Dark Poems

Dark Poems

Dark Poems about Life

Sadness and darkness are natural cousins. Since ancient times, people have worn black to express their grief. Happiness is attracted to sunshine and depression to darkness. There is a certain romance in darkness and melancholy. There is something mysterious about that which is hidden and unknown. Dark poems may seek to romanticize sadness and depression. Other dark poems are simply poems about sad subjects. The poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe is an example of a delightfully spooky dark poem. There is much room for creativity in this genre.

27 Poems for When the World Seems Dark and Lonely

  1. 1. The Raven

    One of the most famous poems ever written, "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe is a delightfully spooky, dark poem. What makes this poem so remarkable? There is a certain romance in darkness and melancholy. There is something mysterious about that which is hidden and unknown. Dark poems seek to romanticize sadness and depression. There is much room for creativity in this genre.

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
    Only this and nothing more."

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
    This it is and nothing more."

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
    Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as "Nevermore."

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
    Then the bird said "Nevermore."

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of ‘Never—nevermore'."

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
    Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
    "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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  3. 2. The Cremation Of Sam McGee

    Service was inspired to write this dark and spooky narrative poem by the stories he heard from the people of the Yukon. The poem was published in his book, Songs of a Sourdough in 1907. "The Cremation of Sam McGee" has turned out to be one of Service's most famous poems.

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
    It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
    "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

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    My grandfather, Henry Lorentzen, the pioneer artist of ND, LOVED Robert W. Service and would recite this poem from memory to entertain us grandchildren. He also produced a wonderful painting...

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  5. 3. The Ongoing Battles With My Demons

    I wrote this poem during a very down period in my life.

    Expressing Despair

    I peek through blinds that are tightly drawn,
    Shocked by the glow of the breaking dawn.
    I shun the brilliance of another day.
    Enslaved and entombed, I stay hidden away.

    The night was long as I lay awake,
    Anxiety choking like a poisonous snake.
    My self-hatred grows like some malady
    That I pray will soon be the death of me.

    Being hated and scorned is painful indeed,
    And that love can be torture, we all must concede,
    But to be ignored and forgotten can vanquish one's heart
    Until it's in pieces, just shattered apart.

    To feel nonexistent is so hard to abide,
    When you know that your heart is still beating inside.
    And how do you save your sinking soul,
    When you feel yourself plummeting into that hole?

    My dreams don't provide any rest or relief;
    They only replay my regrets and my grief.
    I honestly don't know how I came to this place,
    But it's clear to me now that there is no escape.

    You may call me weak and lowly at best.
    I'm trapped in self-pity, I must confess.
    I long for some quiet, just a moment of peace,
    But my negative voice refuses to cease.

    My greatest enemy resides within,
    But how can I battle myself and win?
    I find this a callous, duplicitous life,
    Not worth any effort to fight the good fight.

    Surviving, instead of living each day,
    Sheltered inside sturdy walls I create.
    Fleeting moments when hope will linger so nigh,
    But those feelings of wretchedness still once again rise.

    Getting through every moment and each empty day,
    Feeling lost and panicked in this chaotic maze.
    Still not giving up and not giving in,
    With my greatest fear being that it won't ever end.

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    When words spurt the imagination into someone else's conceptualized perspective. This poem has a pure element I can relate to. Thank you

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  6. 4. Cold Dark Corner

    This poem was written during some of the hardest times I've yet to come by.

    There's a cold dark corner
    in the back of my room,
    it speaks to me
    and says I'm coming for you.

    As I lie on my bed
    in the fetal position,
    my eyes are closed
    hoping and wishing.

    Maybe that one day
    my dreams will come true,
    that I don't have to be here
    so down and blue.

    The corner keeps talking
    about how I'm going to die,
    all I can do
    is lie there and cry.

    As the corner gets closer
    and takes me in,
    my soul starts to burn
    as so does my skin.

    My bones shall lie there
    turning to dust,
    my bed surrounding
    nothing but rust.

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    We all have ways of expressing ourselves. Some chose not to do so at all. I'm glad that I could help find some emotional security during those times. I hope that you found yourself to be a...

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  7. 5. Circus In Three Rings

    Sylvia Plath was an American poet who lived from 1932-1963. Sylvia’s dad died during her childhood, and her husband left her for another woman. She experienced heartbreak and depression that ultimately led to her commit suicide at the age of 30. Her poetry was raw and honest, which can be seen in the chaos she captures in this poem. First published in The Atlantic Monthly in 1955, the hurricane mentioned in the poem could be compared to the personal struggles that swirled inside of her.

    In the circus tent of a hurricane
    designed by a drunken god
    my extravagant heart blows up again
    in a rampage of champagne-colored rain
    and the fragments whir like a weather vane
    while the angels all applaud.

    Daring as death and debonair
    I invade my lion's den;
    a rose of jeopardy flames in my hair
    yet I flourish my whip with a fatal flair
    defending my perilous wounds with a chair
    while the gnawings of love begin.

    Mocking as Mephistopheles,
    eclipsed by magician's disguise,
    my demon of doom tilts on a trapeze,
    winged rabbits revolving about his knees,
    only to vanish with devilish ease
    in a smoke that sears my eyes.

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  8. 6. A Hero

    Robert William Service was a British-Canadian author who lived from 1874-1958. He spent much of his early career years as a banker, but his dream was to be a cowboy. This poem shows the dark side of a person, someone who wishes to kill another, and in the end decides it's better to kill himself.

    Three times I had the lust to kill,
    To clutch a throat so young and fair,
    And squeeze with all my might until
    No breath of being lingered there.
    Three times I drove the demon out,
    Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . .
    And yet I know beyond a doubt
    He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet.

    I know I'm mad, I ought to tell
    The doctors, let them care for me,
    Confine me in a padded cell
    And never, never set me free;
    But Oh how cruel that would be!
    For I am young - and comely too . . .
    Yet dim my demon I can see,
    And there is but one thing to do.

    Three times I beat the foul fiend back;
    The fourth, I know he will prevail,
    And so I'll seek the railway track
    And lay my head upon the rail,
    And sight the dark and distant train,
    And hear its thunder louder roll,
    Coming to crush my cursed brain . . .
    Oh God, have mercy on my soul!

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    Very well written but a very disturbing situation. Powerful and powerfully sad.

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  9. 7. Out Out

    Out, Out by Robert Frost is a narrative poem published in a collection of poems titled Mountain Interval in 1916 when millions of young men were losing their lives on the battlefields of World War I. On an American farm a hungry young boy is cutting wood with a buzz saw. Frost uses personification with the saw and an artist's imagery to narrate as the boy loses his hand and then his life in terrible yet mundane detail.

    The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
    And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
    Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
    And from there those that lifted eyes could count
    Five mountain ranges one behind the other
    Under the sunset far into Vermont.
    And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
    As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
    And nothing happened: day was all but done.
    Call it a day, I wish they might have said
    To please the boy by giving him the half hour
    That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
    His sister stood beside them in her apron
    To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
    As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
    Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
    He must have given the hand. However it was,
    Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
    The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
    As he swung toward them holding up the hand
    Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
    The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
    Since he was old enough to know, big boy
    Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
    He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
    The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
    So. But the hand was gone already.
    The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
    He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
    And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
    No one believed. They listened at his heart.
    Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
    No more to build on there. And they, since they
    Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

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    Wow! I like it! It is wonderful. I like nature and science. It's very interesting.

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  10. 8. A Cry From The Soul

    I think that everyone one time or another has had dark days

    Dark Days

    Trapped with nowhere to turn, life is changing beyond my control,
    causing this deep ache in the bottom of my soul.

    Someone else is pulling the strings,
    oh to fly, oh for wings.

    Escape, I want to dig my self out,
    filled with despair, filled with doubt.

    Mute not able to express,
    this gnawing pain and feeling of relentless distress.

    Tears that are not visible to the naked eye,
    silent screams that no one can hear.

    I try to speak but nothing can express,
    this feeling of sadness and worthlessness.

    Emotional pain, walks with me through the day,
    and sleeps with me through the night,
    leaving me depletes with no strength to fight.

    Anger for not having the courage to turn things around,
    keeping me anchored to this remorse,
    not able to untie the chains and change my course.

    False pride rules supreme,
    always there to whisper in my ear.

    Time, wasted and badly spent,
    lots of hurt, lots to repent.

    Solace, please come and calm my soul,
    for this is what I need to make me whole.

    Empathy, what I need is for someone to see,
    someone to see the real me.

    Love with no strings,
    just giving generously amongst other things.

    Words, when used as a weapon can cut like a knife,
    capable of doing so much damage and take the joy out of life,

    but softly spoken and softly expressed
    can bring so much happiness.

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    I hope everything has changed, light has fallen upon your soul and love and happiness knocked on your doorstep. No matter what we go through, always pray. Some things happen for reasons we...

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  11. 9. Burn The Beauty

    The deception of beauty

    Poem About Beauty

    One does not own beauty.
    One creates it.
    In their dreams,
    They feel they can obtain it.

    All alone, in a dark night's
    rest.
    All their thoughts...
    Lifeless.

    Cursed by change
    Hidden by lies,
    Running from the truth.
    Beauty now dies.

    They don't understand.
    They don't really care.
    Beauty now burns
    Smoke in the air.

    Years go by,
    And age seeps in.
    Beauty's worn out,
    Life is giving in.

    Death creeps up,
    Beauty now cries.
    You're all alone
    In your beautiful lies!

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    This is magnificent! Ever word is placed perfectly in place, and it's just so hauntingly beautiful! But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as cliche as it sounds. But what defines...

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  12. 10. Losing Myself

    • By Remnant
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems April 2009

    A little bit everywhere, but it comes straight from my heart...

    My eyes close.
    I'm holding onto
    my memories
    and hatred.
    My slumber
    all alone in my head...
    so silent.

    I can't explain the way
    my tears run blood along my veins.
    If I let go of my pain,
    I'll cease to be, give into the plague...

    War is coming,
    I can hear it in my heart.
    Blood will flow
    along the grounds of the innocent.
    I can't deceive
    the darkness anymore...
    I'm letting go, I'm losing control of myself...

    you beat me down,
    so low and now
    I'm crying my soul.
    I'm losing control.
    You led me to
    a place where I
    can't feel my face...

    Death is just an anesthetic
    for what's to come.
    A body left behind with no face,
    feeling numb.
    All alone, I cry here,
    fading into nothing.
    All alone I lie here
    dying...

    ...losing myself...

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    I've been in this dark place for awhile now too. I haven't smiled since he broke my heart two weeks ago. I just wanted to comment by saying thank you for sharing this poem because it let me...

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  13. 11. The Wicked Path Of Destiny - The Death Of Mankind

    • By Joseph
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems September 2008

    Just a little something I made up for an English class at school. I'm in year 8 and poetry is easy. I don't do it much, but when I do I'm proud of the outcome. Some of you might think it's a little dark, but I write this to change what some of you may think about the world and its inhabitants. The world is sometimes a cruel place, but always remember that there is good in the world too and that's awesome. By the way, I'm not just some EMO kid being Emo. I'm a normal person like you and I love to write stories.

    I walk the face of earth once more,
    a mindless puppet; my strings are torn.
    The creaky bones, the bad eyesight,
    yet the chance to turn wrong to right.
    Wars-a-waging, old man's guilt,
    the world's now on more then just a tilt.
    Parents weeping, children slain,
    bloody thoughts, fear will reign.
    I look in the shadows, a creature did lurk.
    He whispered to me, hiding a smirk.
    "Thou shalt be killed if thee can't find
    the demon lurking in thou mind."
    So off I ventured to quench my thirst,
    of corpses piled with hearts-a-burst.
    And on that quest what did I see?

    The wicked path of destiny.

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    This made my heart skip a beat! I love where your mind goes. This is such a great poem! Where can I find more???

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  14. 12. Depression Is Never Ending

    Depression seems as if it will never end.

    Wanting Depression To Go Away

    Depression is here every day,
    And it never goes away.
    Go away! I yell into the dark,
    As if someone is there.
    I feel as if I'm a prisoner
    In the dungeon's lair.
    And as always, no one cares.
    Do I dare?
    Dare to care about anyone but me?
    Could it be,
    Someone there?
    Someone there to care?
    No, just an image.
    That's the way it will always be,
    No matter how hard I try.
    I just want to get by.
    I go through life day by day.
    I thought pain was supposed
    To go away with time,
    But it's not.
    It's still here,
    Here with the fear,
    Fear that I will get hurt more.

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    Ok love, look. I know how it feels when you're so young but you only feel like ending it. I've been there, and I wanna tell you something, and it's the most cliche thing to say. Get help, and...

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  15. 13. Darkness' Grasp

    • By Leah Sarah-May Wells
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems June 2008

    About the fight against suicide, death, or depression. I wrote this before an attempted suicide.

    Attempted Suicide

    I'm swimming all alone in a pool of darkness,
    and I feel like darkness is slowly pulling me under.
    I yell for help, but no one is there to hear it.
    I begin to see the water at eye level
    and I kick and flail,
    fighting to stay above the darkness,
    But the darkness won't let go of its hold on me,
    and I slowly begin to give in,
    to the feeling that lies below the water line.
    The waters starts to fill my lungs,
    the lungs that once held so much life,
    yet now they allow the murky water to replace that.
    I know that this path doesn't lead to happiness,
    but why doesn't someone grab my hand,
    pull me from darkness's grasp?
    Because no one knows I stand at the boundary,
    the boundary between light and dark,
    so I give in to the thing that holds me.
    All of the strength and all of the courage
    that I once held in my heart
    can't save me from the water,
    so I slowly slip below the world of consciousness,
    undetected by the occupants of that world.
    I don't want to fight anymore.
    I've given into darkness.

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    Wow, I really felt your pain. Hope you are safe now.

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  16. 14. I Will Wear Masks

    • By Joe Dirt
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems May 2011

    I have beat cancer twice and am presently fighting again along with the effects of a stroke. The attempt on my life erased 42 years of memories. I have fought and won a battle of addiction. Friends have been leaving my life, and some others have gone as far as to convince people none of this happened. I can't find the strength to reach out again in fear of what will happen if I do. Losing friends and your identity is a lonely place made only for me.

    In times of trouble and insanity,
    I carry masks to disguise
    the pain I carry
    secure behind my eyes.

    I can never let out again
    the misery I hide.
    To hell with my dignity,
    to hell with my pride.

    From this day forward,
    and forevermore,
    I will mount this mask
    that will be my lore.

    No reaching out when I am weak,
    no solace will I seek.

    When you look for answers,
    when you say your prayers,
    all you will see are masks,
    and no pain that I bare

    JOE DIRT JUNE/2010

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    This poem truly spoke to me. It's so accurate on so many levels. Life has been hard, and I've had to grow up fast. I've had to be strong and show no panic so my mother would think everything...

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  17. 15. Demon's Wrath

    • By Shianne
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems January 2017

    I wrote this poem when I felt like the world was suffocating me, when I had no one to turn to and no one I could talk to.

    Whisper it, don't let them hear.
    Be careful; it's them you should fear.
    Follow them, do what they say,
    And for your sake, don't run away.
    Their hearts are as black as black can be.
    Their souls chill you to the bone, don't you see?
    They'll lure you into their arms and tear you apart.
    Then they'll suck the blood out of your heart,
    Leave you gasping for air that surrounds you.
    I know it sounds unreal, like it's not true,
    But don't look at them, don't ask who they are.
    Their darkness surrounds us from afar.
    Don't provoke them, don't make them mad,
    For if you do, the outcome could be bad.
    The demons will rise through the land.
    The darkness will clasp your cold, icy hand.
    You'll remember all your darkened power,
    And the demons will rise in the night's darkest hour.
    They'll lead you to a darker path,
    And you'll be the one to unleash the demon's wrath.

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  18. 16. A Night In Sorrow

    • By Kita
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems February 2008

    This Poem is about a girl who uses pain and darkness as a pleasure and finds herself looking for someone who was lost.

    I watch as the blood trickles down my arm
    I close my eyes and hope for you to come.
    I never knew what it was like to be alone
    All I want for you to do is come back home.
    I feel the pain, the burning and the pleasure
    I feel so confused and so full of pressure
    I sit in this dark room with no one around
    All I want from you is love and care
    I notice that I won't get my wish
    But now I wait for the sun to rise.
    To fill this room with light.
    As I watch I see how many scars I have
    Bleeding for desire and pain
    I look in the mirror of my room and look
    I watch as these tears flow endlessly and
    What I realize what I was waiting for
    was for me to return to normal.

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  19. 17. Death

    • By Evan
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems November 2012

    Just wanted to see if it was any good. so comment and rate

    Inside I'm Full Of Death

    Time stops
    And stands still
    Each day
    Seems like a year
    I'm lost
    And can't be found
    In this darkness
    I lay dying
    Cold
    Empty
    And alone
    It holds me down
    And won't let go
    There is no escaping
    it consumes me
    until there's nothing left
    I may look fine
    But on the inside I'm full of death

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  20. 18. Behind These Walls

    • By Jenna
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems May 2013

    This was originally an idea for a song I had. It's kind of spooky if you ask me! I hope you enjoy this. It's true. Behind these walls there's a world inside...

    They watch the world
    with open eyes.
    They haunt the world
    with an open mind.
    They see you move
    as you live in this world.

    But behind these walls
    lies a deep, dark universe,
    one where the light can't shine through.
    A world where they lurk,
    they play and hide.
    Behind these walls, there's a world inside.

    If you dare to look
    or even hear,
    go ahead, face your fear.
    You'll join this world
    one cruel day.
    So sad it'll be,
    but they can't hear you say...

    Behind these walls
    lies a deep dark universe,
    one where the light can't shine through!
    A world where they lurk
    and play and hide.
    Behind these walls there's a world inside...

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    I’m inspired by this poem because it speaks about how the world is, and I can see that the writer took her time to find just the right words to reflect the title.

    This section said a lot...

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  21. 19. Just A Small Cut

    • By Kassie
    •  Published by Family Friend Poems November 2007

    This is a poem of a girl that cut herself. This is a real story that I have lived through and thought I should share it because it is not a good thing to do so I hope that this does not happen to you! (I never got stitches though) (sp)

    Poem About Cutting Wrists

    Crimson red fills the bowl and I think I'm going to be sick.
    With every thing spinning so fast I cannot breath.
    Walls closing in and everything fades.
    Fashes of light come by, one, by one.
    Feeling sleepy not knowing your name.
    Not knowing mine.
    There it is. my favorite thing of all this,
    ah the feeling of pain is gone from before and new form enters me.
    Laying here waiting for you to come home.
    I open my eyes and see flashes of you and me from before you went.
    You walk inside.
    You call to me and wait for an answer.
    You hear small light breaths coming from the bathroom.
    thinking it is me, you walk down the hall with a smile.
    the kind that makes your knees go week.
    You walk in. Oh god, is all you can think.
    I'm trying to look up at you but I can't move.
    a cold chill comes over me as you pick me up.
    You say we are going to the hospital and that everything will be ok.
    You rush me in.
    Blood running down.
    The nurse rushes you to a bed so I can lay down.
    I can hear you asking her something.
    But I can't make out the words.
    I feel something cold and wet touch my face then my arm.
    I feel the prick of a sharp object go in my right arm.
    The nurse says that I need stitches because the wound is to deep.
    I feel the thread go in and out through my arm.
    And a band-aid go around and around.
    After I have slept for two days they let you in.
    I can move again and open my eyes.
    You say that I got 76 stitches because the cuts were way to deep.
    And that I almost died.
    I pull off the band-aid and look.
    I see over 20 cuts and begin to cry.
    You tell me its ok and we will get some help.
    About 5 years later.
    We have two to deal with ourselves.
    Jake and Emma.
    A beautiful baby boy and baby girl.
    The scars are still there.
    Some times I wish I could go back 5 years and change what I did do so I can make it right.

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    Hi Leah! I hope you're better now. It's hard going through the things you are going through. But I can tell you that yes you'll be happy. Life is a series of good and bad moments. Some bad...

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  22. 20. Unseen

    sometimes.. we come to a point where we no longer know what's happening around us..

    Confused With What's Happening

    you are trapped in a cage..
    no one sees it.. not even you..
    you don't know what it's made of..
    you don't even know where it came from..
    but you feel it.. it's all around you..
    it is full of strength
    that it forbids you to move freely..
    it separates you from your wisdom
    and it strangles your thoughts..
    you are robbed
    but you don't know what was taken..
    you're in a place
    but you don't know where you're heading..
    you don't even know how you got there..
    or who has brought you there..
    you know you've been through a lot
    but your memories are distorted..
    it is seizing you little by little..
    you can't stay but you can't go..
    you are trapped but no one sees it..
    NOT EVEN YOU..

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    I really like this, I was thinking of getting a tattoo for my 18th of a bird cage with the door open but as the bird tries to fly it is still chained down and I thought this poem actually...

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