The Devil's Skin

The Devil’s Skin

 
Oh, how I long to thrill the throngs with poetic flights of fancy.
To sing glad songs rebuking qualms my work’s a little chancey.
For me it seems that all my dreams are anything but happy.
The things I write may cause you fright—they're anything but sappy.

 
I feel inspired when you get wired o’er ghoulish, ghastly ghosts.
Or cringe with dread at what you’ve read, so frightened by my posts.
Romance is not the thing for me, it doesn’t make me quiver.
I’d rather write of things that bite, eliciting a shiver.

 
Zombies, cool, but they don’t rule this poet’s morbid muse.
Vampires, nor goons for hire, can light his frightening fuse.
No gore or blood will bring the flood of horrid inspiration.
It’s darker, deeper eerie creeps that cause me perspiration.

Like those who lurk, a wicked smirk, slashed smug across foul faces.
While they display a fond foray for those much darker places.
Near schoolhouse yards, they play their cards with careful calculation
to hurt a child who's been beguiled—a pervert’s fascination.

 
Foul fiendish freaks, sad twisted geeks, whose mental masturbation
drives fantasies of sex with kids, the crux of their frustration.
“Let’s help them out,” the pious shout, “they’re worthy of forgiveness.”
Would they be proud to shout as loud if their child got the “business”?

 
Monsters reside deep inside of very horrid hosts.
Sick in the head, inciting dread— they scare us all the most.
Frightening fiends who, it would seem, are shun of every sin.
Yet they’re the worst, the very first, to don the Devil's Skin.