Blind Passion…



In cold despise I took her eyes
and fed her to the night.
I watched her call and blindly fall
and pray to see the light.

I took her shoes, my wanton muse,
tonight I must surpass.
And so I stalk the paths she’ll walk,
hot coals or broken glass?

So many fears cocooned in tears
that find they have a voice
that rise inside when sight’s denied
that brings about her choice.

And so she limps, I smile and glimpse,
her path of broken glass.
To see her feel a pain so real,
determined she must pass.

Her broken feet become my treat,
she trips to hands and knees.
With crimson trails, she sobs and wails
for mercy in her pleas.

Her will is gone, I’m so turned on
but I know I must wait.
Exquisite pain and half insane,
a lust that I must sate.

Her beauty rare, I grab her hair
and drag her through the shards.
Her tearing flesh so soft and fresh,
receive my kind regards.

At my command, I make her stand
and wait the killing blow.
I kiss her lips and grip her hips,
such beauty in her woe.

Is it wrong to lust and long
and do the things I do?
For all I crave, the pain I gave,
I whisper ‘I love you’


Dead Man Walking…


I think there’s something wrong with me,
an emptiness inside,
that stymies my emotions
in the thoughts I try to hide.
Forgetting things I should recall,
a world no longer real,
simulate emotions
in a bid to help me feel.

I’m sure things used to stimulate
my heart and mind and soul,
but fractured thoughts and voices
leave me struggle to be whole.
Going through the motions grind
and trying to fit in,
yet every day I fall behind,
so numb beneath my skin.

Losing who I want to be
to who I now become,
a tin man looking for a heart
to stop him feeling numb.
Detached, my waking coma bleeds,
my world so black and white,
colours drain in darkness
as my tears fade to night.

Always hiding who I am,
a mask I wear so well,
so no one sees the Demon’s eyes
beneath this mortal shell.
Smile and say the lines to hush
self-loathing running rife,
a role that I was born to play,
each day throughout my life.

Detached, I watch how humans act
to emulate their deeds,
a glimpse of who I used to be,
a window to their needs.
But still I feel no love or hate
as mood swings leave me numb,
it makes me wonder who I am
and what I will become.

I used to get excited but
I can’t remember how,
things that seemed to mean so much
just seem redundant now.
And every day or so it seems,
I lose a little more,
I wish I knew what broke inside
to open up this door.

Drowning in an ocean
of a world no longer mine,
lost in my confusions
as I’m pulled beneath the brine.
Drawn into my fictions
to such worlds that keep me sane,
writing my addictions
as they pour out of my brain.

Holding on to fantasies
in worlds that seem so real,
living through creations
as a means to help me feel.
To live and love and laugh and cry
in lives that I create,
tapping facets in my mind
that help me love and hate.

A Deity who scribes a world
and gives it life to grow,
a God who guides his hero
as he overcomes his foe.
Creating all his challenges
to build his strength and soul,
bestowing him his tragedies
for pain to take its toll.

Why do I feel in fictions when
reality is numb,
there must be something in my life
I’m yet to overcome.
It never used to be this way,
in life I used to thrive,
instead of walking like a ghost,
pretending I’m alive.

I really don’t know what to do,
I don’t know who I am,
I don’t know who I’m meant to be
and no more give a damn.
I fade a little more each day,
despite what I deny,
if I could truly feel something,
then I would surely cry.

Exiled in the Dark before the Dawn…


I’ve walked this Earth for many years,
a stranger in my head,
fought the demons in my mind
and stood among the dead.
Embracing madness as my muse
to scribe my many voices,
stood behind a world of sheep,
defining all my choices.

Behold the deeds of man revealed
in acts of greed and pain,
selfish cruelty, savage apes
with hopes of wealth to gain.
Soldiers sent to fight in wars
just built on lies and greed,
for tainted riches bathed in blood
and stole from those in need.

Governments that thrive on lies,
while stealing from the poor,
people starving on the streets
and still the rich want more.
Acts of cruelty are bestowed
around the world each day
and so the people suffer more
from those who would betray.

So little here redeems our souls
and kindnesses are few
and everyone we know wears masks
to hide themselves from you.
And how the righteous love to judge
while stood on feet of clay
and so the cleansing rain will come
to wash them all away.

For I have found that hate is hard,
a burden you must feed,
forgiveness helps you let it go
to find the peace you need.
But looking round this world I see,
I wonder could we tell,
did we die and then forget
that now we live in Hell?

It makes you think, doesn’t it?

An Attic, a Shop & a Shit Load of Zombies…


No one saw the end had come,
a world of walking dead,
that feed upon the living’s flesh
and so it quickly spread.
I mean we’ve all seen movies shown,
but still we never thought
that it could really come to pass
and leave us overwrought.

The P.C. nuts were on the case,
like anybody cared,
you can’t say zombie, stiff or ghoul,
you call them life impaired.
They protested on every street,
defending zombie rights,
‘til swept away upon a tide
of teeth and hungry bites.

‘Decapitate the head’ they said
‘or just destroy the brain’
as broadcast on the daily news,
it just seemed so insane.
Boarding up the window frame
and nailing shut the door
to barricade ourselves inside
and plan for what’s in store.

We live within a terraced street,
the corner homes a shop,
we really need to get supplies
before we start to drop.
And so into the attic drawn,
a plan to burrow through
into next door and then the next
‘til shop comes into view.

And so for days we hammered through,
too high for zombie reach,
collecting neighbours who’d survived,
until the shop we breach.
We stared dismayed from attic hatch,
the shop was overrun
as zombies staggered up the aisles
and us without a gun.

Time to get creative then,
collecting power tools,
and garden spades and forks and blades
to kill these undead ghouls.
Next we hit the kitchen drawers
for cleavers and meat knives
and anything that came to hand
we thought might save our lives.

First collecting all the bricks
to stack at attic hatch
and made some noise to draw them up
in hopes of their dispatch.
And so they came in hordes of death,
a smell so far from fresh
that made us all begin to gag,
the stench of rotting flesh.

Then we started pelting them
with bricks on each one’s head,
spattered dents that stove their sculls
and stopped the bastards dead.
But now they’d started piling up
and new ones reached to climb,
getting higher with each corpse,
and closer all the time.

We sat the lawn mower on the hatch
and switched the power on,
spraying fingers, blood and brains,
‘til heads and limbs were gone.
Then making sure the coast was clear,
onto the floor we’d drop
and quickly made our way down stairs
and checked all round the shop.

We swiftly brought the shutters down
and boarded up the door,
before we saw some zombies left
to kill inside the store.
Spades that took their heads clean off
and nail guns spilling brains,
garden forks that jab their eyes
and gouge out their remains.

Drills that burrow in their brains
and chainsaws carving heads,
axe and cleavers hacking flesh
as carnage quickly spreads.
We cheer because we took the shop
to keep us fed for days,
so maybe we can sit it out
while soldiers end the craze…

If not… Next stop, Walmart or Asda…

The Song of my Sweet Death…


Silken tones of ages past
in notes so soft and bold,
a lullaby to help me sleep
in dreams as I’ve foretold.

Music drifting on the breeze,
be still my beating heart,
recant the story of my life
in peace as I depart.

Harmonies of loved ones held
that sing of our goodbyes,
sorrows rise and flow to stream
to tears within my eyes.

An aria of sin revealed
in melodies of pain,
regrets of deeds so far from proud
that cause me such distain.

Behold the theme tune of my life,
please tell me I was good,
let me change the things I did
that I misunderstood.

Cantillate the life I lived
and give the music voice,
love me for the man I was
and sing with great rejoice.

My soul revealed in rhapsody,
my faults the flaws of man,
my life bestowed in eulogy
before my time began.

Sadness that all things must pass,
my ballad finds its end,
lost in my crescendo’s roar
as death becomes my friend.

A flute that gently serenades
and draws my final breath,
the Reaper plays my symphony,
the song of my sweet death.

Remember me and sing my song
and sing it loud and true,
for as you sing you’ll think of me
and I’ll live on in you.