#gothic poem

[khandedoe]

I was an angel but they made me leave……

[schizoid-hikikomori]

Body horror is such an intrinsic part of gothic horror and gothic literature.

Gothic stories tend to explore ideas of dark romanticism, art, humanity, sins and love. Often they are stories with a focus on the unpleasant past coming back to influence the present.

A tormented individual may have their torment manifest in the body, and gothic horror takes this to the extreme.

Self hatred, guilt, trauma, mental agony, it all may manifest in a form of body horror. To emphasize the way how violating it is to experience such dreadful things.

And themes of humanity, what it means to be human or a monster, whether we are far more monstrous than primitive creatures.

Who are people to judge the savagery of nature when they have committed far worse acts of colonialism, ethnic cleansing, rape, and genocide?

Body horror speaks to my existence in a world where I feel I do not belong.

[env0writes]

November passed will little acclaim Lots of blame And little fame November passes without an ember No flicker nor flame For me to remember November passed withholding love Checked the box of all of the above As symbolic as a dove November passed with minimal peace Like Marley, who made his chain piece by piece Now all I can Cratchit-afford is penance and lease

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.30.24 “So Long, It's No Longer November”

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[rotinmycore]

have mercy on his soul.

[mylittlepoemworld]

ancient, crumbling crestfallen walls of shame rotten and moldy to their very core inside all stays frozen, all is the same once you're inside, daylight reaches no more

she is lured through the gate by a phantom hoping to find protection and warmness but walking around, searching in random all that's found is never-ending darkness

trying to escape, the gate is now closed the towering ramparts lock it all in resistance is futile, doom is imposed on the unfortunate maiden within

fair lady, regret when you laid your eyes on the sad creature who caused your demise

[situationlately]

Hunter's Poem from the Big City, Hunter Hancock

[neuralburn]

Duchess Werewolf

Clawing at the silver illumination, she bends

Her spine serpentine beneath skin

Luna, freezing witness, doesn't care how it ends

Or cares of the beast within

Her hands, deformed, being to tear

Fingers, snapping and shattering bone

The meat unmakes itself, her form disowned

A howl erupts, a women's voice remains

Something gutteral, a lupine weep

Her ribs, like swords, just out of crimson stains

She aspires to bleed and be broken, sleep

The tales deceive me, she thinks, as fangs emerge

Men are not the sole creatures who converge

With breasts that lurk where dark and marrow meet

Her curse is hers alone, wild, raw, complete

_nerual '24

[the-shadows-call]

𝕸𝖎𝖉𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙'𝖘 𝕺𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓: 𝕬 𝕲𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖈 𝕺𝖉𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖇𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊

ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱'𝔰 𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯, 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔶,𝔗𝔴𝔬 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡, 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔶, 𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔶,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔢, 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱'𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔭𝔰, 𝔞 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯, 𝔰𝔬𝔣𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔩𝔬𝔴,𝔄𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔦𝔫 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔴,

files.catbox.moe

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔡, 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱'𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔢𝔰,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨, 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥,𝔄𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯, 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫'𝔰 𝔡𝔢��𝔱𝔥, 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔪𝔬𝔞𝔫𝔰, 𝔞 𝔰𝔶𝔪𝔭𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔶, 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢'𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢,ℑ𝔫 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰' 𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔢. 𝔒'𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔪,ℑ𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔡𝔬 𝔩𝔦𝔢,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰 𝔢𝔫𝔪𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡, 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔣𝔲𝔩'𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔢,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔞 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔫'𝔰 𝔥𝔦𝔤𝔥. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱'𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔳𝔢𝔦𝔩, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰, 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱'𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰, 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔢𝔰𝔱, 𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔭,ℑ𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰' 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶'𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭.

𝔜𝔢𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔬𝔫, 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱, 𝔄 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔰, 𝔦𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔫'𝔰 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱,𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔞 𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔶, 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱.

-𝕹𝖞𝖝 𝕰𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖜𝖔𝖔𝖉🥀

files.catbox.moe

[satanhersxlf]

ᴛʜʏ sᴏᴜʟ sʜᴀʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛsᴇʟꜰ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ 'ᴍɪᴅ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇʏ ᴛᴏᴍʙsᴛᴏɴᴇ﹔ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡᴅ, ᴛᴏ ᴘʀʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴏꜰ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ.

[hollyony666]

Euronymous- by me <333

(This poem is written from the point of view of Euronymous who is the lead guitarist of a Norwegian black metal band called Mayhem. A lot of people believed that the ideology of his band and who is qualified to even listen to their music was cult-like. So I give you a god, or in this case, satan complex that comes from the ego of Euronymous)

Raging sounds of satanic worship fueled my existence.

A difference within a difference was my promo.

Everyone’s demonic desires squelch 

with plucks of my bloody fingers.

Six stringed instruments built my callus hands.

My birth name has no match 

For what Satan has presented for me.

“Euronymous!”

 they will scream.

I will peer from the deepest depths of my pedestal

And see worshipers praising,

Praising my new hellish name.

Death will be my friend

And he will guide my music to the deserved.

Fire within my soul

Will be used for the destruction

Of the humans of which I despise. 

My rivals will fall.

Church bells will collapse upon them.

My true form will soar

All of the power from hell will be mine

Mayhem will be the word of the world

Euronymous will be the name of the new found god. 

Dead.

Necrobutcher.

Manheim.

Hellhammer.

My cultists.

We shall share the unholy evig ære!

[count-horror-xx]

Having a mortal body is not for the weak as I'm in constant anguish. My lord, i beg for a merciful release.

[khandedoe]

"oh my God its giving preachers daughter!"

Girl, that's my grandmas obituary.......

[schizoid-hikikomori]

The instinct of the body is to seek a companion.

A perfect match, one to bond to.

The life of the body is dedicated to finding one;

A goal to retrieve before death.

But what of the body, should it die too soon?

Should the flesh begin to rot

As the heart has begun to wither,

What becomes of the drive to love?

The drive for love rots away with the heart,

Withering away in synchronicity with the body,

While the mind is frozen in frigid ice.

One may dance with all the women he might dream of,

Spinning across a ballroom floor,

But she might as well be nothing more than a mannequin in his eyes.

But one of those mannequins dared to speak back to him one day.

She opened her mouth and begged him for things

That any woman would blanch at the thought

And he looked into her eyes,

Realizing that she looked back into him.

How horrified he was,

To find that she saw his decay

And did not flinch or reel away.

How horrified he was, to find that

He felt the same way.

I danced with her again, and dared to ask,

“You would dare lay your hands,

on this decaying flesh?

Why not a body with no abrasions,

A heart that beats the same as yours?”

She met me with a smile that did not waver.

“What is a perfect body worth, if not for the beauty?

That perfection is worth nothing if it has not been molded in fire,

Set to trials and tribulations.”

A glint in her eye and a sparkle in that smile.

“The decay of yours is perfect to me.”

What that means to him

is impossible to describe by the simplicity of words.

All he can do is meet her love and respect with his own

To treasure her the way she has treasured him

For she has reawakened within him

What he once sought to be free of.

So whatever love might be,

It is nothing he wants to lose now.

[env0writes]

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.1.24 “Nov(re)Member”

The eve passed hollow As the bells tolled in the distance Calling me To choir en mass With the passing of this end Promises new beginnings And threatens to repeat this chorus verse Hallowed-out soil drums beneath each step Conserve what little daylight remains Star death flickers, candle light mimicry Words have not passed lips nor pages Flipping through snowed-over shelves of thoughts Shelved for colder – darker days The dead talk and I – balk Walk a little faster past the churchyard Where skeletal hands entreat Walk a little bit faster past the graveyard Holier than thou The passing eve will allow – grievance once Bells, distant bells – ring Sing to thankful revelers Ushering out into the cold and into the warm Blue and black swallow the day-lit orange The fading color shifts in rising gusts Vowing vengeance on the softer pallets I made my choice Forgone the rain not pain Solitude is revelry; utmost unto oneself

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[quillandquotation]

Beneath the surface

Years of consuming literature and art have instilled a fascination in me. Writers, poets, and painters, all possess a captivating ability to weave layers of meaning into their works. Often, these layers conceal the artist's deepest motivations, leaving the interpretation open to the viewer's perspective. Imagine encountering a poem that evokes a poignant image of loss, perhaps a wife's passing. Yet, a closer examination reveals a hidden darkness, a hint that the loss may not be entirely natural. Similarly, a painting might showcase a scene of vibrant beauty, only for a discerning eye to detect a subtle undercurrent of violence within its strokes. These are the artists who walk a tightrope, inviting us to delve deeper and discover the whispers of truth hidden beneath the surface.

Robert Browning's poem "The last duchess" shows this very gothic theme quite perfectly where the Duke, the unreliable speaker veils the portrait of the duchess from the eyes of the people, the one he poisoned himself but his act of control and obsession over doesn't suffice even in her death for he makes it hidden for the people to not see the beauty she holds and wants to dictate who gets to see the Duchess and when as he desires to possess her image and control access to it.

[yvonnerosalia-poetess]

I'm just so tired of looking up at this lifeless ceiling and hearing all of you.

I'm so tired of your words, your questions.

How long must I pretend to have the answers?

When will the trees hide me in their burrow? When will the sky's tears reach down craving solace across my body once more?

For a woman that only seeks solitude in the arms of all that is honey-dewed fortress and winged-find,

the metal-walking caskets of people around me here seem determined on trying to force-feed me anything but.

Must I starve - if it means to avoid adapting to the tastes of poison?

Must I wither before the seasons let me leave?

I've never known winter to be people, to be a land, a time - until I woke up here.

- Yvonne Rosalia (27/04/2022 journal excerpt)