Dark Poetry Quotes

I wish I could see butterflies burst from cocoonsWithout tempering my amazementKnowing all beauty eventually dies.

Sleepless nightsSpent looking at the ceilingSearching in those etched patternsFor some sort of adhesiveTo glue together the broken piecesOf a soul crushedBy the weight of the fact thatLife is profoundly sad.

Real life is just another stage.Just another stage where I have to look and actLike I have everything put together;everything neat, perfect, and in order,when in reality I’m slowly dying,Slowly decaying, screaming and clawing,at this little box I’ve been put into, Trying desperately to escape.

Pressure knocks at my doorA clock ticks and demands its dueThe lava burns from the floorBut not in a game like it used to.So little time to figure it all outSo many distractions to prevent successI’m in a dark forest with no path or routeBut this internal fire knows no rest.

What a cruel irony it is, that we get to choose our thoughts but not our feelings.

I look up upon a sparsely starred abyssHaving wandered to this street cornerIn the middle of the nightWatching the cars and people go byWonderingIf this deep, black nothingnessIs the sum total of being human.

She is the light,at the end of this endless tunnel.

No misery ever so beautiful than the one this mind creates.

You burn like a candleinside my soul,showing me a waythrough this darkness.

Amidst a crowd of strangers,I still remain unknownto myself.

Darling, even raindrops try to wipe my teardrops but your thoughts haul out more tears from my liquid eyes and then teardrops replace raindrops...

Linear’s defeated form The intangible reality rise.'' ~ Wanderer

You do not see the painting in the attic The maggots on skin that tear. The beauty is a trick. Narcissus - promise naught but air...'' ~ Dorian Gray

With a ring around the rosaryAnd a pocket full of crossesAshes to ashesThey'll all fall down

Matthew Fitzpatrick

And all we feared inside the night / shows true in morning's biased light.

Garth von Buchholz

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul,that soft summer morninground a turning in the path,the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones,its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its wedding poisonslike a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound,but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.I am the vampire of my own heart,one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughterwho can no longer smile.Am I dead?I must be dead.

Charles Baudelaire