This place is full of ghosts.
They exist in the gloomy light of
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.
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.
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?
One that isn’t failure, I mean.
Or maybe just a cup of tea-
I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
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.
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?
We’re catching comas to
Taking pills when we’re
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?
I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist,
But the rest of us just see it as graffiti;
Walls and walls of words
Hell-bent on ruining everything
You spent your life building.
Burn it to the ground,
Something or other will rise in its place.
Bend Hell into whatever shape you wish;
It will reform sooner or later.
There’s no need to throw
Your concern around like
A balloon in the wind,
Just constantly wafting around my
I would not be so vain
To write everything about me;
And I would not be so
To only take inspiration from
That which is closest to me.
Clocks can tick away the days
but we’ll be too busy
laughing away our years
to watch the time.
It can try to threaten us with an ending,
but we know
it will be happily ever after.
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,
Feel free to make it harder-
Oh, cruel world-
Happiness will only make it worse.
I can see clouds in the sky…
They’re shaped like me and you;
Frayed around the edges
and slowly drifting apart.
Someone else mentioned they’d
Read my poem today.
It made me happy that they’d taken
The time to do so.
They did not tell me what they thought-
Not even a simple compliment.
They asked me if I was ok