poetry

Pleasantly Haunting

This place is full of ghosts.

They exist in the gloomy light of

Corpse-coloured candles

In those dark cottage walls,

Lingering with a ghoulish fondness.

I find myself drawn to remain also.

Perhaps these melancholy ruins offer

More than fear;

They invite somber reflections-

Reflections of the living as well as the dead-

And I find it pleasantly haunting

To explore the shadows

That hint at the brief spans of life

That may have walked these halls.

Although I worry our friends may have haunted too long;

Now they creak and moan at the slightest breathe

Across the stairs;

Wail and whine at the smallest strain.

You see,

These quiet graves are full of noise;

Full of grave suggestion

That perhaps we cannot die.

We’re fated to pace these cold floors forever-

Bound by footprints left in dust;

Tied to ballads about lives we can no longer mind

But the world decided to remember.

On Writing · poetry

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

Does the storyteller aways have a

Spirit in hand,

Alone in the dark

While spinning his tale?

Or can it be a wish?

Maybe a child?

A lover?

A hope?

A thought?

A feeling?

One that isn’t failure, I mean.

Or maybe just a cup of tea-

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

poetry

The Mad Creator

The Mad Creator

Mixing poetry and madness

In petri dishes made of cardboard

Searching for the perfect drink:

Make him drunk,

But not so he cannot write;

Make him numb,

But not so he cannot remember his dealings.

Make him learn to fly,

So he can learn to live like angels

To play God on paper,

But from the comfort of a desk;

From the comfort of a window,

Looking out at test subjects

Known as people,

Who know his name but not his face.

Not today’s face anyway.

poetry

We’re picking stitches out of the floor

We’re picking stitches out of the floor…

Are normal people ever this bored?

To the point of self-destruction

In order to feel some direction?

News flash:

We’re catching comas to

Feel alive;

Taking pills when we’re

Already addicted.

Of course we feel the sting of promises

Beneath our skin,

We’re suns just waiting to happen;

Hearts just waiting to break.

Or have you forgotten the power of now?

On Writing · poetry

oh, honey

Oh, honey,

There’s no need to throw

Your concern around like

A balloon in the wind,

Just constantly wafting around my

head.

I’m fine!

I would not be so vain

To write everything about me;

And I would not be so

Un-artful

To only take inspiration from

That which is closest to me.

On Writing · poetry

yes, this one’s sarcasm too

Excuse me,

but the sun is sinking and

I must bid you farewell

And crawl back into my cave

Of parchment and torment;

The walls are covered in the

Graffiti of my innermost

Desires and regrets,

And every night I lie surrounded,

Reading and re-reading

Every terrible line,

Every spelling mistake

And bad punctuation.

It’s a hard life

Being a poet,

But please,

Feel free to make it harder-

Oh, cruel world-

Happiness will only make it worse.