[Danny Darko]

It is soaked up here.
An average mountain, at that,

Of countless tendencies and rage.
I am the mountain.

Admire my wet red hair.
I am a morbid beauty that reaches the peak.

Can you see the lines of my veins?
I have none.

Blue lines have nothing to do with it.
It is all about the blood that signifies our sorrow’s end.

Clamor and clash with the black ghost
At the bottom of my feet.

I rise in misery
Draped in sheets of red rivers.

Ruby ribbons, strings, and threads:
Braids of voluntary deaths

Mastering macabre.
Then come the floods. The silver floods

Peel, pluck, strip, and shuck
The sheets of skin. It feels like fire.

Find what makes us peel mortality away
And toss it back to God.

They claw to the peak with no nails
And I hear them shout, hail, hail.

Their sacrifice hangs on a wooden stake, faceless,
Where their flesh will filet and their bones will break.

The sight makes their eyes sizzle in their sockets like raw eggs.
They are the Malevolent Mass of Hysteria.

The red-lipped wounds on your skin.
The colossal hell they would love to take you in.

They throw their hands high to the stony sky,
As if gravity were stretching their limbs,

And scream a grisly melody of the damned.
Sometimes I wonder where I’ve ended up.

I have slept very soundly in this dark ambience.
I awake content in black silence.

I am drawn to the black, red-eyed messenger
And his white smile.

I take his hand and step unto thee
Because the nightmare always beckons back to me.

His fingers feel like stubs of ice
And he smells like copper.

He leads me back to this hellish hill:
Bathed, blanketed, and battered in blood and bones.

As he drags me up the surface’s edge,
I run my finger through the scarlet streams and taste

The aftermath after the silver floods have unsheathed,
And I realize that in a place like this, death has never tasted so sweet.

We reach the height and he lets me go.
He must get back to his own place of woe.

I see Jazzle: the Scathed One, admiring the gloomy view.
He twists his head to me, eyes bright as the mocking sun, and says, I’ve been

expecting you.

He is my blood. He is my pain.
He is a figure of my filaments.

I feel his warm wounded hand pressed on my shoulder as we observe
The smoking sky and skeletal trees nurturing their nooses

Until I am interrupted by the feeling
Of a paper cup between my lips.

I then feel soft and sultry being shut up
In this room of harmless clouds.

I still have the brand of Jazzle’s red hand.
I see it there and still feel the blood in my hair.

The intruder turns on a light.
I never worry though. I’ll be back there by tonight.

[Indra777]

.....errr

That was a bit creepy...a bit emo-ish

I guess it's good though? I don't know anything about poetry...

[Danny Darko]

Ouch. x) Although, I kind of think that too. lol

[Indra777]

Did you write it?

[Danny Darko]

Yeah.

[Bahamut]

That was pretty good Danny. Your poetry is definitely interesting. I made a social group for people interested in writing; it's not that popular, but you'd definitely be one of the people who should fit in there.