I wrote this poem a while ago when I was feeling a bit down, a little depressed, and generally like a wimp. My awesomeness overcame that time period, and the poem lay forgotten for quite a while. I recently dug it up and was surprised at the effect it had on me. Here it is, to effect you as well.
Ten lost souls once boarded a boat.
Throwing life away for hopes to float.
Ten real people molested by society.
All ten turned to try out piracy.
They'd each lost all to greed, or law,
and what was coming, not one of them saw.
Away from the shore, aboard "The Reaping",
Eight awake whilst two were sleeping.
John the dreamer never rose,
Some even thought him comatose.
He'd cry all night, then sleep all day.
He hoped to dream his life away.
Beside of John, in the chamber's bed,
sweet old Mary lie awake with dread.
Without her crack and forever offshore,
but all she needed was a little more!
Her children now are in foster care,
All because mommy was never there.
Thomas Creed, a very evil breed,
upon small children he spread his seed.
He was a dealer of terror, tried and sworn,
In the Devil's grip, his soul was torn.
His wrists now sliced to reveal white bone,
His last wish was to die alone.
Knocked out beside Thomas, with a badly bruised head,
lay young Tommy Simmons, virginity shred.
A seed most evil, now planted deep,
will soon bring torment to Tommy's sleep.
"He'll be okay." They all will say,
and burn in hell on judgement day.
Old boy Steve was a drunken beast,
killing himself and caring the least.
His blood ran cold, a celtic soul,
a breed forgotten from times of old.
In a drunken stupor he jumped off ship,
and was later found frozen, with bottle to lip.
A dangerous boy whose name was unknown,
brandished a knife, so overboard was thrown.
By another lad, whose skin was fair,
yet his innocent eyes hid a deep despair.
He'd lost his love and at the world was mad,
he had thought her to be all that he had.
The priest, or so he had them all convinced,
had preached to Thomas to cut his wrists.
With the power of God he made his claim,
With a Satanic laugh he watched him slain.
He boarded the ship to find his God,
...But the ship's direction seemed overly odd.
A dirty politician, whose truth was not a thread,
was solely responsible for his army's dead.
They were so poor, so he cared not,
whether they were beaten, stabbed, or shot.
With wealth to be had, wealth he would rule,
He counted his money, the greedy old fool.
And who does happen to be captain on board?
What vile creature provides this tour offshore?
A body of hate, with eyes full of sorrow,
who cares not for what comes of tomorrow.
Not man, not beast, not even a mortal,
It holds the keys to hell's own portal.
Of nine passengers, six were remaining.
Three were dead, their souls now straining,
to warn the six who would try to survive,
of the Captain who even now connived.
Within him spun massive webs of hate,
To each on board, a sinister fate.
With these six tools, He'd end their lives,
tools more deadly than torturer's knives.
He'd find it ironic, and think it funny,
to witness them fall to his brilliant cunning.
After all, what was this ship for?
But to drop off evil, at Hell's own door.
--Written by Cory See, 10/18/09