Nevermore

Ghastly ghosts roam through my mind, but it’s not so bad, I find.
Inspiration’s given me spectral ideology.
Cemeteries, crumbling crypts; skinless faces lacking lips
smile in most peculiar ways, gruesome grins are on display.

 
Ancient bone yards, old and worn, weathered corpses, frail, forlorn.
Stoic sockets, vacant stares—open coffins, midnight scares.
Old typewriter's keeping beat, rend’ring horrors, bloody sweet!
Murmurs of the walking dead, churning, yearning, fill my head.

Here now is my true confession, terror is my one obsession.
That is where my passion lies—romance, love poems, I despise.
William Shakespeare, what a joke, bloated bard, a boastful bloke.
Don’t like horror, simply pass, no need to be cruel or crass.

Each of us has diff’rent likes, some like nails while others, spikes.
Poets pen poems of their faith, others write of woeful wraiths.
Write what sets your spirit free—you control your destiny.
Naysayers are such a bore, quoth the poet—"Nevermore!"