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Hope is a Thing with Feathers PluckedHope is a Thing with Feathers Plucked
Jonathon Moreau or Neutral Grey
Hope is a thing with feathers
That’s thrown into a pot to boil
After its feathers have been plucked
And stops singing songs in all;
And harshest is the boiling scream heard,
And very sore is this storm
That killed this little bird,
And keeps it cooking warm.
It’s frozen in the chillest land,
And drowned in the strangest sea,
And, now, in extremity,
I kill it to feed the realistic me.
A ConversationA Conversation
Thomas wiped the glass in his hands clean and poured alcohol into it for one of many customers. It was another long night serving drinks at the bar to both the festive young and the downtrodden old. He didn't mind, though. It was his job and it was a steady one.
The entrance door opened to admit a new customer: Aging, long grey hair, a scraggly beard, a plain leather jacket. The old man took a seat right at the bar in front of Thomas and said "whiskey." Thomas made a small glass and handed it to him. The old man stared at the glass for a long while before finally picking it up and downing the thing in one take. He raised his glass for a refill and Thomas complied.
As Thomas was about to walk away and polish more of the glasses behind the counter the old man spoke again: "this is where people go when they lose touch. When they're defeated or at the end of their rope, right?" Thomas hesitated to reply but managed back "Well… I suppose. But there's more than that. A lot com
The Dove (or 'Inverse Raven')The Dove (or Inverse Raven)
Once upon a morning clearing, there I smiled, laughing, tearing,
Over many funny volumes from the small run down comic store.
While I laughed, near collapsing, there came a sudden tapping,
As if someone rudely nagging, nagging me at my cottage door.
"Tis some prankster," I stated, "tapping at my cottage door:
This and gladly not a more."
So clearly I do remember, 'twas a nice warm September,
With each flower wanting a happy bee to help make more.
How I loved this day without sorrow, it will be when come tomorrow,
When my friends come for more to borrow, especially that Charles Bohr—
Who the slugs and leeches themselves created to be a sore—
He'd ask for even more.
And a grand certain stirring from my bright yellow curtain,
Toyed with me—annoyed me so greatly more and more,
So that now to calm the anger making me tart, I stood repeating,
"It is no prankster knocking at my lovely cottage door,
Just an early visitor disturbing me at my cottage door.
Only that s
My Night Out With Poe
Riding on the midnight rail train, snoring madman drives me insane,
while in the distance city lights entice us ever onward.
Try to sleep but him so noisy, wishing I was back in Boise,
not to mention silly raven, acting like my hat's a haven.
"Awfully hot in here," I stutter, suddenly in walks a maven,
asking why I'm not clean-shaven?
Oh, how I wish I could relate, this dismal trek to his home state,
though in reality the tale would bore you to your grave.
This Edgar dude is not my friend, he's not someone I could defend,
his raven bud's a ghostly sort, mug's always got an odd retort.
"Nevermore," he's always shrieking, wond'ring if he's drunk on port,
pleading with him to abort.
Whistle blowing train is stopping, guess we're here my ears are popping,
oh good gosh to no surprise the moon is full and reddish.
Raven hops on Edgar's shoulder, wishing I was feeling bolder,
howling wolf off in the distance, questioning this mad existence.
"Chilly night," is all he offers, pressing on in
A MermaidShe conjures quite a storm,
Sends up great waves to swarm the deck,
To drown the crew and wreck
Their ship and snap the neck of those
Not yet in their death throes.
As ev’ry sailor knows, a maid
Who dwells in ocean’s shade
Will lure them far from aid, from land,
And with bewitching hand,
She’ll toss them, sink them and destroy
The lives of man and boy,
So that she may employ their ship
As home, and she will strip
It bare, and then equip the thing
With ev’ry belonging
She likes; perhaps she’ll sing as she,
A maiden fair and free,
Hangs shells and all things sea, and weeds…
’Tis all a mermaid needs;
These are the very deeds that show
She owns the place, and so
All sea-dwellers will know that she,
This daughter of the sea,
Has claimed the ship to be her base,
Her private, wicked space,
Her stolen, murdered place of warm.
Three Creepypasta PoemsLost Silver
The cool, stiff, skin
of these letter-like shapes.
The carteridge I smashed,
but yet he still escapes.
He follows and floats.
He's not a killer, I know.
But still, I fear,
as he drifts quite near.
The warmth of my body
is sapped away,
by his cold, hard, stare.
Sadness, not a glare,
is what I see on his misrable face.
The face of a dead man.
Lost Silver - romance
His lips so cold, so corse, so rough
Her hands so warm, so soft, so real
No arms to hold me
Remember me always
A match made in Hell
It's not love.
Not love, just lust.
These eyes I see,
eyes I don't trust.
Rough and forceful,
not kind and shy.
I rock myself,
sing a lullaby.
that caress my heart,
warm breath on my face.
I wake up with a start.
Forced down, like a beast
being tied to the bed.
I snarl and I hiss,
and I kick at his head.
The animal is not me,
as he laughs and walks away.
Is this really Steven?
Or did I meet Jeff today?
Eyes in the NightEyes in the Night
They whispered that the night has eyes
Who knows what eyes it really has?
Who dares to utter what they see?
Do they see anyone who walks past?
One evening in July
When the wind was murmuring outside
And few stars glimmered in the sky
The wind suddenly died
There was a low sound in the night air
As though someone moaned in fear or pain
Then, as suddenly, that sound died too
And for o'er an hour was not heard again
Yet nobody ventured outdoors to look
The townsfolk feared the unknown
The night beheld the tale vividly
But had no voice to tell it to anyone
There came a low flutter in the air
As though from a pair of wings
The night has eyes, so people say
But they seem to be the eyes of winged things
Fly on through, oh wingy terror!
On the ether do you soar.
Bring the townsfolk such great horror,
and shatter their minds with your fearsome roar!
Come this way
And hear me say
I got a secret
Can you keep it?
Did you hear?
Do you fear?
That's my secret
Will you keep it?
Now pinkie swear
It's ours to bear
Promise you won't say
What you've heard today
Only time will tell
If you pass or fail
Lets just hope and pray
You can keep my secret at bay
Well, well, well
I guess at this you fail
It's your last day
It's the only way
Sorry, my friend
This is the end
My secret I'll save
Now go to your grave
Together in Bondage 3There once were three
Yet now there are two
One will be chosen
I hope it is you
I am too young
I cannot die here
God let me escape
Theses nights of fear
The nights are horrible
The days are bleak
The screams are everywhere
Even when I sleep
The chains round my neck
Signal to my demise
I wonder if they enjoy
Our screams and cries
My mother must be scared
Waiting for my return
Having no clue
Of the scars I will earn
They come for me know
I am no longer a hostage
My life is lost
Without my bondage
Without this bondage
I would escape and run
There once were five
But now there is one
Bloodlust Makes You A MonsterThere are times in which even good monsters.
Seem to lose their cool.
Or even their minds...and all control.
That's called bloodlust.
When a hellhound catches a whiff of blood.
They go on all out killing sprees.
They won't stop until the sun comes up.
Because they are relentless killing machines.
Walkens become vicious and vindictive.
Bloodthirsty and aggressive, almost Hessian-like.
They crave blood, yes - they do.
And it's yours they want.
They've got a fever.
The only prescription is blood.
And more cowbell.
They want to drink your blood.
Sometimes there are times.
In which we became a bit beastly and bloodthirsty.
And all we want to do is kill.
Hunt, maim, slaughter.
Sometimes we can't control ourselves.
And the bloodthirsty beast within.
Takes over completely.
Making a monster out of you.
A Monster Named RussellThere are monsters everywhere.
We all have our monsters.
Our share of demons, beasts and boogiemen.
They may not be real, but we feel that they are.
Those creatures who lurk in the dark.
Waiting for you, waiting to strike, kill and feed on you.
They will control you, they will use you.
They will plot to destroy you.
We all have our monsters.
Whether they be real or fictional.
Even if you don’t believe in them.
All of us has a monster.
We all have monsters.
And so do I.
My tale is of a certain kind of monster.
A monster named Russell Brand.
He looks more beast than man.
Preys on innocent women, seduces them.
And feeds off their energy like an incubus.
He is not human by any means.
He may seem charming.
But beneath that gentleman facade.
Is the heart and soul of a monster, a monster who will stop at nothing.
A monster who would do anything to get what he wants.
He will eat you alive, and i’m not lying.
He’s a Beast.
Hybrid: Part One, Chapter TwoPart One
I would expect myself to run out of the school, getting home as soon as possible, so I could lock myself into my bedroom. However, that was the victimized version of myself. From what I became, I would fight it. Look at me. I am a creature with fangs that craves the substance within regular humans that would keep them functioning. My position speaks for itself as the new colors I am showing make me hell on earth. But we are talking about the guy who ripped my throat out during the summer. He made me what I am today. A vicious monstrous of the night. What would I be to the people I love? I just said it.
I sat at the seat in that classroom, feeling nothing but fear. I gave myself every reason why I should run out of that classroom, but for some apparent reason, I sat there frozen. My eyes were directly to the front, however I heard and saw nothing except his ferocious self from that very day. I was in the arms of that demon. I was sharing the same lips with him. Hell, I shar
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