Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Oh Grim Reaper thou art a heartless B*tch!

Why? Because He or She is the personification of death. The Grim Reaper has many other names to which it called by, many of which I am sure you recognize: Angel of Death, Death, Devil of Death and from the bible Angel of dark and light. The job of the Grim Reaper is to take the souls of people whose time on earth has come to an end and to guide these souls from this world onto the next.

Now most people say I shouldn’t hate or be afraid of the Grim Reaper because he isn’t a bad guy at all. I guess I can see why they would say that because technically without him/her there wouldn’t be anyone to help guide us through the dying process and thus without an entity to guide us to the “next world” there would be a lot of lost souls unable to move on. I get it! I really do BUT how do you expect me to not be afraid of an entity that is a skeleton who wears a long black hooded cloak that covers most of his body, carries an hourglass around that counts down how many days and hours I have left on this earth and to put the bloody cherry on the cake he walks around with a HUGE scythe which he uses to harvest dead people’s souls, I mean really does he really need that big of a weapon?

So why do I call him/her a heartless b*tch? Because once that hourglass shows that your time is up THAT’S IT he is taking your life and you have no control over it, yep there aint no flash-backs of your life, R.Kelly doesn’t come out and sing you no song, you are just GONE and with the use of a scythe which seems like a violent way to leave this earth.

Now below are some stories that I came across about people who died after supposedly having encounters with the Grim Reaper and after reading some of them I realized that the Reaper is pretty devious in some of the ways that he takes these people’s lives but read it and decide for yourself:

Martin Raines was attending a twenty-first birthday party held by his brother in a house in Aurora, Illinois, USA. Martin was in the rear garden with his girlfriend, a colleague from work and two members of a local rock band. As they all talked together, Martin heard someone call out his name. Turning, he saw to figures standing in the shade of some bushes at the end of the garden. One of them he recognized as Jack Crawford, an old school-friend, remembered as a practical joker. The other was seemingly just a black silhouette in the evening gloom, around six feet five. Despite Crawford's joking personality, he wore a somber look on his face. By now, Martin's girlfriend and the two band members had also noticed the two figures at the end of the garden. Martin attempted to communicate with his old friend, asking him is he was gate-crashing the party. Instead of answering, Jack Crawford raised his hand and called "Goodbye, Martin", before fading away, along with the dark shadowy stranger. Martin and the other on-lookers walked to the end of the garden, but found no means by which Jack and his mysterious companion could have exited. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall on all three sides. However, one thing they did notice was a smell of gas, which could not be explicated. It remained for around fifteen minutes after the incident, before finally disbursing. Martin was later that night informed by a friend that Crawford had been found dead in his home, after committing suicide. He had apparently gassed himself to death in an oven.
In October of 1967, a good-looking young woman named Christine got a job as a secretary with the Life Assurance Company based in London. On her first day at work, a co-worker called Jack asked her if he could take her out, but she politely declines, replying that she was saving herself for somebody else. When quizzed by Jack as to the identity of this lucky person, she confessed that she didn't really know who he was, only that he was a tall, dark, handsome young man whom she was seen in the street regularly, and that he always smiled at her. A week later, a letter arrived at the office addressed to Christine. A man had apparently handed it in at the reception desk on the ground floor and requested that it be passed on to her. The letter read as follows:
Dear Christine, our paths have finally met. Please meet me on the corner of Regent Street off Piccadilly Circus, near the Taxi-rank at 5:30.

The letter was signed: Tall, dark and handsome.
That evening before leaving the office, Christine went to the toilets and put on lipstick and eye-shadow, before leaving with the other staff. She went alone to the appointed meeting place. As she stood, she spotted Frank, her manager, watching her from the corner. When she asked him what he was doing, he explained that he was concerned for her safety, in case the man she was meeting wanted to hurt her. She told him that he would be okay on his own, and that he could leave, which he did. At 5:30pm, Christine was found dead at the taxi-rank. According to witnesses, she collapsed "like a rag-doll" and died almost instantly. The coroner gave cause of death as heart-failure, unusual, as Christine had never suffered from heart problems.
Mozart, a man so talented that he wrote a piano concerto aged 4, was sat in his home one evening in 1791, when he heard a knock at his door. When he opened it a tall man clad in black robes with white skin and black eyes entered, and requested that the musician compose a requiem for the late Count Walsegg. Mozart agreed, and the stranger smiled and left, after pointing his long finger at the composer. Mozart walked to the window to see the man leave, but his long garden path was empty. Mozart became convinced that he had just met Death, and confided in his closest friends that he felt like the requiem he was composing was for his own funeral. Days later, Mozart caught typhus and died. The piece he composed Requiem Mass, was played at his funeral.

There are many many more stories like the ones mentioned above but one will never know if they are really true. Whether the Grim Reaper truly does exist or if he is just a figment the human imagination one will never know until we meet our end.

Love, Peace and bloody-coated hugs

Horror Poems

Because I could not stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – 
He kindly stopped for me – 
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring – 
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 
We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 
The Dews drew quivering and chill – 
For only Gossamer, my Gown – 
My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground – 
The Roof was scarcely visible – 
The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –