The Death Game

Suicide taunts me and calls me its way It's a game it likes playing at least once a day The voices tell me that I have to be strong To live with my troubles has always been wrong Im told that my life was designed insecure That all those who drain me will always want more I listen a while and then contemplate death Inhaling the filth and then holding my breath I hear them all laugh when I panic and cry As nobody cares if I live or I die The voices return and they won't go away... So maybe they'll tempt me one day

Painted Smile

Painted Smile 

I gazed into her deep pool eyes, she stared back into mine

A chill then raged upon my back and shivers froze my spine

I heard the words she said aloud, believed them to be true

They unlocked free the beast in me to do the things he'd do

I took her tightly by the throat and wound my grieving grip

I noticed blood from biting teeth had dribbled from her lip

I kissed her for the last time and we fell against the door

A moment spent in passion 'til collapsing on the floor

Her eyes lay still and lifeless... Like in negatives of old

I held her in my trembling arms, her flesh it felt so cold

It's then I let a cry out... A kind of agonising squeal 

A call that some might pity if my pain they came to feel

Then in a moment mortified I stood back on my feet

I pulled a stool beside her, sat my arse down on the seat

Unsure of what had happened, I calmed myself and thought awhile

I took a lipstick from her purse and painted her a smile

I sat in morbid silence then was woken by a bell

Perhaps it was the demon who would drag me into hell

I covered up my ringing ears...

Dried off my fallen sticky tears...

I wondered how I'd cope inside for many, many years

A bang upon the barricade would shake my bones inside

I looked into the beady eye that lets you see outside

Behind the peeling painted door I spied an ageing priest  

His hair as black as asphalt, combed back flat and highly greased

I asked him what he wanted... He held high a silver cross

Said, he had come to pray for me and comfort at my loss

I opened up the door to him and let the preacher in

He gazed at my predicament... Then stepped over my sin

He mumbled through some passages from script I did not know

Then spoke about the hellish place where I was sure to go

I said I'd never leave her, and as I bowed my head and cried

He stabbed me with his crucifix, blood spilled out from my side

My dying breath was awful cold...

My soul had been already sold

I held a hand toward my judge, who looked at me and grinned

He vanished right before me like the freezing winter wind

I looked upon the girl...

Who grinned her ruby painted smile

I tried to say "I love you" but those words now tasted vile

I guess she had the last laugh as I lay there on the floor 

The crooked smile upon her face the last thing that I saw

The Bleeding House

The Bleeding House 

I'd walked for days through rain and mud, the cold slowed down my freezing blood, the bully wind did blow me where no one should ever go

It pushed me to the bleeding house... The bleeding house perched on a hill... A place that never warmed a clinging chill

I'd walked a many mile that day and needed somewhere dry to lay, my weary feet had come a long, long way

I opened up the creaking door that sounded like a ripping saw, and entered anyhow or come what may

Cobwebs from another time, abandoned many years ago, were swaying from the ceilings to and fro 

I tiptoed on the crimson floor, I pulled the collar of my coat, to warm the cold that gathered round my throat

I climbed upon a table top and pushed aside the rusty knives, the tools that butcher Pete had used to take so many lives

Beside the many chopping tools... My eyes began to close... The stench of death assaulted me and punched me in the nose

It wasn't long 'til slumber came, I dreamed about the driving rain and of the bleeding house where I did lay

And in the dream I realised that this was not a resting place, and not the place where most would choose to stay

As long ago this very room became each victims lonely tomb, they'd screamed for help but no one heard them shout

They tried and cried and prayed but died and butcher Pete was not the kind of landlord who would ever let them out

This man who wore a twisted grin, would find a house and then break in and steal people from their very homes

He'd watch them in their cozy beds, decide which knife he'd need to separate the fleshy meat from lazy bones

He'd drag them to the bleeding house no mercy for his captives... No sorrow for the dead was ever shown

In segments under floor boards were the bodies of the victims in the house perched on a hill where spirits groan

This room of doom contained their gloom until the falling of the moon...

By morning every ghoul had disappeared 

As if the darkness hid them from the warming of the sun...

As if the sun was something to be feared

I woke abruptly in the dark, I struck a match that caused a spark that set alight the cobwebs overhead

Above me was the face of butcher Pete who wore a twisted grin just like the legend said 

I never did get out alive although I tried my best to fight, this house upon the hill became my tomb

And in the darkness of the night I walk with other spirits on the blood soaked wooden floorboards of the room 

We wait until the moonlight glows and listen as the cold wind blows

To warn away who ever comes along

A traveller who has walked the path, that all inside were dragged upon, the very path that I had chosen wrong

We try to scare them all away but those that do decide to stay, will never leave the door in which they came

As butcher Pete will use his rusty instruments to carve upon their chests the landlords name

The Creature

The Creature 

The lights that glowed within the night

Were cats eyes that were filled with fright

As on the rooftop something sat

And stared down at the frightened cat

Silhouetted on the roof

The creature licked a broken tooth

And waited for the boy to sleep

Before it could then creep

Through the window, through the pane

Drawn towards the pulsing vein

It smelled the blood before the bite

And now the time was right

The window opened magically 

The boy fought... Oh so tragically 

And when the blood flowed never more 

The creature ran across the floor 

And dived into the black again

This night it shall be free of pain

But only 'til the new moon glows

Who's next? No one knows!

Mr. Death

Mr. Death 

I know death approaches, I feel him near

As my heart and my mind are the things I now fear

The beat that controls me... The memories of past

Are nothing important and not meant to last

Life is a moment... A moment on earth

Yet death is eternal, a cosmic rebirth

Life is for hoarders who cling to their finds

Rubbish... like memories, that clutter their minds 

Heartbeats are countdowns, just ticks on a clock

The life of a battery... Or Mr. Deaths knock

Are too much the same, so if my senses are right

I don't have the time... Or the strength left to fight 

In Fear Of Me

In Fear Of Me 

I hide inside my vacant self

Like a serial killer unknown 

No friends...

No one...

And I like this darkening place

For here I am left completely alone 

With no sympathy for my pain

Hidden behind a clean fake smile

I'm seen as though I am free

But tethered within I remain restrained

With a frightening fear of me

Vestige

Vestige

My darker side...

The trigger in mind

The finest of line between badness and kind

My tightrope wire I balance upon

The bullet in barrel that's recklessly spun

A ghost on the pavement who flaunts in the light

The cunning who hides in the blackness of night

You... My shadow 

The Hyde within me

Beware of Jekyll you fail to see 

An Entire Life in Boxes

An Entire Life in Boxes 

An entire life in boxes, stacked within a messy room

The contents tell a story like a hieroglyphic'd tomb

Inside are wrinkled photographs and bills he didn't pay

Strands of hair, dismembered toes... His blatant DNA

One box holds his ironed clothes. 

Another hides his head...

First box boring, cardboard brown

Second, crimson red

Separating life and death is easy to explain

A centrifuge not needed to divide the joy from pain

Pinned upon the boxes lies the answer to his end

A bloody little poem... That the killer kindly penned 

Wrong Cut

Wrong Cut 

One day they'll cut me open to examine my interior 

Discussing me as hollow, maybe soulless or inferior 

And as they slice and probe at things they may wish to preserve 

They just might slip and aggravate a last remaining nerve

In disinfected shock and awe I'll open up my eyes  

Wearing grotesque stitches as a frightening disguise 

I'll let them beg forgiveness whilst amidst their routine gore

Then stand to prove them very wrong... And walk out of the door