Silent from Birth



Not allowed to speak

From the moment of my birth

They stitched my mouth

So I never could speak.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Never allowed to speak...

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Hiding Out


Maybe a vampire

Maybe something else

Hiding out

Behind the pillars

For none to see.


Blood at loss

Tired of escape

I am hiding out

Supernatural being.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Someone is hiding out...

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Around, all around the dark memories gather.
My dread grows as the dagger of your words
falls against my heart.
It wounds me, and darkly my blood drips to the
broken ground.
In pain I cry out, why?! While death surrounds me
Now alone, my cry of mercy falls upon cold eyes.
This is your love.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Its a poem written from deep inside the heart expressing
What I feel.

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Bartholomew's Flower Garden





  As the reporter walked down the long white hall he looked down at the white floor and then up at the white ceiling. He then quickly looked back down at the white floor. He could hear the sounds of blood curdling screams and loud mumbling as he passed by each black door in the long white hall. As he passed each door he walked quicker so he could catch up with the tall skinny guard. The reporter finally caught up with the guard when the guard stopped in front of the last black door at the end of the long white hall.

  The reporter stood beside the guard and they both stared at the black door. About six feet up and near the center of the black door was what looked like a ships porthole. The reporter looked up at the guard and the guard looked down at the short stocky reporter but neither said nothing. The guard nodded his head toward the black door as if to say, “go on you asked for this.” The reporter slowly turned and faced the door once more and scooted his feet toward the black door. Though he was moving toward the black door it seemed to him as if he was not moving. When he finally got about two feet from the door he stopped and turned around to look at the guard once more. The guard just kept staring straight ahead and still said nothing. The reporter walked slowly closer to the black door until he was about six inches from the door.

  All of a sudden a face not much bigger than the porthole window popped into view behind the black door window. The reporter quickly jumped back until he was beside the guard once more. When the reporter looked up at the guard he thought he saw the and heard the guard snicker. The guard kept looking straight ahead as the reporter turned back to look at the face he saw in the window of the black door. From the look of the face it looked as if the man had not slept in a couple of months. The white in his eyes were blood red and his hair was pointing in all directions. The reporter later found out that the man behind the black door was not allowed to have a comb because he might try to kill himself with it. As a matter of fact, he was not allowed anything that he could use to hurt or kill himself.

  As the reporter kept staring at the face in the window he noticed that the lips on the face were moving. The reporter was so frightened that he could not make out what they were saying to him. He then saw the face disappear from the window. Finally the reporters curiosity overcame his fright so he moved closer to the window. When he was about four inches from the door the face came out of nowhere and popped up in the window again. The reporter lurched back a few inches than steadied himself. This time he was determined to put his fear aside and do his job. He moved about two inches from the window in the black door.

  “Do not be afraid” said the face of the man behind the window. “I could not get out and harm you even if I wanted to, which I don't. Why are you here?”

  “Didn't anyone tell you?” the reporter stuttered.

  “Tell me?” the man laughed. “Do you think anyone comes here and tells me anything? I surmise you are like everyone else. You want to hear my story as well.”

  “I heard what a great detective you were, I mean are.” the reporter said.

  “Well I do not know if I should tell you or not. I mean no one believes me. I doubt you will believe me either.”

  The reporter thought to himself and started to turn and leave. He knew the man , crazy as he may be, was probably right. He would not believe anything this man had to say nor would anyone who read his story. The reporter then thought about how he could not blow his first assignment. If he did he knew he would be fired and would have to give up his dream of being a writer and a reporter. He would have to go back to his previous job which he hated. The reporter knew he would have to find a way to get this man to tell him his story.

  “Don't you think the world should know the truth about what happened? Don't you think your side of the story should be shared with the world? Don't you think that the world should know what really happened to Bartholomew and his flowers?”

  The face disappeared again from behind the window. The reporter was more determined than before to get the story from the man behind the black door. The reporter walked closer to the door until he was only about an inch from the window. He looked inside the room and saw the white padded walls in the room and saw the man he had been talking to sitting on the far wall in a black straightjacket talking to himself. The man then looked at the reporter and struggled to get up from the floor. He finally stood up and walked to the side of the room the black door was on so the reporter could not see him any more. The reporter no longer was afraid was considered this assignment more as a challenge to his skill as a writer and a reporter. This time when the face popped in the window the reporter did not move and tried to show no fear.

  “Alright,” the man behind the black door said, “I have deduced you are right. I must tell you my story but not for the reasons you think. I tell you not for fame or even to get me out of this place. You see, though you may not know it yet, I am safer in here than you are out there. I will tell you the truth about what happened in an effort, as futile as it may be, to let the world know what evil is already here in the world. Although, I still doubt you or anyone will believe me I guess it is still my duty to try and give a warning.”

  As the reporter took his notebook and pen from his pocket he knew this may just be the story for which he had always been looking. He might even forget about turning it into the newspaper that had sent him and instead write it as a book.

  “Are you ready?” asked the face behind the window.

  “Yes I am ready to hear all of the story.” the reporter said.

  “Very well. This is the true story of Bartholomew's flower garden”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is the Prologue to the new book I am writing....

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She Told Me

She told me that she didn't know

anymore what I thought we knew. 

She told me she was thinking still

of where to go and what to do.


She told me that she loved me still

yet she thought it best she go.

She told me that she always would

but in her eyes it didn't show. 


She left, and there I stood alone

as she swore I'd never be.

She left, and there I stood alone,

lost at home with her memory. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is based on a conversation had on Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend of this year. It is raw and painful and I don't know what to do.

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Childs Horror


Tampered and torn

Used and misinformed

Memories transformed

This truth never born

Battered lost

Forgotten and tossed

Heart full of frost

Trying to defrost

Waiting debating

Life worth taking

Changes are making

These hands shaking

Slithering by

Time doesn’t fly

The known defies

 My luminosity dies

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Feelings too familiar. I lock myself away, cause I can barely deal with my own insanity.

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Death's Prize

Death’s Prize


Death crumbles in my hand, as I stand before the gate of mystery,

Many deaths, many moons, many things I have seen through out history.

I am life, I am death, I am weak, I am strong, I am the sword piercing your eye,

On the black wings of a raven, I soar through the sky gathering souls that I find.


Tall shades of gray I see beyond me, I live in a world of darkness, shaded from light,

Lifeless trees adorn the landscape, where my body lies, many souls, from me take flight.

I will haunt you forever till your soul is mine, my blood red eyes will hypnotize,

You can not escape me no matter, it has been foretold  you will be my prize.


Cynthia Clark




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1. ItIt’s just another day,
Another normal day in school,
we read, played and then slept,
Hoping to wake up another day.


But it wasn’t just another night,
Our sleep was seized,
Our dreams stopped,
Our hope cut,
Our silence broken.


Horrifying figures we see,
Violently pushing into our side,
We freeze, faint, in shock,
Gunmen are on the rampage.
Gunmen chanting and singing.

Bullets fly in that commotion,
Bunks falling in every direction,
Boys running without protection,
Blood flowing, with no attention.


We run but we die
Bullets hitting us front and back,
Not for any crime we’ve committed,
But because we chose to be educated.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this when terrorist invaded a college and killed the students in their hostels, in Northern Nigeria.

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The Staggerer

The Staggerer


They come for me. I can hear them in the distance,

Silent tears I cry. The fast pace of my heart beat insistent.

If I run so many pitfalls, so many traps, death awaits,

But if I stay here, the outlook would be one of a grim fate.


Tis very foggy, the sights I behold will not be within my finger tips,

I can feel the eerie chill, silent tears upon my cheek falling upon my lips.

I shiver. the dampness of the night invades my bones and I stagger from my hiding place.

They have passed me by for the moment, Quietly, quietly or they will resume their chase.


My breath stilled as I saw a staggerer left behind, to trap me? To guard me?

To late the soft breeze, ah the scent of my fear, he turned, I tried to flee.

Skeletal fingers, putrid smell of death, eye sockets breath of fiery red,

The Staggerer called by some, no mind, no vision, a forever life of dead.


No, don’t screech your heartless cry of death, do not bring in more,

But he did. Answering calls, echos throughout the jungle they found what they searched for.

Me. Yes I was their prey and no hope anymore of escape.I struggled , then screamed,

Face to face, fiery eye sockets burning intensely devouring my soul, maybe it is a dream?


No it was not, was indeed a nightmare, but a very real one, much to real,

Weakness pulled at me. I tried to fight it, really I did but I could no longer feel.

Round and round like a child’s top I spun, surrounded by staggerers, fiery eyes ablaze,

But it mattered not any longer for my new world was one of a lost dead haze.


I was lead like a child to a massive hole and tossed in . I felt the impact, yet I did not,

What was I doing here? Where was I? Who was I? It was unimportant all these things I forgot.

So I just lay there without moving, without thinking, and perhaps without feeling,

No. I can not give up, I won’t give up my soul. I tried to rise, my mind reeling.


I turned on my stomach and pushed myself up on my knees, so very tiring,

But I must continue, had to go on, oh so much energy, my body was expiring.

I staggered, then giggled. A staggerer, no not yet, hope to never be,

So where was I?. I must feel my way around cause so dark I could not see


Ah an underground cave, there was a trace of light down a corridor to the right,

I could hear voices, I could hear screams, horrifying screams, gave me a fright.

But I must continue, I could not quit I had to escape. Oh I want to go home.

I peeked in the room with the light and had to stop a scream , blood hit bone.


Not mine, no. Something evil lurked in that room, A doctor perhaps, dressed as such.

Evil experiments, creating staggerers, but why? Oh my head hurt, this was too much.

So how to stop him. Think, think, Slowly my mind was coming back and was so relieved,

Boy how am I gonna explain this one back home, I really don’t think anyone will believe.


His back was turned so silent was my feet, I picked up a rock and hit him from behind,

No blood? No blood.His eye sockets were fiery red, the putrid smell of death and I’m in a bind.

I stagger around eye sockets fiery red, putrid smell of death. Something I should remember but I forget,

Skeletal fingers search for prey, darkness is my friend, something, yes something don’t remember but I regret.






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