Poetry: The Dead

Day to day we thrive among the dead
Never seeing or hearing them
Never knowing what they might have said
They lie and rot in their cold dark graves
While we fight and argue
Shouting "Jesus Saves!"
No one listens to the dead
Mankind's time is one to forget
It is nothing but lonely and red
So pray for the dead tonight as you sleep
For those words you sent today
May comfort you when you weep

Poetry: Progressive Decay

Sitting by the computer day by day
Getting fatter, weaker, stupider
In my own way
Using cordless phones to stay in my seat
Talking to friends
Even as I eat
Using e-mail to talk to people I know nothing about
Some claiming to be teachers doctors or even Mr. Lout
Decay does not smell of rotten meat
Nor rancid wine
It smells of an electrical beat
And the downfall of time

On A Roll With the Bad Poetry

Man With No Soul
Laughter errupting from witnessing another's pain
Laughter watching sickness set in from the rain
Others ponder what there is to gain
From rejoicing in another's pain
Sitting by the window without a grin
Wondering where all the little battered children have been
Souless man can't you see your sin?
Take from your mouth that awful grin!
Bit by bit you whither away
The hatred you hold inside can only stay
While those with hearts can only pray
That your own indifference will stay away.
Man with no soul, why stay upon this mortal coil?
Your blackness seethes and can only boil.
Hating all that is good for it is your foil
Man with no soul descend from this mortal coil.

Further Adventurers of Bad Poetry

Innocence Corrupted

Sitting with enough crayons to color the whole of the Earth
The child attacks the picture book with unbound creativity
While adults try to look amused judge that which the child gives birth
Stay inside the lines!
That color is all wrong!
You've gotten it on the wall!
Let me show you how to do that!
They bully and cry
Never realizing that inside
The gift of creativity has been made to die

Bad Poetry 2: The Foolish Worker

Ah to be young, angry, and willing to write it down in such prose again.

Work harder they say to him
As they sit by the poolside
Or run through the gym
Haven't you finished that yet they goad
As they take hour lunches
And the foolish worker takes on their load
When all is finished and the workday done
The worker falls prey to exhaustion
While the bosses have their fun
Yet who is the fool
The lazy
Or the one who is their tool

Bad Poetry Part 1: Metropolitan Hell

In addition to fragments of various bits of bad fantasy fiction, I occassionally tried to do the whole rhyming demon thing.

Metropolitian Hell

The skies grow dark like a stygian night
The hearts of men turn away from God
Self sure in their own divine right
People walking the street with dead eyes
Craving death's sweet kiss
While listening to politician lies
Cars honk and howl through the streets
As men, women and children dash from place to place
Some good, some bad, some simply creeps
Hell is not fire and brimstone lakes
Hell is here today
And it's all ours to taste.