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vampire poems?

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posted on May, 13 2009 @ 09:28 AM
The cold one
Has fangs
Has eyes
Blood rubies
In disguise

He lives
Down your street
Works nights
In the hospital

You might feel
His cold fingers
On your wrist
Taking your pulse

Injecting you
The needle
While he watches
Your neck

You’re next.

posted on May, 13 2009 @ 02:57 PM
She used to be the girl next door,
Of gentle temperament and lilting laughs,
But now a body washed up, on shore,
Her beauty hidden by a lifeless mask.

In his lair the moonlight fell,
But he remained in the dark, . . apart,
From all, but his own private hell,
Remembering her, her heat, her spark.

Love to lust and lust of life,
He had no need to use a knife,
He sank his fangs into her neck,
An act the mirror could not reflect.

He a bat, she a dove,
He used lust, instead of love,
She did fall to sea, . . then shore,
Nothing left, a vampire's whore. . .dead.

He stepped out of the dark and into the moonlight,
crying as he remembered the pulsation of her blood.

posted on May, 13 2009 @ 07:35 PM
Broken and alone
she goes out into the night
crying out from the depths of her soul
He hears her and takes to flight

He watches from a distance
as she falls down to her knees
her tears fall to the ground below
he knows that her heart bleeds

He longed to end her suffering
to take away her pain
she could be his forever
all he needed was a vein

Quietly he approaches
and takes her by the hand
he gazes deeply into her eyes
and she instantly understands

Taking her into his arms
he lowers his head just right
then tasting her neck in his mouth
he hungrily takes a bite

She felt the pain for a moment
then came the desire
they were bound now for eternity
forever a vampire.

posted on May, 14 2009 @ 04:33 PM
At night he did seek,
as his life-force was weak,
a snack for the night,
that would make him feel right.

The pickings were slim,
a rare her . . or a him,
enough to get by,
but a little tad shy . .of fullness.

One night he did suckle,
a sailors brute knuckle,
and after making his way home,
learned . .he had Renfield syndrome.

He tried his own blood,
dripped it into a tub,
dark red and quite fizzy,
but it made him too dizzy.

So . . out again he did roam,
with the Renfield syndrome,
bloodthirsty and sad,
hungry and mad . . .enough
to develop Tourette's syndrome.

Now I don't know what's worst,
a vampire's great thirst,
or that crazy undead,
swearing out of his head.

posted on May, 20 2009 @ 11:03 PM
They whisper to the men of power

Give us death in the dark hours.

Twisted metal,twisted wrecks, no Police checks.

More Heavy trucks that make the sedans an easy #.

No one will care no one does when we come on the scene and steal

the flesh the headless corpse the limbs across the road.

So much blood so much blood SO MUCH BLOOD.

More trucks more trucks more drug crazy psycopaths

Feed us the dead liquid to drink.

No safety road laws no one to think.

posted on Oct, 22 2009 @ 10:35 PM
he crawls down the side
of the castle wall
a white moon hangs in the sky
he listens to the sounds of the night
hears many things
hears breathing
the sound of a moth fluttering
in the dark
now he smiles
he smells it
has the scent
feels his hunger
the window is open
the lace curtain flutters
the night air comes in
and something else.

she stirs
weighed down by sleep
he bites
her eyes open wide
at the pain
they dilate slowly
as her blood drains away
a drop of blood glistens on
her neck, as he pauses
then her life..
slowly, like a leaf
he sets her down,
his hunger sated

he looks around the room
her books, and ornaments
he notes that she's beautiful
in death

much younger than him
who has seen out the long
footsteps of a thousand years,
nights, and moons -
just like this one.

for a second he feels regret
she is so young and beautiful
her black hair and pale skin
he considers...

but it is too late...
yes... she is dead...

he hears a cat, in the kitchen
and is gone.

several days later,
inside his castle walls
he hears the sound of her
funeral - the weeping and the bells
of the distant church..
he prepares for his guests,
adjusting his collar

'diablo, diablo' the villagers say..
crosses on the houses
torches in the night

he smiles to himself
a lion proud of his kill
and without apology.

posted on Oct, 23 2009 @ 03:37 PM
When he was younger, before the transition,
the hunger was non-existent.

When she was younger,
her presence drove him mad . . . with passion.

On a warm and windy autumn night,
with leaves blowing around them in spirical eddies,
they defied tradition,
under a full moon,
and became lovers.

Lovers, . . . under the covers, . . of wind and dark.

Later, one was chosen to be bitten,
the other . . ., its dream now smitten . .
to suffer.

Every night she slits her wrist,
in anticipation of his bliss,
when he drinks her blood and howls the night,
scared of nothing, but . . . morning light.

She sustains him, keeps him well,
He adores her . . but cannot tell,
if she still loves him.
He will not bite her neck,
he will not take her,
. . . she is still free,
he only asks for her blood now.

When he was younger, there was no hunger.

She has not abandoned him.

As she gets older . . he dies a little bit every day . . but stays young.

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