Goth Poems Novels & Stories

Just silence thick and shadows high. Then fingers cold as death’s caress Drag me down the hall—no less. My echo fades behind each scream, Where nightmare slips into twisted dreams. Damnation clings to every stone, And fear leaks out of every bone. Through seven gates I must descend, Where light and memory meet their end. Each time, a layer falls from grace— No praise remains, no soft embrace. My skin grows bare, my steps grow slow, Yet still I walk. I choose to go. Through shadow’s mouth, I drop like flame,

I'd be labeled a freak by association. Goth kids were feared.They always had an air of spookiness and macabre surrounding their auras , they were obsessed with death , dark humor and dark poetry and they always looked as though they stepped right out of a funeral catalogue. Standing next to this five foot tar colored freak, I couldn't stop my rampant thoughts from imagining her working in a cemetery some day.I have a feeling she'd qualify to work in one seeing how obsessed she was with death and everything it came with. "What did you do to my poetry journal?'She barked, holding the aforementioned journal in her pale hands.

Like an invitation to come back anytime. I deleted that shit so fast my finger hurt. I looked for my pussy picture and not shocking, it was still there. Delete! Then I hesitated. What else is on here? The temptation was too strong. I swiped to his notes app. LYRICS 1 Black roses grow where your heart used to be I water them with whiskey and memories LYRICS 2 She tastes like revenge and feels like a sin Tell me, Father, where do I begin? Dark. Poetic. Unexpected.

Were they afraid I might fall to my death, or were they hoping for it? I was certain it was the latter. I spread my arms wide and with my eyes turning red, I opened my mouth, allowing the winds to carry my words to them down below Let it rain, hail and brimstone, My dead bones has risen, I’ve returned, the unforgiven dead. By ash and bone, by blood and blight, I call the darkness to take its bite. Let sickness rot their flesh and breath, Let every dawn bring closer death. Let fever scorch their brittle veins,

"Death is before me today: like the recovery of a sick man, like going forth into a garden after sickness. Death is before me today: like the odour of myrrh, like sitting under a sail in a good wind. Death is before me today: like the course of a stream; like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house. Death is before me today: like the home that a man longs to see, after years spent as a captive."

I, of all people, know how poking around in the past can open up old wounds. We pulled into our apartment complex. We go up to our apartment and begin packing. Vincent wanders around looking at everything and eventually ends up in my room. “Nice room.” He notices my framed poems on the wall. He reads one aloud, “Darkness's Kiss: Every night it's the same dark dream. And it always ends with me in a scream…” It is a poem that I wrote about a vampire finding its mate and surrendering to it. He looks at me, “Goth phase?”