THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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http://www.deadlounge.com/poetry/poems.html Remembrance of My Death Around, all around, the shadows gather. My dread grows as doom's scythe falls against my naked soul. It smites me, and darkly my life's blood drips to the broken ground. In abject fear I call your name while oblivion looms. Now alone, my supplication falls upon darkened eyes. This is my salvation. Oh, yeah! |
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Lord's mercy. *shakes head* |
*sobs* |
I wish there were a link to the Abyss of Righteous Hatred poem. That sounds like fun. |
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Hurry, it's not too late! |
Slender beams of accusation enter this darkened chamber as I kneel, always somber, always lost, frozen here, waiting. Angelic forms wrought in panes of glass loom as dust dances in the air, forming an image in my mind, infiltrating my naked soul. Blood on humanity's face. I raise my head, now defying this callous light. |
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it is a night of etherial pain, a song of blood, wolves vent their pain. the beautiful one rises. curling, icy wisps of death shrouds her gaunt form, an impatient desire. her raven hair cascades over translucent ivory shoulders, and her full crimson lips part slightly, to taste the darkness streaming from the pale flesh beneath her. now a night of ecstasy, i awaken. i always preferred the "why can't you die/so you won't be here/for me to blame/I CRY FOR MORE BLOOD" -type poem myself. |
spiders, don't worry. i keep house casually |
Slender beams of sunlight enter this darkened hall as I kneel, always silent, always somber, frozen here, waiting. Accusing forms wrought in panes of glass loom as dust dances in the air, forming an image in my mind, reaving my darkened outstretched arms. Blood on a clock's face. I raise my head, now caressing this airy Limbo. |
shrine to duck tape |
It is a night of blood, a song of blood, wolves vent their pain. The thirsting one rises. Curling, icy wisps of death shrouds her deathly form, a lurking agony. Her raven hair cascades over pale and tragic shoulders, and her full really very deeply crimson lips part slightly, to taste the blood streaming from the pale flesh beneath her. Now a night of ecstasy, I weep. that's too much fun. I wonder if Steve the Gothic Archaeologist knows about this? |
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untitled It is a night of sorrow, a song of dark desire, wolves vent their howls. The beautiful one awakes. Death shrouds her gaunt form, an everlasting wrath. Her ebon hair cascades over fragile milk-white shoulders, and her full blood red lips part slightly, to taste the life streaming from the pale flesh beneath her. Now a night of ecstasy, I pine. This is fun. |
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indian runner tape, crested tape, rouen tape... i said "duck tape" for fun. i've used duct tape plenty of times, esp in accessories (duct tape and cardboard make a wonderful purse). but you wanna talk about ducks? you wanna talk about ducks? how i wish that i still had some for visual aids to go with the speech. |
or fuck a buck with a rubber duck or duck a fuck with a rubber buck or buck a fuck with a rubber duck or duck a buck with a rubber fuck (?) or buck a duck with a rubber fuck rubber fuck, is that like a blow up doll??? or mayber a condom |
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