Altearoa’s Undead Poet Society is for New Zealand’s dark and alternative writers and poets to have a place to share their works. If you would like to submit a piece for our next Undead Poet release please fill in our submission form.
She was a beautiful tragedy,
pearls hidden behind her pout.
Fears smothered in tears,
showcasing the best of her brokeness.
A nobody dying to be….
more than nothingness.
I will never envy the pain she called “living”.
“I enjoy purging words and find it cathartic on many levels.”
As you call your cry of defeat
All your demons you couldn’t beat
All the horrors at your door
Your mind trapped
Your fears eating at you
As your mind wonders
On what could have been
And as your heart ponders
Your very being
As you lay here in your despair
The sounds that crawl
All the things you never were
Tears leave tracks
On your blood stand face
The cracks on your mask
Bleed in disgrace
You hunger for peace
Away from this place
That you could still hide
Among the living
And that your broken soul
Could be forgiven
But as darkness sets on your sky
You find no longer can cry
Your mask now as dead
As you are inside
You spent your life hiding
These open wounds
Hiding the scars
Mother left on you
But no longer can you hide
Can’t fake the smiles
In your empty life
The numbness slowly started
Until you were covered in
Can not light
This frozen soul
The years of abuse
Have left you unwhole
And though you thought
You made it through
The cracks on your mask
Caught up on you
No longer can you make
Peace with this
The broken child
Who lives within
“Just a mum with a love of writing”
It is a very comfortable life I lead;
no great sallies or unreasonable hunger.
The bills are paid, I have two cats. Sometimes
I buy appliances and furniture. I like to read
catalogues, and prefer movies to films.
There is a charity I support. Ten dollars a month,
as regular as that. Just one charity–you can’t
save everything. It feels good to know
someone benefits, though.
I do wish you would stop smiling.
This is not as easy as it looks.
And you have the nerve to tell me I have done nothing!
Ah, I guess it might be true. But what you don’t say is that I have done nothing very well.
I might even be an expert at it. And I have hurt no one.
It is different for you, you cheeky thing. You may
yet have your hour, or at least a quarter of one.
And what you don’t know is what is still alive in me, how
very almost I am, at times. Yesterday I woke with a whole world
pressed against my eyes. It is not my fault, the way things drown.
“There is nothing worth saying about Barnaby, and Dear Lord here he is again, saying it.
I certainly don’t doubt for a minute that he’ll be gone not quite soon enough for his very great or indefinitely great number of mortal enemies, and I can’t think of a more efficient way of communicating that information than by continuing to churn out precisely the kind of worthless shitbabble nonsense we’ve come to expect both from him and all his unspeakably foul, bovine-eyed kindred.
(I’m unreliably informed that he wants to tell people he wears a top hat and dresses like a mime with a profoundly nonconstructive attitude, but doesn’t because he doesn’t have any friends and no one would care anyway, especially not you. Or your momma.)”