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Dark Poems by ErinB

Updated on August 7, 2017

introduction

There was a time in my life when I was very depressed. As bad as those few years were, it was when I wrote some of my best poetry. It seemed to be a good way for me to heal when I was feeling especially low and morbid. Many of the "poetry" I wrote back then, I would never dream of publishing because there seemed to be nothing creative about them. I read them now, and see that although it made me feel better, there was absolutely nothing to them. I wrote down feelings, without any thought. Hysteria is one of my poems that I developed, and feel confident enough about to publish. Another poem: Shriek of Demons (published in another hub) was also one of these. For awhile, I quit writing altogether because I had writers block. I was just so happy, and I didn't know how to express those feelings as well. I am still working on expanding my style, and hope that you like all my writing.

suicide

Here is a razor blade;
Sharp and shiny.I prick my skin
And shove it deep in.
I see flashing visions;
Happy and miserable. I don't know
If I really feel that low.
I have psychotic memories;
real and depressing. Now I am sure
That this must be the cure.
Here are bloody arms;
Slashed and stained bright red.
Heavy, like lead.

Hysteria

I hear a deafening noise pounding,

Pounding into my brain.

It ransacks every morsel

Of my stiffened body,

And seeps into every crack

Of my warped mind.

I hear it chanting

Like a witches spell,

And it never stops,

Until the brew starts to boil.

I boil over and feel

The wretched burning

And stinging,

Stinging hot of anger

that flows through me.

I begin to burst.

I feel the steaming liquid pouring,

Pouring down my face;

Hot and sweaty.

I scream in agony,

Not knowing what else to do,

Until finally

I calm down,

and cool off,

as the stew stops bubbling,

And the chants fade away

Into a whisper.

It leaves the residue

Of tear-stained eyes.

The pounding

Pounding in my head

Is gone.

My Sorrow

As if

I am the only one alive

I lay

In my own sorrow.

Boredom,

and never-changing,

Anxious pain

Is inside my head my brain.

Its  melting

As it's forced not to work,

But always

My thoughts are jumbling,

Constantly churning,

In my mind.

Day blends into night,

Into day.

Never changing.

Laying

In my own sorrow

As if

Nobody else

exists.

© 2011 Erin Buttermore

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    • erinb62 profile image
      Author

      Erin Buttermore 6 years ago from Laconia

      Thank you everyone for the great comments. I love any advice too.

    • Little Kim profile image

      Little Kim 6 years ago from Any town U.S.A.

      Great read! I write my best stuff when I am hurt or sad. "Why do I keep hitting myself in the head with a hammer? Beause it feels so good when I stop."

    • profile image

      debAnn 6 years ago

      brilliant.

    • HattieMattieMae profile image

      HattieMattieMae 6 years ago from Limburg, Netherlands

      nice

    • QudsiaP1 profile image

      QudsiaP1 6 years ago

      Very well written.

      Never allow anything to stop you from writing.