Tag Archives: Horror Poetry



When I look in the mirror lasting, I see a landscape,

Where death has not walked and sanity leaves no footprint.

Stars cut the mountains and the horizon bleeds.

So shines the mirror lasting,

Through which the dark things feed.




Sometimes I have to pull back my hair
And open that little trapdoor in my head
The one with the stairs
That go way down
Into very dark places



I’d like to upload a version where the poem is a series of letters clipped from a magazine, but for now:


dId yOu GeT my NotES?
i knOW wHIch wiNDow doESn’T lOCk.

You cAN’T see me.
But I’M waiting.
Tonight is about MOre tHAn WaitinG.

i wANt yOu
to bE my PreTtY roSE
HanGiNG frOm my WaLL
sO I cAN kEEp yOu
And CouNt your breAtHs
AnD fill your hEAd witH
MY voiCes–

aRe yoU thINKing about ME?
I’M thINkinG abOUt yoU.
i aLWayS Do.

I hAVe thE ROSeS HE sENT you,
AnD i prY anD pLUck AnD CounT–
oNe pEtaL saYS “i LOvE YoU.”
TwO: “yOu are mInE, NOT hiS.”
ThrEE:”i’ll MaKE yoU SO speciAL.”

YoU stILL cAN’t SEE me?

yEs, tHAt niGHtshiRT is MY favorite,
It’S liKE yoU cAN rEAd my MIND.

aND tHen yoU TurN oUt the lIghT.
You WaNT thiS aS MUch as I do.
I caN TeLL.

yoU aRE MY preTtY liTTle rose.
WhEn I looK at YoU, I knoW i’LL never bE alOnE.
AnD after tonight, neitHer wiLL yOu.



This is a poem that I wrote sometime ago and published.  The poem stuck into my head and I ended up writing a novel, Lott’s Mountain,  in which the secrets of 210 Carver street are revealed.   Check out the poem and the book, too, once it’s released:


There’s a house at the end of Carver Street–
All broken windows and boarded-up doors.
An old, rusted van sulks in the driveway,
With its small, black windows all covered in tape,
To hide things.

There’s a chimney on the house at the end of Carver Street–
A few of the bricks have fallen out,
So that it looks like it’s smiling through rotten teeth;
But the backyard is nice and has lots of trees and little white flowers,
And bones sticking up through the grass.

It’s not like all the other houses;
No, something lives in that house–
It creeps behind the curtains,
Remembering and watching,
And it’s lonely.

They get worse after dark–the noises–
Because the little white fence can’t keep them in,
Not the crying,
Not the whispers,
Not the cutting sounds.

We all remember Carver Street,
And that house.

Yes, we’ve all been there before–
Down the rotten stairs,
Through the cobwebs with the fat, black spiders,
In the very, very dark room in the basement,
With all of the knives and sharp things.

And in the backyard.

We all know that house at the end of Carver Street,
Because we’re the ones who have never left.