Poetry

Libary of the Dead.

Mayhem encompassing the books.
Not of autobiographies but haunted worlds living in a room full of nightmares.
Each one is of another world.
Some with suicide, some with homicide.
Empty people with a thirst for gore.
Hideous scenes that only a psycho could appreciate.
Story for the mentally disturbed.
Written in pen ink the story of serial killers and rapists slowly come alive.
Hidden in a asylum the people come alive talking about their savior.
Nothing holy about these stories.
There is no god in these stories and no one makes it out alive.
What kind of hell is this?
I see the people dying and the sane bowing down to the devil pretending to love the the darkness.
Not fools but just scared to die for there is too many bodies hanging from this ceiling already.
We ain't victims anymore for I have strung more people up then I should be able to say for maybe I am the monster.
Trading in pieces of my soul for a life of sin.
People wonder why we stay.
Call us crazy for staying and honestly they aren't wrong but we drown in this blood.
We are created every time the leader asks if we can destroy another life.
If you get out of here you won't make it.
It's already written into your bones.
You are now just a puppet playing your part in the story.
In a room full of books you have soaked in every word and you shall never die as long as your written in ink.
The time passes and I finally leave.
5 minutes staring off into this beautiful view and I start to drip.
All that is left is a pile of ink and my book.
Another reason for this room to ache.
Welcome to the library of the dead.