Poetry is something I have always enjoyed reading but have never had the mind to absorb all the ins and outs of actually writing it. So I have always tried my best absorb the styles of other poets. As you will no doubt tell, I have picked up Poe’s rhyming style from ‘The Raven’ whilst writing ‘Noises at the Door’. I don’t think I will write much poetry, due to the above-mentioned reason (not having the mind for it). Whether it’s good or bad, I at least enjoyed putting it down.
Please be advised; the following is of a dark nature and is also a tad long (9 stanzas).
Noises at the Door
An instance from my past is one that I am most frequently asked
From a time when many called me ill and thought me curable by miracle pills
Salves, ointments and prayer, or positive thought, psychics and sooth sayers
Now they say I’m sick, toxic or impure- most assuredly there is no cure
It was not sickness; I was not unwell- merely living within my own personal hell
Goaded each day and each night, watched by my tormentors in the pale moonlight
‘You!’ I would call out, certain that they would not reply to my shouts
‘Be gone and leave this place,’ I would say
This I would say most every day
In the bushes they would wait until the hour grew late
Then they would come tapping, tapping upon my walls
Rapping upon my walls and banging upon my doors
The police did not care; they would wave it off and say that nobody was there
But I knew what was there, prancing out of reach without a care
Sullying everything that they saw and thrashing their fists upon my door
In the darkness I would hear them; I would keep inside and fear them
Friends who came to stay would often be heard to say
‘There is nothing here of that I am sure. Nothing is thrashing upon your door,
No voices are bellowing or calling out; there truly is no mortal man about,’
But I knew what was there, even if I was the only one to care.
The voices were many, they were shrill and they were deep
Through the darkness they would call, through the darkness they would seep
A cacophony truly like no other that would not fade even if my head I did smother
My eyes grew red and inflamed as with every night my tolerance was strained
Sleep was not an easy thing for me, not whilst they were out there running free
Not whilst they were out there, the din truly coming through the floor
That of their screams and their thrashing upon my door
Their rapping, tapping and hammering upon my door.
As the sole defender of my home, I was forced to tackle this threat alone
Their own actions I chose to copy, hiding as I did amongst roses and poppies
In my hands I had a silver candle stick, blunt and heavy so that it might be quick
Although there was murder in my eyes, murder for those which I had come to despise
The thought of bloodshed I did not relish, hellish indeed was the path ahead
As I contemplated striking a man until he was stone dead
But when it was done I could sleep once more,
Without the ghostly voices or the rapping upon my door
The tapping, banging and thrashings upon my door.
After hours of waiting at last one of them I saw,
Skipping on by, not once looking at my door
Despite the trespasser’s lack of interest, I simply could not ignore his previous jests
I sprung from the bushes with a feral howl, intent on hunting this hoodlum down
The weight of my charge forced him to the ground,
No hope was there of stopping, I was far too tightly wound
I cast aside the stick without a second thought
There simply was no need what with the advantage my charge had bought
I took the intruder and dragged him firmly by the head
And bashed his brains out against my door until he was stone dead
‘Ha!’ I cried, ‘Your head will be the last thing to pummel my door
Never again will you cause me to suffer. Never again, nevermore!’
I turned the body over, grinning wildly with glee
My stomach turned and my smile died with the sight that I did see
How was it that I did not check whom it was that I had dragged by the neck?
It was but a child and nothing more
But a child whose tiny fists could not have thrashed so at my door.
But a child whose mother I did so adore
But a child who would smile again no more.
Even as I talk to you now confined within this cell
I find no peace and am not spared the voices of my own personal hell
They are with me still to this very day,
Uncaring of my wishes, listening to not a word that I say
If only they would, for there is but one thing that I implore,
That they would kindly stop thrashing upon my door.