Skip to main content

Erin B- Best Dramatic Poetry

I have been fighting these demons my entire life, and writing is the best way to do that

The Shriek of Demons

She shrieks sharply through the iron gate

that is closed against my pervading spirit.

Her jarring words are only as bright

as the grinning demons that are coming;

looming towards my madness, and into

the absolute and utter hell

of my being.


The monstrous words rupture my starving soul.

The hateful demons slit a stinging cut

into my unconscious mind.

There is fire; Fire covering the sinful beings.

They are burning and digging into me

along with the shrieks

of her words.

hysteria-and-more-of-my-best-poetry

Noises

Bloodsucking mesh of a messed up mind

is seeking for a good remark.

I hear it falling down behind;

I hear it synthesizing in my head.

It's just this tedious noise.

Go away, fly away

Before I turn evil;

Before I hurt the world,

And then myself.

No whining, or I think I'll cry.

No yelling, or I think I'll die.

Go away, fly away

Before I turn crazy;

Before I hurt them,

And then my own soul.

My Poetry

hysteria-and-more-of-my-best-poetry

At a Deserted Cottage

I can hear music, but from where,

I don't know.

I can hear the pounding of the rain

On the wooden roof;

And the wind is beating

Into the walls.

I lie here with a cigarette dangling

Between my fingers.

My thoughts are like a whirlwind

In my head.

As I breathe in the last puff

Of the deadly stick,

And push the fire out

In the overloaded ashtray,

I become restless.

I am overcome with an urge

To run out

Into the wet rain,

and walk

Beneath the midnight gloom.

Slowly, I rise

And flicking off the light,

I trample out

Onto the grass.

The darkness and the thunder are enough

to scare me. I walk fast,

Faster, into the woods. I am almost

running into trees

As I try to find the gravel road.

I am damp and shivery

When I finally find myself

On a winding path.

I start to think about him.

I keep walking

to the only place he could be,

but he's not there.

Now I'm agitated and tear

my way back

to the small, lone cottage.

He still hasn't come,

So I lie back down

Under the warm blankets

that has the sweet smell

Of my love.

And I wait for the rain to stop;

I wait for him.

Which Poetry is the Best?

© 2011 Erin Buttermore

Related Articles