chance
meeting, a choice, an unsteady walk,
a door, into a new life. Get well jobs,
dishwasher, grave digger, volunteer.
A 75 dollar car, an apartment of his
own, friends, and fellowship. Another
better job, 30 years later, retirement
at age 75. A birthday party shared with
friends - many half his age of 84. He
still walks the streets of his youth
proudly, thinks of those who, unlike him,
were not as fortunate. Those who succumbed
to the rigors of life, and death, the unseen
wounds that never healed, the hopelessness
of a stacked deck. He laughs a lot, has a
bit of a skip in his step, a wry smile on his
face, an MBTA Charlie Card in his wallet,
and a plan to be a part of this day.
Vegas be damned!
John G. Lawless
10/18/2014
for Gautami Phookan – Sketch a Character – Poetry Contest
Sleep. It is the last damned thing.
Taps is on my mind. My orders are to sleep. We all eventually get this order in a final form.
God is the Captain, and we merely sailors on His oceans.
I'm not a soldier, and I will say that until the day I die.
I shall sleep sir.
Copyright © 2014 Gun Poet. All Rights Reserved
Damned
So you don't believe that it's written?
You don't believe that it's planned,
when the horse my head was a kicking,
when stupid took stupid command!
Just 15 years for to suffer,
a Moron loose upon the land,
couldn't give the right change on the Buses,
often was short, not so grand.
At 30 my brain it got working,
where never a thought, it was planned,
the fog it seems it was a lifting,
when I could think? took command,
Bad Karma curse for 15 years,
22 years with Chris was so planned,
we wonder why we have to suffer,
it's written in the book of the banned.
The fault is the fault of the loser,
come uppance for the damn of the damned!
Don Johnson
In the corner of a pawn shop, blanketed in dust
stood a damned old used guitar; for a twenty, was a must.
Walking out the door with it slung across my back
I saw a young man with a sign, "Help my name is Jack"
I didn't know his troubles, never really gave it thought.,
just dropped a single in his hat, less that the hat held naught.
I started to move on, and then I heard Jack say,
"Thanks man, that's a fine guitar". " Could I hear you play"?
I hated to admit it but I'd never plucked a string;
bought it on an impulse, just attracted to the thing.
How 'bout you, I asked him and he reached for it with tears.
He used to with his dad, but he hadn't played in years.
His dad was a musician and he played from town to town.
His mom had split his senior year 'cause Dad was never 'round.
He'd begged Dad to come home that spring to see him cross the stage.
On the way dad wrecked and died and Jack was filled with rage.
They brought him Dad's belongings from the totalled out old car;
a suitcase full of clothes and this damned old used guitar.
Jack strummed a few rough chords, then tuned it up a bit.
He'd sold it for a sawbuck, then just came out here to sit.
Its been three years since then, come the twenty-fifth of May.
He rolled his sleeves, closed his eyes and he began to play.
His fingers typed in music, a letter to his dad.
Now lost in the nostalgia, he didn't seem so sad.
A crowd began to gather and his hat filled to the brim,
And that damned old used guitar, well I left it there with him.