Ghosts of things I’ve written in the past 2009

Ghosts of things I’ve written in the past

*Get Out*

I walk the road
that only sinners tread
sidelong glances
and muffled snickers
reeling from blows
and invisible monsters
while jack ain’t nimble
and wasn’t too quick
when he got burned
rolling down the hill
jill breaks her neck
while he only tumbles
somewhere behind her

get out, get out
storm clouds gather
lightning strikes twice
get out, get out
before you hear
the whispered shriek
of my heart

I walk the road
a lonely, broken highway
nobody waits
at the end to greet me
solitude swallowing
and silence deafens
where we ring around
things not so rosy
but somehow we still
all fall down
pockmarked and scarred
rising from the ashes
not so happily ever after

Fairy tales
and other lies
somewhere, inside
a baby cries
the pied piper takes all
and the city is left empty
with no one to mourn
or remember when
it used to be magic

get out, get out
another ghastly reminder
lightning strikes twice
get out, get out
before you hear
that awful shriek
of what was my heart

*poetry of sorts, i guess*

I cut my hand on the jagged stone called “regret”
and bled a river that ran down my arms and legs
smeared a pathway on the floor, so that I’d know
where I began and where it all ended-
A thousand times I tried to breathe again
gasping and grasping nothingness and sorrow
blindly trying to fit the bloody puzzle pieces
into a somewhat contorted sense of normalcy
where jagged stones line small creeks flowing
with the red, fetid water that comes from my veins
and emotions are damned up, only to waterfall
-oh so prettily-
over the tops of my fragile consciousness
Yea, I sliced through my soul on that blasted rock
that tortuous thing made up of guilt and pain
while riding out the waves that engulf my being
and hopefully, shall bring me back home again.

*Royal Longings or the Sad Tale of Frog Princes *

like a frog or
raging toad
with squishy face and fingers,
playing at being princes
wearing the crown of jewels, tilted head
and searching tongue’d
to drink nectar instead of the crawlies
he should be fed
croaking in outrage when he cannot quench
his avaricious hunger
and his royal longings, groping for humanity
and still falling short of his lily pad

*Dusty Boxes*

god, the boxes in our minds
brought down from their shelves, all dusty
and opened again for the first time
the stuff long forgotten, still fresh and new
as the day we left them there-
gasping breaths of heart’s flutters
the dust rises and disappears
with each remembrance
a sweet, fuzzy-soft memory
of youth’s freshness and wonder
while we become dusty
and slightly crinkled about the edges
as time marches on
and our minds turn backwards
to open all the boxes
and savor the sweetness left inside.

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