Note: this poem can be read by itself, but I wrote it as part of my fic Soulless. The idea is that Spike wrote it for Dru at the end of the fifties, after being influenced artistically by the beat poets. (if you're scratching your head, look up Allen Ginsberg, seriously, do it). Also, it makes logical sense to me that every writer starts out writing crap; which explains William's shitty poetry during life: he'd only just started. With a vampire's lifetime to practice, it makes sense his style would evolve. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: I unfortunately own nothing of Buffy!
She is blood on my lips, eating my sticky birth,
Gave me fighting, dead heart beating violence feeding,
White fingers pulling me through decades, past fire bombs and air raids,
Sipping history from the necks of humanity's victims,
Don't have to do a thing, just drink it in,
Sin's so smooth going down,
Alive 'cause she put me to ground,
Baptism of wet earth freeing me from Victoria's stays
We laid waste to crinoline and lace
Just to taste greatness,
No restraint, or faintness of heart,
With her I'm all bad, yeah,
Creature of the night and all that jazz,
As black as she wants me to be,
it's so easy
to kill, all the people lined up before church steeples on Sunday,
heads aching, full from lust making, trust breaking, hypocrisy,
practicing what I preach, just to shriek and plead innocence before I drink
her name is deliverance,
and she speaks in broken verse, and I think she sinks
her teeth into me every time I forget not to breathe,
and she sees me oh-so-twisted,
and really, did I come back all dead?
Or did something stick with me?
