It's for a contest. "Write the darkest poem you can."

Or in my case, as dark as I'm comfortable with. I could go darker. But it'd be super weird. -shot-

--

Stark
Painted ghosts adorn your walls,
and the eye of childhood fears,
and you fear. You fear.
And you don't wake, no,
not today.

Dark
vines tremble, cut and twine,
hands that shake, voices break
when dawn won't. Still
frames of screams and black
horse dreams in the deadmost
dead of night - horror story
footnotes on broken reels.
They scream off pitch against
pitch dark skies. They yell,
off key violins and broken records
in your ears, smile in the dustiest
corners of the deepest cuts they've
gouged out and still you see, hear.
Acceleration, volume. Bloodied vines.
Hearts and breaths faster. Hearts and breaths
on the brink of collapse. Your last halfhearted
tug before fingers go limp. Your last note
in the misty air.
You on the edge of the graveyard plank.
You, in the eyes of every one.