Poetry to Die For...


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TO SANTA CLAUS & LITTLE SISTERS

Once...he wrote a poem.
And called it "Chops,"
Because that was the name of his dog
and that's what it was all about.
And the teacher gave him an "A"
And a gold star.
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door, and read it to
all his aunts...
Once...he wrote another poem.
And he called it "Question Marked Innocence,"
Because that was the name of his grief,
and that's what it was all about.
And the professor gave him an "A"
And a strange and steady look.
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door, because
he never let her see it...
Once at 3am...he tried another poem...
And he called it absolutely nothing,
because that's what it was all about.
And he gave himself an "A"
And a slash on each damp wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door,
because he couldn't reach the kitchen.

--Anonymous


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The Darkest Silence

A cold tin box
Wind blowing through cracks in the floor
CD player on repeat
And we're alone

Candles in a jar
Wool blankets wrapped up like rugs
And windows covered with plastic
All alone

A crucifix on the dresser
And the anti-christ sleeping in the closet
Blood stains on the walls, dripping crimson sweetness
Still alone

Food molding in the sink
And incense burning through the stench
Clothes crumpled on the floor in the corner
Forever alone

A note scrawled on the mirror
A straight razor still wet on the bed
Body underneath red sheets
Finally...all alone

© SiN


13 years of grief...
One day the rose vanished,
wilted in the rain.
The sun no longer shone.
Crying was the girl blessed
with such tears of vanity.
Her mother had gone home.
Still today bleeding sorrow
haunts the wounded childe.
There are no more tears.
But a shadow condemns tomorrow,
fleeting innocence in the wilde,
raging blindly through hidden fear.
Was the flower a distant dream?
Was it all for not?
Was there no love?
The childe, queen of lost souls,
blooms beneath the shadow
of her dead mother. © SiN
July 29, 1996

Journey into the Mortal Soul...
As we lie in our beds, thinking of the horrors of night, our mind opens and allows exploration into the darkest of memories or fantasies. Our soul lies vulnerable in the pit of our stomach, flowing through each vein, coursing outward into the realm of the real. We know not what lies within, but seek with earnest anticipation of truth. One taste, one touch, one life not real. Or is it? Who is the keeper of these poor lost souls? Only WE can take control of our own, letting others float through the realm. One must protect and nourish their inner-beings, giving it the sustenance it craves, WHATEVER that might be. As with my own soul, I live only to feed this hunger-crazed entity, willing to give up my own life or search for others that would sufice. Your soul will live on forever, feeding on life, taking others'. You get used to the eternal-internal pain and torture of this awesome hunger, it tears at your mind and pulls at your blackened heart. Sometimes knowledge is not enough, you must feed it lifeblood and within that comes the quenching of the thirst for knowledge and truth.

--© SiN

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Shedding her Skin

Letting go of the past
and finding renewed strength
The blue-eyed childe awakened
refreshed and alive

So far from the heavens
but so close to the light
She cleansed her mind
of all the
pain and suffering

And the darkness dispersed
leaving the soul so clean
She closed her eyes and waited
for nothing at all.
© SiN


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A Short Comparitive Guide to Religions
Compiled by my friend THE MAD HATTER!

TAOISM: Sh*# happens.

BUDDHISM: If sh*# happens, it's not really sh*#.

ISLAM: If sh*# happens, it's the will of Allah.

PROTESTANTISM: Sh*# happens because you didn't work hard enough.

JUDAISM: Why does this sh*# always happen to us?

HINDUISM: This sh*# happened before.

CATHOLICISM: Sh*# happens because you are bad.

HARE KRISHNA: Sh*# happens RAMA RAMA.

T.V. EVANGELISM: Send more sh*#.

ATHEISM: No sh*#.

JEHOVAH'S WITNESS: Knock, knock, sh*# happens.

HEDONISM: There's nothing like a good sh*# happening.

CHRISTIAN SCIENCE: Sh*# happens only in the mind.

AGNOSTICISM: Maybe sh*# happens, maybe it doesn't.

EXISTENTIALISM: What is sh*# anyway?

STOICISM: This sh*# doesn't bother me.

RASTAFARIANISM: Let's smoke this sh*#.

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Upon Razor's Edge

There, in the corner, the black-haired girl sits. She's pondering her life and what it means. How did she end up in here? How could he have let this happen? She thought he LOVED her...she thought he cared.

The walls are thick and meaningless, no room for frivolous mourning. The cracks in the ceiling go on forever. Nothing matters....

A rat skittishly crosses to the corner as she bangs her head upon the padded cell wall. Such dingy darkness in a place certified to be fit for humans, yet the light is blinding, flashing into her bloodied retinas. She sits, still staring blankly into the musty air, and still letting her head fall back, with a loud thud, upon the wall. The pain doesn't matter, nothing does, that's why she's here. She keeps flashing back to that awful night...

As the hazy memory floods into her throbbing mind, she curls her pale knees tightly into her hollow chest, letting the memory come into full bloom within her withered consciousness, taking her deep into dementia.

The lights flashing blindlingly. Music so loud, yet barely audible, fills her space while she lies motionless on her bed. The candles are no longer burning, they went out hours ago, leaving waxy trails of black and blue down the walls. She leans over to her desk and lights another cone of incense in her laughing Buddha. The scent of opium fills the air, spiraling smoke into the darkness. And she lights another cigarette.

The memory stops there as it always does and she screams, trying to force the answers out from her battered mind. But of course it never works. She is now curled into a ball in the corner trying not to think about the rats. Their sharp teeth chattering in the cold...hiding in the shadows...hiding with HER truth...They know, they always have.

She sighs loudly as she begins to feel the rush of insanity pounding at her mind. The voices won't stop. There is someone in there, but she knows it's not her. She screams, the sound echoing inside her mind. No one hears. No one except the rats, and she wishes they would just go away.

There is a knock on the door as one of the servile assistants fumbles with the keys to padlock that secures the chain to her cell. But the girl in the corner just laughs, and slams her fists into the window. Nothing shatters, except the inside of this fragile being.

"Why?!?!" she screams. "They know! Leave me be demons! Do you understand?!!!??!!?!?!?!" She is now rambling incoherently, crying out as she grips the bars, yelling into the soapy pane of glass.

The numbness begins, and she doesn't even feel the prick of the needle as the doe-eyed nurse shoots the venom. "Rachel? Rachel honey, wake up." Speaking as if she actually gave a damn. "Are you all right? Talk to me sweetie," she says as the girl drifts further into oblivion. She doesn't hear that awful nasal voice seeping from that fat woman's mouth; she doesn't hear the door slam shut, leaving her in the darkness. She hears nothing except the ringing in her ears and the pounding of the blood in her veins as it flows so freely, and drenches her insides.

The colours start....The walls move...And the girl smiles as her pale being reflects dimly upon the razor's edge...



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Owned by Mistress SiN
© 1996-2005
last updated August 25, 2005

Bringing you pain and sorrow since 1996.


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