Darkpoetry Stories

In the mountain kingdoms, where church bells ring against the snow and old forests whisper with things older than God, monsters are only meant to exist in peasant tales. Caius never believed in them. A devout man of faith, raised beneath the shadow of the cross, Caius has spent his life believing every soul can be saved and every darkness can be cast out by prayer. But when blood is spilled beneath a dying kingdom and an ancient horror finds him, Caius is forced into a death that does not end. He wakes changed. Cold. Beautiful. Hungry. To complete his turning, he must drink human blood before the night is over - or rot from the inside and die forever. But the greater wound is not the hunger. It is the silence. For when Caius begs Heaven to save him, no answer comes. Now cursed as one of God's Abandoned, Caius is drawn into a hidden world of vampire bloodlines, wolf packs bound by sacred law, witches who bargain with costly magic, and royal families whose thrones are built on rituals darker than any monster's hunger. As kingdoms tremble beneath the weight of old gods and ancient curses, Caius must decide what remains of a holy man when faith has failed him. And if Heaven will not claim him... Perhaps blood will.

Poems about the body when it begins to fail, and the quiet loneliness that follows. A fragile vessel, holding what it can... until it cannot. A vessel of bone and silence, cracking beneath what cannot be seen. Here, the body fades before the soul is ready.

This is not an anthology about love. This is about what love becomes when it starts to consume you. This is a collection of poems that wander through obsession, heartbreak, trauma, and quiet survival. From soft devotion to violent longing, from silence to fire, each piece untangle what it means to feel unbearable in a world that asks you to feel less. Some wounds don't fade. They master how to speak.

"Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought your train moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy. Maybe it was the 60's. Or maybe I was just a girl... interrupted." This is a set of short poems for people who deal with their demons. This is not your typical poetry. If you expect happy rainbows and unicorns this is not for you. This is dedicated to people who deal with depression, suicidal thoughts, unhappy love, nonacceptance. This is for everyone who feel like black hole is slowly getting them . This is for people who feel insane. Who feel like there is no more hope for them. This is for people like me. This is Poetry, Interrupted.

A man burdened by invisible despair repeatedly rejects symbolic offers of escape or surrender while outwardly maintaining functionality and hope for others. As he gradually severs himself from identity, future, and attachment, his hidden deterioration culminates in a final silent existential agreement-the "forever deal"-whose true extent is only recognised after irreversible collapse.

These poems were written from a long journey through darkness and loneliness. It speaks in raw, honest and uncomfortable ways. For the one who still writes their way out of it, this is for you. 'Read it as your friend, but do not follow what it says.'

Can you love your corpse body when the flies choose you before people do? When moss crawls over your ribs like nature reclaiming what loneliness left behind? Can you still touch your ruined skin and whisper, you're pretty, without choking on the lie? Can you kiss the mouth that never smiled correctly enough for the world to keep? Because people love the public version. The romantic self. The soft voice. The carefully stitched personality perfumed to survive attention. They love the body before decay. Before truth. Before the rot starts speaking. But the real question is this: Can you love yourself when there is nothing beautiful left to perform? When your ugliness is exposed like organs split open under fluorescent light. When your darkness smells too human for anyone else to hold. Can you still call yourself worthy when even your reflection looks haunted by you? Or will you wait for strangers to approve the mask first before learning how to love the corpse underneath it? Humans spend their whole lives decorating coffins and calling it self-worth.

Poetry dug from my trash bin. ----- © 2026 J. Lee Kennedy. All rights reserved. Cover design © 2026 J. Lee Kennedy. Images used in this work belong to their respective copyright holders and are used under license or in accordance with applicable Creative Commons terms. Edited or altered images are copyrighted by the author in their final form.

Des poèmes, des chansons Des petites parties de moi. Un recueil d'appels d'une âme en détresse.

A continuation of my poetry.

A collection of poems and spoken word articles touching on real life issues..

A poem about getting too much into art and your passion and getting obsessed that it consumes you.

A book of poetry I wrote, was published on other things. Or it's stright up a call out / vent about someone. And typically those ones are obviously about someone.

Dark poetry of my thoughts, love and relationships. this poetry belongs to me, but none of the art belongs to me. do not edit, copy, or repost my work.

A dark, haunting poem about survival, uncertainty, and the silent struggle of staying afloat when life pulls you under. The Path explores isolation, fear, and the fragile line between coping and escaping.

For you who do not know who I am truly I am greatful and for those who do know me it makes no difference for all who have been born I have dwelled with them who have made me ever so glad. While all have live in misery and meaningless experiences of happiness my days have been ever so rejoiceful seeing that all have given birth to me; that even though some wish to avoid me they return at some point unto me again.

This is personal writing. Not a debate. Not a discussion. Not open to fixing. Read if you want. Leave quietly if you don't.

A spoken-word series about boys growing into expectations, fathers passing down truths, and the strange silence that lives at 30,000 feet. This flight is only just beginning.

'You want to live? Fine. Just don't expect me to live too...'