Dark Poetry
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                                                     By John Weinkauf

So few understand
What it feels like
To hate life
To want to die
To feign happiness
To laugh
When you want to cry
To cry
When you want to laugh

There are times
When I am happy
When I can laugh
And be sincere
And give love
The way I should
But not often
It hurts too much
I don’t want
To live in pain

Don’t look at me
And ask me why
I act like
Something’s wrong
I can’t explain
And if I could
Would you understand
Would you even care
Why would you care
When I don’t care
                                             By John Weinkauf

I float above myself
My body lying still
The pain I felt is gone
I know this can’t be real

I don’t know how I died
And I don’t really care
The dark that veiled my eyes
Gave way to light so fair

Depression now is gone
Anxiety fades away
First smile I’ve had in years
The sky’s no longer grey

The paramedics gathered
To call the time of death
I saw one kneel beside me
To listen for a breath

What are they doing now
Please just leave me be
I don’t want to be brought back
Now I’m finally free
                             Why God
                                             By John Weinkauf        

Why did God turn his back on me
After years of being true
What did I do to deserve this pain
That I’ve been going through

It really doesn’t matter now
I gave up on God years ago
I tried many ways to keep my faith
But I finally just let it go

Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t there
Why should I care anymore
If he is there, I can’t trust him now        
He walked out and slammed the door

Pain and depression have taken me down
This road of grief for too long
I prayed and I prayed but God wouldn’t help
Even when my faith was still strong

If God doesn’t give more than we can handle
Why do I contemplate death
My pain is so great I can’t take anymore
I hurt more with every breath

Please don’t tell me your God is so great
When I have lived in his scorn
I don’t want to hear what he’s done for you
My burdens are mine to be borne

Don’t tell me that you’ll be praying for me
Or that God can make it all right
He never helped when I needed him most
My days now are dark as the night

I now hold a grudge for this so called God
Who is full of contempt for me
If there is a heaven I don’t want to go
And be tortured eternally
Poetry by John Weinkauf and Nathan Rowark
                                             By Nathan Rowark

The creep that crept below the hall, inside the sewer on urines squall
Stalks the site it once had fell, strolls the trail of those unwell.
Digs a trench beneath the life of lives above that tortured rife;
A Shadowed soul that under sits this lighter lineage that fits.

In the larder, soiled goods, like those once stolen from the woods.
Birds a family sought to borrow, covered by a store hands sorrow.
Never forgot, the ingredients blended, to now avenge a time quick ended.
Cooks with cauldron in the kitchen, adds a spice for sour depiction.

They never had their conscience pricked, looking to this right arm kicked.
Ever faithful put to test when hiding crime at their behest;
Once saved the face of family line to end upon a thief trees twine.
Now fluffs the pillows right to keep until guilty lose their flight for sleep.

They wonder on mis-fortunes rot, why an echo sounds around this plot.
Negative, a minus hurt now floods this future co-ordinate.
Fleeing from a house ill soaked, a well of blood in throat he chocked;
Was all this presence had to float, such twisted heart to drown their boat.

He follows coffins just to savour the pain avenged to win their favour;
No longer scapegoat laugh of many, but ferryman to place their penny.
Chooses heads from older tales to reside with him amongst the wails;
Companions struck by sudden death and angered so as not to rest.

The house now moans with lives he took, woman and child now forced to
Insidious dish waits for she that moves to land beneath his tree.
Child eyes to soon branch hang, that branch held fast as old friend swang.
The line to come he’d once defend; now scullery shall prove to end.
                                             By Nathan Rowark

Standing at my window in a Christmas tide of joy;
A European figure steps to peephole with my toy.
Full bags of cotton candy; he has not come to be alone;
He brings with him a yin yang friend, in chains with bell and moan.

He’s not a Jacob Marley guest but rather uninvited;
Travelling with old Nic as guest, not devil but ones sighted.
It’s Santa’s friend, the one with sticks who beats bad children senseless.
He’ll find the naughtiest child in town and then render them defenceless.

Horns on head that’s full of teeth, his furry tail to wander;
Upon the snow to mark the spot where un karmic angels squander
Good deeds made for old start year then out their shoes must go;
Waiting for St Nicholas gifts, yet demonic pet does show.

Christmas tree lit up in flames, the bulbs of glass to smoulder;
Upon the sin of youth kindling kin for the krampusz rules are older.
So when early air of Jack Frost chill does turn the front yard crisper,
Remember the crispier furnace birth that brought forth hell hearths mister.
The Heady Heights of Harietta Morgan
                                                             By Nathan Rowark

Harietta Morgan gazed within lit TV screen;
Sitting in her faded chair as throne to acting queen;
Dreaming of a bigger break from smaller stage and show;
Something that would not involve her dragging set’s in tow.

She got herself an agent, found him drunk against the bar.
He promised her the whole wide world was waiting not too far.
And then one day the phone did ring, her big break had arrived.
She called her friend’s in earnest, at least those she could confide.

“I can’t discuss the part” she gleaned “until I get the fee”
“But I promise now, one and all that fame will not change me”.
“The studio is rather small, the budget rather lean;
But I will stand dead centre stage upon that silver screen”.

Celebrating half the night with buck’s fizz glass in hand;
The next day her audition call was far from fun or grand.
Sitting on the acting couch, a figure slithered in;
Half artist, half devil with lips that smacked of sin.

The read through was a quick affair and when the reading stopped,
This director from a foreign land allowed with shoulders dropped,
His legs to march upon this girl, yet woman through and through.
“You’ve got the part; I love your art so filming can ensue”.

The carpet in her run down flat did gather dust in circle;
As spinning round the woven floor, the lines were learnt whilst fertile.
She noticed that in all the acts she played another part.
First one was a farmers maid, the next a village tart.

When the point was raised at lunch with agent and a beer,
He told her to relax and read, “More part’s mean money dear”.
Settling in with cast and crew was not an easy job.
They’d stare at her performances as human monologue.

Still she liked attention and the camera never left;
Unlike her useless mother who couldn’t wait to leave her set.
“Now glare into the camera” came the orders from the chair.
“Jump and run, slide and shout”, an endless noir nightmare.

The months soon passed as party loomed to celebrate its end,
An experimental movie with Miss Morgan’s skills to fend.
The bash was just a drunken mess; her throat felt rather sore.
Growling, deep and husky, then found what her drinks were for.

Her agent was indeed a sham and had been from the start;
Plying her with cocktails and a special pill for heart.
Her levels of testosterone had doubled overnight.
The shaving now was quite morose and gave her morning’s fright.

“The final scene is yet to come” crooned assistant with elixir.
“You had to undergo this change to finish studio picture”.
The final part involves you playing a role of different sex;
And once it’s all within our can we’ll break your male hex.

The pill’s that can reverse you’re state are ready to receive,
But you must play the game to fill, a part just named as Steve.
Terrified of failure and remaining stubble rash,
She agreed to next day’s final shoot so as not to end up trash.

But even in the limo home her hormone gripe was moral rage.
How could they take advantage of her fame fuelled trail ablaze?
It said so in her tight contract but she’d not cared to look.
She’d have to change quite medically to allow her off their hook.

When finally she went to play said Steve on centre mark,
She found that at the studio the lights were glaring dark.
The bailiffs had removed all the pictures from the walls.
The studio was bankrupt and the boss declined her calls.

Now Harry Etta Morgan spends his days within his home.
He runs an advice service for the one’s that glory moan.
The lesson that was learnt by Harry haunts his memory.
“I promise you, one and all that fame will not change me”.
For poetry by John
Weinkauf and Nathan
click here

For poetry by Mike
Berger, Clara Knepper
and Juan Manuel Perez,
click here

For poetry by John Grey
and A.J. Huffman,