Last Commented Dark Poetry Poems (2,493)

Fragile and hollow encased in an invisible glass case,
she sits, legs crossed and hands placed perfectly on her knees, her hair falling in waves of perfect curls, even the straps of her dress ironed and without a wrinkle.

Foundation spread over her face making her skin look like porcelain, her make up almost looked like an artist had painted it on too perfectly.

And from this doll, dull lifeless eyes stared ahead, her skin was warm but her heart was like ice, it had frozen long ago when she became nothing more then a show piece of beauty to be displayed for all to see.

Then one day he pushed her just a little to much and she crashed to the floor, her body and face splintered and cracked
and she lay there feeling nothing at all.

Thats where he found her, and with tender hands and strong arms he picked up the pieces and gently began to glue the bits together, she began to take shape once more, but he did not stop at the outer shell, he breathed warmth into her and slowly the fire began to warm her and the life in her eyes shone bright, the fine cracks left behind were more beautiful because she was unique, they showed how she had healed.

Damn this heart,
It won't stop breaking,
This hole in my chest,
It won't stop aching,
A smile on my face,
I can't stop faking,
For others sake,
My feelings forsaking,
I keep saying inside,
"Everything's fine.",
Trying so hard,
To believe my own lies...

In a world of magic,
Silent speaks across the winds,
Where trees scatter news,
Of places with loving beings.
In a world of logic,
Gossips speaks together with sins,
Are spread by sweeten lips,
With countless sorrow and pain.

I'm scared of you
I'm scared of them
I'm scared of God
I'm scared of dogs
I'm scared of being alone
I'm scared of not having enough money
I'm scared my car will break down on the highway
I'm scared of work
I'm scared of my parents
I'm scared of going outside
I'm scared of the news
I'm scared of drunk drivers
I'm scared of bullies
I'm scared of people with tattoos
I'm scared of people with beards
I'm scared of my landlord
I'm scared of Bigfoot
I'm scared of humiliation
I'm scared of my class of 1987
I'm so scared I feel like my heart will burst
I'm having stomach aches and I feel crazy from the fear
I hope tomarrow I won't be scared

I feel like Pinnochio,
Only a toy,
Hoping, just wishing,
I was a real boy,
All of me made of pieces, parts,
A walking talking work of art,
Screws, dowels, wooden pins,
Everything that's holding me in,
Pulling strings,
I dance and jig,
While the Puppet Master,
Laughs and grins...

If all the world was square
should I go beyond and fall off

If all the world was round
shall I keep going
then shelter out of boredom
in my loft

If all the rain drops hurt
shall I sneak away
to my pages

If all the drops were velvet
should I now unbolt my cages

If rainbows hid my love of life
should I not cry
for want
of unbridled strife

If all scratched and broken clouds
teamed with softer palette's

Was it me that fell
amongst the
cruel and broken mallet

If all was just a play
upon one word
shall I

not seek
yet spin my merry soul

to lite the fire
of my loving dark

Cutting Coal

Desperately searching for something that's real,
I feel,
I'm in constant battle backwards uphill,
Till diving in sewage and swimming through swill,
Taking every ounce of my will,
I fight to survive,
Like kill or be killed...

I am he who survived the heat of your rage
scorching me to ashes, I rose from the flames
unharmed by your piercing eyes
unmoved by your venomous lies

I am he who found the power that I never lost
twisting with confusion, my demons did fall
untainted by their ruinous ways
unaltered by my troublesome days

I am he who walks through the valley of life and death
blinding my sight I see through all the unreal
uncompromised by the veils of deceit
unchallenged by the winds of defeat

I am he who sees within the soul of your heart
that which you seek to hide from the world
fooled by your shadow, you lie
ruled by your shadow, you die

I am he who the sky does speak to at night
sending wise words from that infinite space
enriched by your wisdom
enthroned by your kingdom

I am he who did fail by the standards you set
losing your favour with each mistake that I made
riddled by my inferior stance
belittled by your superior glance

I am he who survived the fire of your hate
scorching my bones, I did rise from the flames
protected by shadows, below and above
accepted by angels, in life and in love

We all think that old houses are haunted with spooky ghosts
That will jump out and scare us, but are there really ghosts
Or just our vivid fantasies of apparitions and spectres.
In books we read about ghosts resembling the headless
Horseman in "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" that chased
Ichabod Crane onto a bridge, where soon after that he
Disappeared. Well, it sounds absurd that that would
Ever happen, so why do people think that all old houses
Come complete with a ghost? Maybe the noises people hear
Are the house just settling for the night, there may not be any
Supernatural occurrances at all. The ghosts seem to come with
Our imagination and the dark environment and surroundings.
There is the illusion that a tragic event may have happened
In the house, bringing on a ghostly visage, when an eathbound
Spirit may walk the house searching for it's redemption.
Spirits might have been sighted by ghost hunting groups,
Who bring with them electronic devices to search for sounds and
Visions, hoping for sightings. Some have actually seen images
Of ghostly movements, but nothing is really conclusive.
The house remains as it is - just an old house that has
Seen many families in its time, but it can never really be haunted.

My skin wrinkles
My ears decrease in strengh sound becomes noise to my ears
My ear lobes decende
Grey my hair grows

Eye sight fails glasses I wear were are they opps on the top of my head
Wrinkle prune skin
Firmness now ebes away dangling flappy bits hanging to my body where
Musle was within

My strengh deteriates weakness and aging creeps opoun my torso
Aches and pains consume my once fit ripped torso
Dependant on my walking stick
I visit the quack most ofen

Or
they to me
My bed my existitence alone I am now
Waiting for my last visitor
Death he shall be know
In the darkness he comes

To aher the wanted souls of the lost to heaven some shall go others to there doom
Souls lost in fire they are consumed