Thursday, December 9, 2010

Some Poems Of Pain And Survival

The Vampire
by Lisa McCourt Hollar

The Vampire, cautiously crawled out from the dark,
Hundreds of years having passed since he'd last seen light.
His eyes ached in the brightness of his new world,
The surroundings he beheld a confusing sight.

He breathed and in the air, there was a familiar smell,
It burned inside of him, this scent that he now craved.
He followed it to a man, dirty and sick,
Living on the streets, derelict and depraved.

He'd hurt others of his kind, killing women, this man,
And abusing himself by sleeping in litter and dung.
So the vampire ripped out his throat, drinking his blood,
The taste not as sweet as though from someone who was young,

But satisfying just the same, perhaps more so,
Because it came from someone that deserved to die,
A monster, just like himself, taking another’s life,
One just for fun, the other to survive,

So he relished the last gasp of breath this man breathed,
Feeling as though he had served a greater reason in life.
For this man had everything the vampire had ever desired,
And wasted it on an existence of murder and strife.

The man died, the vampire dropping him among the debris,
And as he looked about his new home, smelling the air,
He felt a surge of excitement, a thrill at being ‘alive’,
Hungering for this world of misery and despair.

by Lisa McCourt Hollar

Against her lips, his kiss was cold,
His breath like ice, a hint of mold.
In her lust she noticed not,
The decaying taste of rot.

Into her lover's arms she fell,
Not caring that he rose from hell,
An undead creature, born to kill,
A monster spawned at Satan's will.

She knew they lied, when said he's dead,
So dug him from his graveyard bed.
Her tears of grief woke him from his sleep
She knew t'was magic took him from her keep.
She kissed him deep, to warm his lips,
As he reached for her with fingertips
That crumbled against her at his touch,
Still, she welcomed his enclosing clutch,

He took her there, beneath the moon,
Planting a seed within her womb.
Consummating evil foretold,
As her belly, with death grew cold.

She reaches for her lover's hand,
Her life forfeit, her soul is damned.
The corpse beside her, once more dead,
A feast upon which bugs are fed.

The baby grows as her life wanes,
Feeding off his mother's pains.
Then as the child tears through her womb,
She understands at last her doom.

Bestowing a kiss with her last breath,
Upon the moldy lips of death,
Necrophilia meets him there,
Among the flames of Hell's despair.

by Lisa McCourt Hollar

Hurting, she cried tears of hate and pain,
Bleeding from self inflicted wounds.
The torment she bore, day after day,
Cutting her worse than any blade,

For words sliced deeper than any knife could,
The indifference, scarring her soul.
She was numb to the abuse,
No longer feeling unless she inflicted it herself.

So she cut herself and she bled…
Crying … in pain,
It felt great.

copyright 2010 Lisa McCourt Hollar