I hate it all.
This room. That light.
This smoke,
That bong toke.

I hate it all
I hate the walls.
My walls
Your walls
The white walls.
I hate it all.
I hate you.
Me, you too

I hate you.
I hate it all.
I hate the silence
The darkness
This hatred.
I hate everything.

There is nothing.
No. One. Thing.
That makes me happy.
I hate it all.

The anger is tearing me up
From the inside out.
Im tired of screaming.
To no one.
But myself,
And shitty nicotine stained walls.
I hate it all.

Ron bergquist


Halloween Special

The images flicker like t.v,
Static images; bad dreams, faded memories,
Comercial; you need to buy this!
Do it for your kids!
(Who may die)

The images fire like neurons,
Connecting every fiber of negativity to life,
Instantly flashing images I wish not to see;
Morbid flickers, like a horror movie.
(The dead live)

Son wants to be a zombie,
Daughters dressed as a witch;
It was all fun and games until it became a reality,
Daughter’s practicing spells, son’s mutilating.
(They’re already dying)

Lets laugh and run and chase candy!
Until were to tired to walk; to tired to try –
Till our nightmares are wicked fancies
That haunt us to the bitter end.

Ron Bergquist

Rocking Chair

On a cold Octobers night,
Under a starless sky,
On an old balcony,
Rocks a rocking chair.

It creaks and groans
old dry wood, rhythmic metronome,
A man was murdered in this chair,
Blank stare, as he rocked and rocked…

Every minuit of every hour of everyday,
Spent quiet, little to say, rocking away,
Till the rocking slowed and his last thoughts,
Of the past, trickled down around his neck
and strangled him.

Ron bergquist

Halloweens, past.

Halloween treats and memories, we walked the streets,
Dressed up as our fantasies and nightmares;
Well face our fears and pretend were not scared; trick or treat.
Oh, if only I was a kid again, I could pretend im not scared.

Ghosts exist in my mind all the time,
Its, always Halloween for me,
I am stirred by images, I was force to find;
Flickers of death, I wish not to see.

What was can not ever be, my brother, friend, room mate.
Fate severed us, shinigami nibbled you all to death.
Life is frightening, pondering, what is and what is not fate.
Its hard to see whats left; imagining their last breaths….

Oh but if we were kids again…
When fear existed only in our imagination.

Ron bergquist

That night

The fog came as i walked through a forest in the evening…

The moon illumated the fog, as the sun faded on the horizon.

My steps, taken slow and catious, this is the land of evil beings.

My eyes adjust and i can see the mourned, dead and freezing.

Death leaves no beautiful corpses,

Death taints the living,

My nightmares ride headless horses,

My broken bones are laughing.

I walk a moonlit, fogged, forrest, ridden with corpses,

From a beam swings my roomate, as he whispers, “are you happy”

I am in a hellish nightmare, i thought time would fade these images.

Just when i think im fine i see something that makes me wonder “how can this be!”

I walk past a river, floating by is my brother,

Head smashed in, hes lifless and stiff.

Still he turns to face me, smiles; says “remember, youre like no other”

I fall at waters edge and scream in pain “isnt life more than this!!!!”

All the voices, rising, murmuring something i cant hear,

Im cold and frightened, sweating, wondering;

How long must one walk through hell to conqure fear?

All the voices, rise, louder and louder! I know what they’re saying…

Weak, i walk further, into a sickening nightmare.

Fog slowly revealng my next fright.

David, swinging from a tree, frowning at me, with a blank stare,

His eyes roll back, as he gasps “you should have been here that night”

They all say the same….

I should have been there…

The voices i cant tame…

This is. … my nightmare.

Ron Bergquist

October 2014


My muse – he died. He drank himself to death.
Autopsy said, he did a lot of drugs; had sadness in his head.
He was found pale and cold, eyes dilated, booze on his breath.
His corpse covered in crumpled paper, he died, writing of the dead.

Cut me open, blood and guts, can you see more than skin deep?
Disembowl me, can you see the forest for the trees?
Pull my intestines out, do my guts tell secretes you coudn‘t keep?
Scour my remains, and try to set yourself free.

Know my muse died alone, screaming to the empty silence.
The wrath of loneliness,  drove him to insanity.
I listened to him argue with himself, as he tried to hide his violence.
He spoke to the mirror, and said “media, its all vanity”

Cut me into pieces, bake my heart and brain in a pie;
Eat it thankfully with a grin,
Close your eyes, taste and savour all my lies.
I  smile as you eat my fat, you were looking thin.

Ron bergquist
October 2014