freedom can be bare feet
or naked
or laughter
freedom can be poetry

I am a ghost
I am not here
When the sun goes down below the hills
and when the dead leaves on the dead trees
rattle like snakes in the cool breeze
I appear

My tombstone is blank
No flowers
No tears
I am a ghost
I am not here

I will haunt you
Your dreams will be a horror show
screams from hell below
"No" you scream. "No"
Yell as you wish but I will not go

And the sun will become meaningless
Your eyes heavy but you mustn't sleep.
You mustn't .
Your thoughts are mine.
Mine.
Mine to keep.
Weep. Weep. Weep.


I am a ghost
I am your fear
I was once a man
Now I am not here

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by
And never knew.

-Shel Silverstein.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Katie sleeps alone
   her clothes are a Dolly-mixture
   riot of colour
on the bedroom floor
   pictures from years past
   splashed slipshod
on the walls  
   a medley of static flashes
   there’s half a glass
of a cloudy liquid nearby
   and her glasses
   decked in fingerprints
reflect morning light


Katie rolls over
   with eyes barely open
   as her phone spews out
a generic pop song
   and she groans
   and her hair
is a cream detonation
   on the pillow
   her mother is calling
Katie is running
   or rather snoozing late
   this is how it is she thinks
this is what I have become