Poems

Annabelle – Wching. WaitingIn a chamber starved of sunlight, where dust blurs every edge,Annabelle sits in her coffin of glass—unblinking, relentless, dredgedFrom history’s darkest margins, stitched lips promising nothing but dread,Her painted gaze, lacquered and bright, wches the living, dances with the dead.The wallpaper peels in apology, each shadow crawling slow,As if the room itself […]

A New Dawn — SongFemale lead, low and rough, alt-pop / dark rock crossover with a slow build. Verses long and narrative, half-sung, half-rap-walked. Chorus opens up with wide chords and layered backing vocals; bridge drops to almost nothing but voice and a faint, warped music-box sample fading in at the very end.

Advanced PAR The Clockwork SpectreIn the heart of the town where the cobblestones lie,Stands a tower of time with its face to the sky.A structure so stely, with a ghostly white glow,Its gears turning wildly, where no mortal dares go.Each tick and each tock twists in impossible ways,As if mocking the passage of our simple

The Witching Hour” The clock strikes twelve, the world stands still,A shiver runs up your spine, against your will.The shadows twist and the whispers grow,Welcome to the night where the cursed things show.The house on the hill, the eyes that see,It knows your name, it wants you to bleed.Step into the dark, there’s no way

A New Dawn — PoemLight hits like impact, not blessing, a white-hot crack through bone and thought that rips bark and mirrors and screaming men into dust that never quite settles,One second she’s knee-deep in shatter and crooked laughter, the next she’s on damp earth, cheek pressed to moss, lungs convulsing around cold air that

It’s twelve minutes after eleven, did you already make your wish, or did you let the moment slip past like every other promise that dissolved before it could take shape,I’m standing in a kitchen that hums like exhausted machinery while bills stare from the counter with their red-ink mouths open, calendar marked with appointments that

The mattress is a bog, a wet-rot trap of cotton and stale sweat where I’ve become a tectonic plate of pure inactionMy ribcage feels like lead pipe, pinning down a heart that’s too bored to even thud with purposeOutside, the bin-men are screaming like gulls over a carcass, tossing glass into the maw of a

1 at a timeHELL yes. Let’s kick this padded party off with the first act—full theatrical madness, twisted humor, and a carnival’s worth of creepy in a ballgown of broken glass.