Long Imaginationdark Poems
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A little tale about the real me
twisted all inside as can be
the visions of the end
is all i see
F.T.W. setting my self free
waking up with the thought
i survived.
"SURVIVED!" another dream
holding my head under water
no one can hear my screams
cursing each and everyone
for this demon has won
taking over my soul
ripping out all my sanity
reliving over and over
the day i took my own life
my own hell is more than an element of a dream
slicing my most deepest vain, with the dullest knife
a fear so dark lashing out a terrorized scream
reality, to sanity, losing my main brain
a deep dark fear lurking, red blood stain
creeping up a MOSH caught in the way
F.T.W. we are all to blame
inside I dread the day of my rebirth
shout my guts into space for I have faced
to slow down the beast with a potent power of radiation
a frame out demon skinning the philosophy you once new
an evil more than vile, a poison worst than sin
motivating his way in to my voyage of my on tormented life
a DEMON dust from Neptune possessing me its rings
never to think in my wildest observation
I would encounter my own depths of a zero pointless energy
giving to my by the lighted gravity of humane
restricted on the eyes, for the ones who do not wish to see
a trance faster than the speed of light
ending myself to a forever night
fighting with them who reject to see a demon so twisted
dropped from the cosmos of realistic
no one wanting to acknowledge the relativistic way
that time travel out*** and Demons travel in***
lost forever in this rotten being
making me shout out loud to he
who knows my name
dealing with the devils Darkest Poet
in a Dark Poets game
-contest-
just a dream soupppppers lol. : )
In the cemetery I walk, so dark it is this night.
Hoping that the Ghouls won't start to bite.
I feel the tug of the dead, as each grave I pass.
Thankful this nervous tension won't last.
Armed with my Animation supplies,
I stare out at all the green glowing eyes.
A chicken for my blood sacrifice,
Raising the dead, there's always a price.
The salt keeps the dead inside.
Using the machete our magic, we'll ride.
Salt is for everybody's protection.
Cold steal seals out any deception.
To prime the earth so the dead will rise,
cast the blood and create our ties.
Focus my energy and the ground starts to shake.
Winds whip through the area and the on-lookers quake.
I command all that is at least 3 days dead.
Just enough time for the soul to move ahead.
Born with this power as a Necromancer,
When I will my power all the dead have to answer.
I look to Sandra Hudson, who hired me,
to raise the dead and hear their screams.
I call Illyanna De La Keur from her deep, dark grave.
Her words are scary so be very, very brave.
For John Loving III's "Haunted Poets Society"