Creepy Poetry Quotes

If on thoughts of death we are fed, Thus, a coffin, became my bed.

I prefer pets to people,because they leave teeth marks deep in your skin for the world to see, whilst people scratch you up from the inside and act like the damage doesn't exist.

I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán and then to Santiago, it sped off without warning, as if the somewhat ominous solitude of the place had unleashed atavistic fears in the driver's mind. For a moment I too was afraid. I must have been a sorry sight standing there helplessly with my suitcase from the seminary, holding a copy of Farewell's Anthology in one hand. Some birds flew out from behind a clump of trees. They seemed to be screaming the name of that forsaken village, Querquén, but they also seemed to be enquiring who: quién, quién, quién. I said a hasty prayer and headed for a wooden bench, there to recover a composure more in keeping with what I was, or what at the time I considered myself to be. Our Lady, do not abandon your servant, I murmured, while the black birds, about twenty-five centimetres in length, cried quién, quién, quién. Our Lady of Lourdes, do not abandon your poor priest, I murmured, while other birds, about ten centimetres long, brown in colour, or brownish, rather, with white breasts, called out, but not as loudly, quién, quién, quién, Our Lady of Suffering, Our Lady of Insight, Our Lady of Poetry, do not leave your devoted subject at the mercy of the elements, I murmured, while several tiny birds, magenta, black, fuchsia, yellow and blue in colour, wailed quién, quién, quién, at which point a cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilling me to the bone.

My parents warned me about horror movies Blood and guts and Stephen King. They told me to stop reading such disturbing stories Stop playing such cutthroat games But when I swapped my novels for newspapers Changed the channel from AMC to CNN My thoughts only grew darker The world only seemed icier AND I WISHED I HAD STUCK TO FICTION.

How are you? I'm shattered, thanks, how are you? I walk aimlessly through the rooms of my house, what have you been up to? I have woken up in the middle of the last 240 nights in a heart-pounding sweat, what's new with you? I sometimes wish I would never wake up, have you been on vacation this year? I ache for the arms of my sweetheart to hold me tight, how's your family? I feel barren and useless and creepy and mundane, seen any good movies lately? I'm terrified that I'll feel this way forever, I like that sweater you're wearing. I keep seeing his body on the hospital gurney, don't you love this weather. My broken heart is in my throat, let's do lunch. I'm so completely and utterly tired of being sad, thanks, how are you?

The Working Song by Breton Braley Oh, we're sick to death of the style of song That's only a sort of a simpering song, A kissy song and a sissy song Or a weepy, creepy, whimpering song. So give us a lift of a lusty song, A boisterous, bubbling, boiling song, Or a smashing song and a dashing song, Oh, give us the tang of a toiling song, The chanty loud of the working crowd, The thunderous thrall of a toiling song! Ay, sing us a joyous daring song, Not a moaning, groaning, fretting song, But a ringing song, and a swinging song, A rigorous, vigorous, sweating song. We have had enough of the gypsy song, Which is only a lazy, shirking song, So toughen your throat to a rougher note And give us the tune of a working song, A tune of strife and the joy of life, The beat and throb of a working song!

Simonton finds that on average, creative geniuses weren’t qualitatively better in their fields than their peers. They simply produced a greater volume of work, which gave them more variation and a higher chance of originality. “The odds of producing an influential or successful idea,” Simonton notes, are “a positive function of the total number of ideas generated.” Consider Shakespeare: we’re most familiar with a small number of his classics, forgetting that in the span of two decades, he produced 37 plays and 154 sonnets. Simonton tracked the popularity of Shakespeare’s plays, measuring how often they’re performed and how widely they’re praised by experts and critics. In the same five-year window that Shakespeare produced three of his five most popular works—Macbeth, King Lear, and Othello—he also churned out the comparatively average Timon of Athens and All’s Well That Ends Well, both of which rank among the worst of his plays and have been consistently slammed for unpolished prose and incomplete plot and character development. In every field, even the most eminent creators typically produce a large quantity of work that’s technically sound but considered unremarkable by experts and audiences. When the London Philharmonic Orchestra chose the 50 greatest pieces of classical music, the list included six pieces by Mozart, five by Beethoven, and three by Bach. To generate a handful of masterworks, Mozart composed more than 600 pieces before his death at thirty-five, Beethoven produced 650 in his lifetime, and Bach wrote over a thousand. In a study of over 15,000 classical music compositions, the more pieces a composer produced in a given five-year window, the greater the spike in the odds of a hit. Picasso’s oeuvre includes more than 1,800 paintings, 1,200 sculptures, 2,800 ceramics, and 12,000 drawings, not to mention prints, rugs, and tapestries—only a fraction of which have garnered acclaim. In poetry, when we recite Maya Angelou’s classic poem “Still I Rise,” we tend to forget that she wrote 165 others; we remember her moving memoir I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and pay less attention to her other 6 autobiographies. In science, Einstein wrote papers on general and special relativity that transformed physics, but many of his 248 publications had minimal impact. If you want to be original, “the most important possible thing you could do,” says Ira Glass, the producer of This American Life and the podcast Serial, “is do a lot of work. Do a huge volume of work.” Across fields, Simonton reports that the most prolific people not only have the highest originality; they also generate their most original output during the periods in which they produce the largest volume.* Between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, Edison pioneered the lightbulb, the phonograph, and the carbon telephone. But during that period, he filed well over one hundred patents for other inventions as diverse as stencil pens, a fruit preservation technique, and a way of using magnets to mine iron ore—and designed a creepy talking doll. “Those periods in which the most minor products appear tend to be the same periods in which the most major works appear,” Simonton notes. Edison’s “1,093 patents notwithstanding, the number of truly superlative creative achievements can probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.

Nate laughs. “Even if I read you some love poetry? Would you still refuse a kiss?

There is dancing and laughter in hell, an angel weeping openly on a park bench in heaven. My mother, dead and frantic in an attic. A white shirt on a floor. An old man in a wheelchair, rubbing his eyes. Here it is, here it is! the occupational therapists sing as they rise to the surface of the earth, smiling, bearing their terrible surprise.

And the box inside him in which his mother resides is velvet and black and without size.

I tilt my head back and rest it against the wall. “‘The colors and the lights that glow, / the music and the masks. / The people swaying to and fro / in the enchanted dance.’” My words trail off as I consider something: I’m sitting in a dark, cold corner in the bum end of my enemy’s home reciting poetry. What is wrong with me?

Rebecca Gleeson (an everyday schoolgirl on her way to school on the Monday morning eight o’clock train.) The Kingdom of Nought is a time tale legacy: accompanying her on the train Rebecca’s arch nemeses Rona Chadwick, the school bully. Rebecca a fan of poetry and fairy tales. “Tales of kindness and friendship.” She would say to herself. Rebecca was a reader of wonderful books that have a cult following. Unknown to Rebecca far away at the start of the universe dark and evil forces start to unbalance the natural order of day and night, good and evil. Weird things begin to happen as both Rebecca and Rona are transported back in time to The Kingdom of Nought to reinstate the benevolent balance within the kingdom. The adventure for the schoolgirls starts out strange and gets stranger, in the best way possible. Their meeting with the witch Sycorax is as creepy and evocative as you’d hope. The story combines mathematical realism with fantasy, blurring the edges in a way that high-lights that place where stories and real life convene, where magic contains truth. As you open the book and turn the pages you enter a strange place out-side time with amazing creatures and spectacular landscapes. An extremely addictive story that will take you to a magical place with a most unusual conclusion.

Scenes from the Playroom Now Lucy with her family of dolls Disfigures Mother with an emery board, While Charles, with match and rubbing alcohol, Readies the struggling cat, for Chuck is bored. The young ones pour more ink into the water Through which the latest goldfish gamely swims, Laughing, pointing at naked, neutered Father. The toy chest is a Buchenwald of limbs. Mother is so lovely; Father, so late. The cook is off, yet dinner must go on With onions as her only cause for tears She hacks the red meat from the slippery bone, Setting the table, where the children wait, Her grinning babies, clean behind the ears.

DYING IS NOT HOT By Celia the Dark Cool is no longer cool because cool is now hot, and school isn't school if you are skipping. Then the neighborhood is school and John, the creepy dropout guy is teaching. And it isn't cool because the cool kids stay in school, where the other cool kids tell them them how hot they are and they wouldn't want to miss a dance for cutting. Kids who skip school were never cool or hot but already dumped into the trashcan with leftover lunch pizza, bruised into a locker, asking their parents for extra lunch money so they can smoke and act like they never cared anyway. And skipping school's not cool but it is school because that's where they learn what the uncool learn about life and dying.

And these things were never so precious Listen to the bird in its cage as it speaks In a dying man's voice; when he is gone The voice lives to greet and give empty Assurances with random poignancy I do not know if I could live with that If I could armor myself as the unhuman beak Opens to a dead man's reminder, head cocked As if channeling the ghost of the one Who imagines an absence of sense, a vacuum awaiting The cage is barred and nightly falls the shroud To silene the commentary of impossible apostles Spirit godlings and spanning abyss, impenetrable cloud Between the living and the dead, the here and the gone Where no bridge can smooth the passage of pain And these things were never so precious Listening to the bird as it speaks and it speaks And it speaks, the one who has faded away The father departed knowing the unknown And it speaks and it speaks and it speaks In my father's voice Caged Bird Fisher kel Tath

What are these things that draw toward us, these visitors that hide among us