Poems about hell

To all the people in my life that truly care...
I want to say thank you...

Because, wiithout you...
I wouldn' t care...

I know I screw up...
I know im far from perfect...

But even when I was at my lowest...
You never let me forget...

You showed me how to walk again
When I could barely stand.

Your hands held me up when I was facedown,
Hiding every damn tear in my hands.

You brush off my shoulders,
Dust off my back.

Knowing the right things to say...
To get my mind back on track.

I know im not always there for you.
Sometimes I barely even talk to you.

But you understand,
You know the truth.

You know all this hell I've been through.
It didn't scare you.

You always knew...
You knew, without a doubt, I would make it out...

You held my hand...
Lifted my head...

You led me straight ahead...
Until the skies overhead turned blue once again...

No more fire,
Hell with the brimstone...

With you,
I stand tall...

I can make it through anything that lies in front of me...

I am strong,
As long as you are me...


- Brandon Stephenson

Hell bent

Downward

On my knees

It adds up

Do the math,

You had me at

Goodbye

You know

And quoting

Sylvia Plath.

You had me

Up against

The brick

You had me

In the snow,

You had me

Long before we met

That night

Ten years ago.

Abandon ship

Quite recklessly

Abort me

Mission miss,

Falling down

Together

Alone

We've fallen

Since that kiss.

Impetuous

The winds have been

But silent was

The storm,

Your eyes

Not arms

Would comfort me

Would keep

My heartstrings

Warm.

Hell bent

Was i

When wounds were

Fresh

And hearts

Still young and sore,

Down on

Our knees

With stifled pleas

We don't need

Anymore.

Somebody, somebody, free my soul.
I want it. I need it. It's never gettin' old.
Somebody, somebody, fill this hole.
Before they escape, before they escape.

Eat me. Rape me.
Free me from this hell.
Beat me. Break me.
I swear I'll never tell.
Never tell.
Of this hell.

Somebody, somebody, I am growing old.
I want to. I need to. It's worthless.
Somebody, somebody, before I am cold.
Let it escape. Let it escape.

Eat me. Rape me.
Bust open my shell.
Beat me. Break me.
Never could they tell.
Could they tell.
Of this hell.

The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr*

O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old fart, Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the kinky moonlight.

Ding! Dong! The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully erect to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.

What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised dick.

Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.

This life is hell,
It ain't swell-
Don't tell me different
Because
I know that full well.

Black hair, black nails
Black blood, black world
People thinks she's a goth from hell
No heart, no fear
She sheds no tears
When they look at her...
They tremble in fear
She'll slit anybody's throat
She doesn't need to fight
Then she drinks their blood
Mmm that's the kind of girls I like

"When I die I'll go to heaven because I've spent my time in hell"
But shush, perse your lips,
Don't you ever tell.

This life has been a wicked spell,
A curse in the mirror,
A twist in my head,

Miss fortune in my luck,
Bad luck in my heart,
For when my time comes
It is in fact hell
That I shall depart.

Mark seemed to have it all,
A beautiful wife,
Two strapping sons
& he was always out to have
Serious
Good clean fun.
A hellacious paddler
& consummate fisherman,
Always teaching his boys
A higher standard
& fulfilling
His honey-do lists.
So naturally,
It came as a big surprise
When he asphyxiated
Himself with carbon monoxide
In his own driveway
During broad daylight.
It tore us apart actually.
At the funeral,
His wife told me he had seven stepfathers.
I never knew that,
But maybe,
Just maybe,
He thought he was a failure
When his wife filed for divorce
The morning of his departure,
And he couldn't live with that.
The thought of his own children
Growing up like he did,
It must have been hell.
Perhaps
The mystery will never be solved,
But just the same,
All I can think about
Is the damage,
The other hell
He left behind.