Asylum:
I scrape my hands upon the ground,
Staring at my cell.
I wonder why I'm trapped inside,
This vivid living hell.
I've heard the voices calling out,
Maybe they're in my head...
I wonder where my cell-mates are,
Maybe they are dead...
Time has no meaning in this place,
Nor does the word of day and night,
The food is simply human flesh,
It will give you quite a fright...
Upon a chair they strap me down,
They open my eyes and make me shiver,
They pull out a scalpel and many knives,
The sight alone, it makes me quiver.
They inject me with a strange chemical,
The world does fade to black.
I wake up in my cell again,
An
A star fell from The Raven's Wing,
After fighting for so long,
His fervent voice rang loud and clear,
A tribute to Death's song,
He never was so bright as when,
His form, shining met the sea,
I can only hope for this one thing,
That he found his Annabelle Lea
She spends her time ballroom dancing with the dead,
And there isn't a dark tale she hasn't yet read.
She likes black dresses trimmed in matching lace,
Carries herself with a ghoulish sort of dainty grace.
She says that sad songs are what feed her soul,
While cemeteries are her favorite places to take a stroll.
You can see madness when you look in her eyes,
Perhaps even the spectre of your own demise.
And there is something so very odd about her kiss,
A feeling like some writhing thing come from a dark abyss.
An affection so beautiful yet so dark and so strange,
That with every touch I feel my mind derange.
It is true that I love
P r e t t y Picture by Mask-TheDisguise, literature
Literature
P r e t t y Picture
I'll paint you a pretty picture;
But there's just one twist.
The paintbrush is a knife;
And the paper is my wrist.
I'll draw you something pretty;
It's might be a sin.
The sketch is made of blood;
And the paper's made of skin.
I'll write down a pretty poem;
And this is what I'll do.
I'll fill it full of pain;
And send it straight to you.
I'll mold you a pretty sculpture;
Make it of a heart.
I'll make it out of me;
And hope it falls apart.
I'll send you a pretty package;
But there's a trick you'll see.
I'll fill it full of pieces;
And the pieces are of me.
A Morbid Little Sing-Song by CindarellaPop, literature
Literature
A Morbid Little Sing-Song
Old Father Red
Killed the queen in her bed
And her head rolled 'cross the floor,
Then held her son and her daughter
Both under the water
Until they argued no more.
A damned soul
In a china bowl
Does to make the flavors mild
In the fish chowder,
Though it cries rather louder
Than the dam of a missing child.
A human skull
Is better full
Of buttons than of brains,
Some prefer feathers
It depends whether
The skull is a gent's or a dame's.
A dead man's ashes,
And cat's eye-flashes,
And the loop of a hangman's noose,
With peach marmalade
Would make a good trade
For a pair of glass eyes in chartreuse.
She lies on a glass table
Stab wound in her heart
Breathing subsided
Until everything stops
And her vacant eyes close
He finds her there
On that glass table
Stabbed in the chest
What a beauty
Is what he thinks
He kisses her cold lips
And replaces those
Vacant eyes
Ties her to a canvas
Decorates it with petals
Dripping like her blood
Art is here
Admire the dark
Cold
Numb
Forgotten
Adored
One mans junk
Is another mans
Treasure.
Held together by a rusting chain,
her wrists are bound to the wooden frame.
as her body writhes in a morbid agony,
i watch, reaping a twisted ectasy
she is encased in this meticulous moment,
dark yet pleasant, a hellish torment..
a seductive sensation of a cold steel..
as it bathes itself in its crimson thrill..
her naked skin seems to melt in the satin sheet.
as her tears shroud, her baffled beat.
like a dark temptress, she showers her lust..
promising me love, like she never must.
to her velvet voices, i pay no heed.
cause its not her love that i need.
i stare in her eyes feeling the pain..
as i embrace her rigid, yet delicat