Is It Poetry
The Slender Man
To all my children
to my many liars in wait whom against me conspire.
She is gone and yea he has come in from the woods without face.
From his heart from the depths where its dark.
She was taken from you not long before dawn
high up above below the bright moon.
Empty beds cloudless night's, teeth filled mouths.
Bleeding a rose left wrapped around is gone come the morn.
At one point I should stop, why go on
the only thing left was a book filled with scraps of their dreams.
In his hard grip through each cave winds a red narrow stream.
Girls that are bad, boys that won't play
death feels like moist cotton open young eyes closed to threats.
Blank faces can't scream but yours can.
Painted purple walls all but white stay dark through the night.
Into my bedroom it came yesterday, tomorrow will never come.
The slender man is to some what she needs not.
Dark tall trees hanging down right side up from the top.
Flowers that smell inside of your mind only when deep in sleep.
Other children hang dead from the tree.
I originally thought nothing about it.
Stabbing me not once but over and over and now, he's gone.
Forgotten not by he are the snakes some have need to speak of
in and out of the moss leaf filled bushes.
The tall man is dressed as you see him in shadows black.
Out the window he stands in the star light in the clearing.
My sister beneath lying on top as the dark clouds roll in at midnight.
Long are his arms they have room for the many snakes and words,
as sharp as his sight soft boneless and tight and the worms
where you died live on through your primative fear of the night.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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