Poetry Thread

[Anonymous No.12733710]

Out from the dark, where I lurk and wait
Without remorse, but with furious hate
Relentless slaughters, ruthless kills
Looking for victims just for the thrills
One with evil, one with my deeds
I crave blood to satisfy my needs
Countless bodies I've slaughtered in the past
The few who have discovered, didn’t last

Human remains, dead and maimed
In my collection of cracked heads
Piles of bodies, chopped in half
In my collection of cracked heads

Their fate ends the same, with the necks I break
I must keep all the souvenirs that I take
The cracking sound always gets me ecstatic
So does my collection of the macabre in the attic
Decorated with skulls and stripped limbs
I call it art, some consider it grim
It is my refuge from reality
No one knows of my urge or insanity

[Anonymous No.12734362]

[Anti-/lit/ !N4bnZoKwfU No.12734382]

Macabre is one of those words you will want to avoid for fear of being labeled purple. I'm not opposed to a poem about violence but it should have some ideas to offer other than just description.

[Anonymous No.12734395]

The best part
of living alone
Isn't sleeping late
or ignoring the phone

Not making noise
or eating like crap
There's something that's better
than all of that:

Shitting
with the door open
Exposing yourself
to the house at large

Shitting
with the door open
Uh huh, yeah
It's pretty cool

[Anonymous No.12734436]

The fire is out but still smoke belches from within the hollow
And the heat that once would keep us warm dissipates into naught
Where the light had shone we still can find our way, for now, although
The hearth that warmed us all in safety through the dark can not be brought
For in the night I looked upon you as you looked on me
And saw the smothering of time gone by as if I never knew you
In the road we still walked hand in hand but both our arms would stretch
And like a ghost among the trees my eyes could only now see through you