Dark Poetry
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                                By Susan Shultz

You know those zombie movies?
The ones where
The undead
crave brains
They have no other thoughts
but to eat brains
They stumble, blindly
in search of brains
They only word they know
is "Brainnns."

Their only purpose
more brains, brains, brains
They drool at the thought
They stop at nothing
They stumble, push things out of the way,
wanting those brains.
Eating them isn't enough,
they even lick them off their fingers.

If they could, they'd probably
dream about brains.

All they want
All that they are
All they need
is brains.

I want you
Like a zombie
wants brains.
                    Little Ol’ Witch
                                        By Ed Pessalano

There once lived a witch
On Canterbury Road
With long, dark hair
And eyes of gold
She was quite mad
Mad as you could be
So they strung her up
'Neath the old oak tree
Her neck didn't snap
When she fell
How long did it take?
Can you tell?
                                By Ed Pessalano

Hair of snakes, cloak of black.
You must face forward and never look back.
The queen of all evil controls the night but never fails to give a fright.
Her bite will enthrall but you will be lifeless like a doll.
Even though all hope seems lost her defeat is imminent at a cost.
A life is the toll and you soon will become her doll.
Eye of red and eye of green which is better left unseen.
One blast of a ray and your blood will spray.
The stone you shall become until the beat of a voodoo priests drum.
My life cut short and left undone she shall rule that which is scum.
I am her doll which she uses as a servant and I am very observant.
The blood runs through her hands and poisons the lands.
Poetry by Ed Pessalano, Susan Shultz, T.C. Powell
                Unheard Cries
                                        By Ed Pessalano

I hear the cries.
The lowly cries,
Of the dead
the damned.
Their voices scream in my head,
shouting their sins
that keeps them trapped here
in this mortal realm.
I cannot silence them,
I cannot ignore them.
The cries of the dead
the damned.
I grip my skull
I squeeze my eyes shut
I want them to quiet
I want them to silence.
But nothing can silence
the cries of the dead
The lowly cries
of the Damned, trapped here in our realm.
Their cries fill me with sorrow.
Melt my smile,
and replace it with a frown,
Full of dread.
Why won’t the dead silence,
Why did they choose me?
To listen to their cries,
Their cries, their horrible cries.
They scream for savior
They scream for redemption
They scream for repentance
They scream for forgiveness.
These souls cry
For the sins they committed
They have chosen me to listen
To these lowly cries of the dead.
          The Santa Cruz Vampire
                                                  By T.C. Powell

The Santa Cruz vampire left the dorm late...
The hill was silent with sleep
The winds from the ocean rolled lightly
Over the cool-dewed grass and beat
Against the panes steamy from churning heaters.
He licked the last remains from his smeared claw
Dropping down to the dark turf ‘neath the sill
The music in his late friends’ room had stilled--the vinyl
Album, so treasured, continued to
Having reached the end.
For poetry by Ed
Pessalano, Susan Shultz
and T.C. Powell,

For poetry by Emily
Jones, and Benjamin
click here

For poetry by Stephanie
Smith, Justin Powel and
K.C. Fleming,
click here