Just thoughts

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  • Dark Poetry

    Just thoughts

    Listen to the sounds around you, what do you hear? All the screaming all the crying there's nothing you can do but cover your ears and hope that one day you will no longer hear therefore you will no longer fear the voices inside your head. There is really no way to control your sudden impulses may it be the impulse to die or to make someone else die, even the impulse to cut yourself to feel the pain to make sure you do bleed and is real. Even then it may not satisfy the craving you have to see and be on the darker side, no matter what is going on in your life you cant seem to find happiness. When things get to the point beyond yourself when it seems you are not you anymore like something took over your body, inner being, your soul. It gets the point where it takes over your dreams that turns into nightmares. You find yourself pacing back and forth because your mind is racing so fast that when you try to speak your tongue cant catch up with your thoughts so you get tongue tied.  The anger is building up to a boiling point ready to explode any moment you feel your heart pounding and the blood rushes through every vein in your body.. You think everyone is out to get you; you always keep your guard up because you know someone is out to hurt you. So you prepare yourself for battle as you are sitting all alone staring off into a non existent reality of your blank thoughts of the sick and morbid. Thinking of every way you can make people suffer; make them see the way you look at the world, how miserable it really is. Let them live in the shadows of evil just as you do. What is it that really makes you snap the way you do? To go through a moment of insanity, a moment of pure intensity of the rage that's inside of you.

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    Hampton commented on Just thoughts

    06-17-2009

    A dark expession of inner turmoil that seems to be seeking an outlet through pain to one's self as well as others. Then again it's only a poem..or is it?
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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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