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Poems by Succubus


clammy palm to clammy palm
oozing puss frm their pores.
dripping sweat from their limbs
and their brows.
pressing their cheeks to their knees.
letting their tears drip down their shins.
huddled in balls
laying on boards of saggy plywood
and straw
the skin on their naked backs, whipped
and frost-biten
three to a bunk,
four to a loaf of bread
hard and stale.
all day the work of other men
done for nothing
with the threat of homicide.
only the strong,
the young,
the males,
survived.
all others burned in the pit.
the scent of charring skin
creeping its way into the dying's noses.



I used to know a boy

and he used to be
just like you
just like me.

I used to know a boy

Who's passion was endless
and everything he touched
turned to gold.

I used to know a boy

whom I loved
for who he was
and he loved me back.

I used to know a boy

and he had feelings
and he cared
when you spoke to him.

I used to know a boy

who you could
bring home to momma
and she didn't get scared.

I used to know a boy

who held his life
in high regard
and bodies were temples.

I used to know a boy

who didn't fuck the neighbor
didn't have scars on his wrists
and had no track marks.

I used to know a boy...



There's a black and blue house
at the end of the street
at the edge of the town.
They never turn the lights on
and they never come outside.
And the doors bleed a burgundy red
and the windows weep tears
and the floors wail like 1,000 infants.
the posts from the porch
grip their nails into the roof
grasping until the skin breaks
and create little scars in the palms.
And the children inside
burn alive like a bonfire.


i rock back and forth
back and forth
scream that i'm not afraid
not afraid of you
not afraid of you.
dig my fingernails
into my sweaty palms
convince myself that the yelling will subside
try to hide the tears
dig my knees into my cheeks
cry a little more
hear breaking glass
and blood spills from my forehead
bright lights everywhere.
don't need to hide the tears anymore
or bury my face in my legs
or clench my thighs to my chest
or dig my nails into my hands.


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Biographical sketch: I live in Orlando Florida and am 15 and all I ever do is write.

Succubus recommends:

The collected works of sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath

Reason: Nothing is held back.

Recommendations for writers:

Always write what you feel. don't conform

 


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