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ALL MY POEMS SUCK SUPREME ASS!

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For all of you who are disappointed that this page has nothing at all to do with The Vampire Lestat...you should leave. This page is just to hold my insanely big artistic ego, which includes some crappy poems and maybe short stories.

[This is a poem that I had to write for my lang/lit class. It's supposed to have the same rhyme scheme, meter, etc., as Edgar Allan Poe's the Raven poem. Stupid assignment, really, but I sort of like the poem:]

Once upon an evening dinner, while I hungered, growing thinner,
I sat and watched as my evil master shoveled in food, more and more.
And I , drooling, nearly screaming, fell into a state of dreaming,
wishing for the food of past nights very, very long before.
But only dreams, as all things are, in this house of tortured poor.
"No escape forevermore."

Please, no more, I cannot take this, stop the torment that you call bliss.
I don't want to play your games, master, I'm not your slave, no, nevermore!
Release me, don't kill me, let me into the world where I am free.
I hate it! - I hate you! Why do you claim I'm begging for more?
Would any being in their right mind love torture - so plain and sore?
"No escape forevermore."

To kill myself is my conclusion, wishing only for delusion,
As I notice sadly that my wrists are bound just like before.
Here comes the whipping of his belt, making a new, very large welt.
I don't scream, it's no surprise, I'm used to it, no less, no more.
"Retract, repeat," he says, as I faint upon the chamber floor.
"No escape forevermore."

I've played this game for much too long, yet you continue to do wrong.
"But is it wrong? Or did you just ask, you naughtly little whore?"
The fact is, master, you are lying, cant you see? I am dying.
"I don't care," he chains me down and slips in like the night before.
I'm growing rather fond of this but then I'm shrieking, Please, no more!
"No escape forevermore."

With a jolt, at daybreak, I awoke, but what I saw, it made me choke.
I was not bound tight to my chair, instead outside my master's door.
I saw a note which startled me, but all it said was, "You are free."
No, nevermind! I take it back! I'll be your slave! I want more!
The handle turned, I pushed it open, rushing through the chamber door.
No escape forevermore.


THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Don't be like that one,
A child among clones.
No name, just a number,
A copied mass of bones.
The one who eats what it is told,
A mindless military drone,
With no purpose or self-worth,
It's expression that of stone.
Those ones don't matter,
Whose minds have never shone.
A pointless thing of waste,
Just copies of the Head Drone.
Instead strive to be like this one,
Who's mind is shining bright.
The one who questions society,
A minority who is right.
This being with strength and power,
And, by sheer will and might,
Stands up to this nameless country,
Well prepared to win the fight.
So, don't be like that one,
A child among clones.
No name, just a number,
A copied mass of bones.


UNTITLED

She lived in a nice neighborhood. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened there. The people were friendly, the dogs didn’t bite, and as you walked down the street, the houses gave off a warm, welcoming feeling. Her house looked like a complete misfit amongst the others, placed right in the middle of the street like an accidental blob on a painting. It was run down – the paint was chipping, garbage bags were piled out in the front, the grass wasn’t mowed, and the porch swing had slipped off one hinge. The inside was much worse. Dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, food was left out to spoil, soiled clothes and various papers were strewn about, and undoubtedly the interior had not had a good cleaning in a very long time. There she sat, not quite alone and yet completely deserted in the corner of her 12 year old brother’s room. The rotting corpse of his body hung from the closet ceiling, like a discarded raggedy Ann doll. She had come home from school to find him like that, the blood vessels popped in his eyes, the vacant expression on his blue face, the limp way that he just hung there, like he hadn’t even bothered to struggle for his life at all. Her brother, with the noose, in the closet. The perfect crime. She had sat there in that same corner facing the closet for hours now, waiting for him to move and be O.K. again, and also waiting for death to walk through their door and confirm that he really was dead. Mom did it, she knew for certain.
Mom may not have been there to knot up the noose, slip it around his neck, and push him off the chair, but she did it all right. Mom had poisoned him with her words, her ideas and her opinion of him. Mom drove him to the suicidal brink of insanity. Then she sensed it, the green minivan coming around the corner and pulling into the driveway, Mom getting out and walking up the porch steps and into the house. She knew that there would be no scream or shocked look, or any tears for that matter, coming from Mom once she saw the hung boy that she never recognized as being her son. Waiting patiently and almost expectantly, she remained in the corner staring at her brother until long after nightfall. It was only then that Mom entered the room and saw him in the closet. Her expression was that of a gluten, all-knowing and silently feeling accomplished. Then she slowly turned her head to squint like a serpent at her older daughter, a look of hunger as if to say, “You’re next.”


AFRAID

When you can’t pity yourself anymore
   should you just end it all?
A prisoner of Campbell’s soup and ice cream
   yet only yourself is holding you hostage.
Wanting to be happy for a close friend,
   but is she really all that close
    when thoughts of blood and bullets
     and horrible things to come
      keep drifting back into your mind,
       like a homeless wanderer
        refusing to be turned away?
The candle once burned bright
   in your life, but now
    it has been put out
     and you can’t seem to find any   
          matches.