Welcome to the Dark Poetry Page of SNM Horror Mag, hosted by writer and Dark Poetry Editor: Kerry Morgan. Here, you will find the dark muse of the bleeding hearts whispering the melody of their dark souls into your ears. Here, you won't find those sappy love or religious poems, just dark, haunting laments, intriguing philosophies, tales of bleeding hearts and grim serenades of dead dreamers. We publish 10 new poems every month, all open-themed. If you would like to submit a poem to Kerry, email her at:firstname.lastname@example.org
Kerry Morgan earned her badges as a 3x published SNM author with a short story appearing in print in the Bonded By Blood II Anthology. Kerry has now permanently taken over as our Dark Poetry Editor, having a real passion and talent in her craft. She has a novel and several other publishing credits to date. She is the creator and moderator of Pandora's Imagination, a place of magic and enchantment; also a free ezine! Kerry teaches karate in her dojo being a multi-level black belt. She collects the jewels of the earth and has a severe obsession with books. Kerry hails from New Hampshire with her husband and her adoring family
Brett Graham - Kool Aid
Vylot Hart - Blood Fruit
Mike Green - Love Lies Bleeding
Brian Medof - Scratch Marks in the Coffin
Cheryl Brandys - Wicked
J.A. Grier - Gray Balloons
T.C. Powell - What Makes the Man
Gill Shutt - Tears of a Clown
O.M. Grey - Look Into My Eyes
Kerry Morgan - Hunger
Steven Marshall - Web Cam
Kool-Aid in water;
changing the contents of the glass.
One person affects another.
the mannerisms observed and,
You don’t know why you spoke
the way the other speaks.
It just…crept in there.
Cults are built on this premise.
An enigmatic, confident person
recruits the young and confused.
His Kool-Aid is stronger than their water.
He infiltrates them,
changing the color in their glass.
Swirling around, mixing, blending
until it’s nothing more than
a sugary sweet death.
From the 2009 SNM Horror Author of the Year, Brett Matthew Graham, SNM Publications proudly presents his 3rd print novel featuring his 6 SNM Mag published stories, 4 new ones, and his collection of dark poetry in this masterpiece called...Suspentia.
"Brett Matthew Graham is a master of suspense, and he..."
Grow me a tree,
Tall and strong.
Twisted vines, old and frail,
Once young and green.
Poisoned fruits this tree doth bear,
Grainy-fleshed, warm, sickly-sweet
Like a heart, I hold in my hand, this fruit beats.
As I bite its thick, pulpy flesh, blood runs down my chin.
Heart-rending, love-bringing, word-stealing,
This is the gateway to the land Beneath.
Within this land lurks danger and liars,
And a queen who feeds off despair.
She shall steal your name; you words; your life
As you drown in a sea of black ink.
Love lies bleeding in our imitation of passion
A bloodstained mind in a hate-filled fashion
This time a simple kiss won't make it better
Her head tilts back, between her legs it’s wetter
For better or worse, she falls victim to disgrace
This non-sterile thought of guilt upon her face
From these jousting stabs her love now spills
Lust is the reason why sometimes beauty kills
Another bleeding scar of a haunting mistake
Invested all this time in the pain of heartache
These acts have all been placed in clear view
Forcing this period of time we call forever new
I’m sure it’s been felt a million times before
In countless loveless acts that fulfill the whore
Unwinding to the sound of her stopping breath
Understanding the truth of our end in her death.
Oh my, you are so unfortunate
that something like this happened,
a nightmare that has escaped the confines
of your subconscious.
You yell, you pound, you scratch.
Scratching the white satin laced padded surface
of your encompassing prison.
So very alone,
no one to comfort you,
no one to help you,
no one to reassure you that everything will be all right,
no amount of crying or wishing or praying to God
will free you from your restrained wooden berth of hell.
This is your woeful fate, my friend,
now try to enjoy the last few minutes
of life before you enter the land of no return.
Still scratching the top of your tomb, are you?
Tearing away the soft laced cushioning,
and exposing rough pine wood . . .
Scratching until the skin under your nails break loose,
with blood running down your hands and arms,
digging scratch marks into your eternal bed,
screaming as splinters shifting and snapping off
into the quick, sawing away your sensitive flesh.
Your only comfort now is the certainty of death
that is to come, but then again...
You were supposed to already be dead.
Darkness slithers through my soul
My heart is black as night.
My crimson eyes settle on you
Your fear, my delight.
A cold wind blows; the fire dies
as chills run up your spine.
Black lipstick stains upon my glass
Your blood makes the sweetest wine.
The night is a beauty calling me
“Come out and spread your wings”
The arms of nocturne welcome me
As the night time child sings.
Twisted and ravenous are my thoughts
My lust for you increases.
Sliding icy fingers up your skin;
Dreams of tearing you to pieces.
I hunger for you my sweet.
To taste you is my desire.
My mouth waters with unmet need.
I think of all the things we can do
Here beside the fire.
I’m long and lean, you're hooked on me
And you will never get enough.
I’m wicked, I’m sin. I’ll let you in.
I hope you like it rough.
Come fly with us
the other children say.
The boy is suspicious
and looks at the gray
balloons each one has
clutched in their hand.
Watch, come fly,
we do it every day!
One of them ties
the cord around his
neck and is pulled
off the ground.
The children are in the air
flying, bodies limp,
tongues hanging out -
all but one, the last.
We will bring you a balloon
of your own tomorrow!
She ties the cord tight,
turns purple and chokes
as her body sails away.
He hides behind my painted grin,
The ultimate in living sin,
He knows that he will always win.
He looks out through my worried eyes,
He lures them with his skillful lies,
And always there’s a child who dies.
He wins them with a merry jape
And wraps them in my silly cape,
Then murders, mutilates, rapes.
He then returns to join the fun,
He knows that once again he’s won,
He laughs and gloats at what he’s done.
For I am just an outer shell,
I carry around a living hell
Who rings the children’s morning bell.
A tear runs down my grease-paint face,
Then disappears without a trace,
He loves the hunt, he loves the chase.
It’s me who’ll suffer when he’s caught,
After all the bloodshed brought,
He’ll find himself some other sport.
The savage bought a suit
It fit him really well
The cuffs were linked
The hat was tops
It ended in a tail
He stole a matching cane
With an iv’ry-crested head
But gore and game his shirt did stain
An’ all that was white ran red
“Look into my eyes,”
He would say to me.
“Look into my eyes,”
As our bodies danced,
Mingling of our souls,
Put me in a trance.
“Look into my eyes,”
As he’d thrust inside,
Gazing down at me
Surging with the tide.
“Look into my eyes”
How I did believe,
When he spoke those words,
That he’d never leave.
“Look into my eyes.
You can trust in me.
Now release your soul;
Give your heart to me.”
“Look into my eyes,
Don’t see what’s truly there.
Believe these loving lies,
Not that I don’t care.”
“Look into my eyes.
Now I’m in control.
Look into my eyes,
While I rape your soul.”
Bits of flesh, gray and raw
Drop onto the floor
I can’t decide which to taste first
An eye, an ear, or finger core
No secret sauce nor bun to hold
Just meat with bits of hair
Smells soft and clean, a little sticky
needs some chemical flair
Decay comes fast
As I chew and swallow
Rolls around inside my gut
Nutritious mouthfuls of fodder
Sucking on a femur (smack)
Until it is bone dry
I’ve never tasted meat so sweet
Nor blood like deep red wine
The security camera waits to capture the moment’s downfall
Like a patient proverbial fly on the wall, surveying, it sees all
But more like a spider awaiting the prey of a distant silhouette
That gets tripped up in its web and becomes tangled in its net.
The security camera’s infra-red eye hangs high in a shallow sky
Blinking, moving, capturing life, with a time and date in its eye
Its only purpose for existence is to catch the moment in the act
The dishonest intent of a trespasser; a spider dressed in black.
Like a spider, the security camera catches prey in its digital net
A ploy, a plot, both need their feed, and the traps have been set
They monitor their nets for any sign of movement or heartbeat
Once the prey of each is captured, it must succumb to defeat
For the thief, a trial date will be set in the court’s web of lies
Where attorneys are like spiders and defendants become flies
Both the attorney and spider will pick apart what lies inside
Then they will return to their nets in a game of wait and hide.
It’s a viscous cycle in a lonely battle of nature and technology
Both predators play a premeditated game of reverse psychology
The camera and spider face the loneliest task, waiting to be fed
When no one is behind the camera…and nothing is in the web.