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Zywa Oct 2023
I like the attic,

sitting in the armchair, in --

front of the window.
Novel "De eeuwige jachtvelden" (1995, "The happy hunting grounds", 1999 Nanne Tepper), End (Fourth book)

Collection "Within the walls"
We played game in the attic
Forever avoiding the basement
We were always happiest
Believing that we were above everyone else
how arrogant we were
Radhika Krishna Oct 2020
The door in the attic is peculiar
Sometimes I am lucky enough to find it cold
And I will stumble inside and fall
Far away from here
It's like a dream, a new life
You must look around and above you
And then you will see it
Above, up there, high, far away
There it was, I saw the hole
Through my fluttering eyelids it was always grey
But when I say so
Mother starts to weep uncontrollably
From here I can only sit and watch and ponder
Where it starts and where it ends
And if there is a castle of wonder
I'd like to see it one day
Even if I am old and empty
And I have lived forever
Even if I am all bones and dust and dead
But I'm still alive and my pulse is fascinating
I stand up and run, maybe if I run fast enough
I will start to fly
Yet all that comes of it is a dizzy heart and burning eyes
Sometimes, the Big Grey will ask me,
"What are you searching for?"
I don't know yet, I just want to see past the shadow
What is it like, where dreams are told,
Where dreams are sold?
On the days that she sits me down
And tells me what's real and what's not real
I wish I could give Mother a dream too
Because the lines on her face make her look so tired
And that's when they start fluttering again
Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.
When will I know what dreams are like?
Isabella Howard Sep 2020
Trains pass by
Hiding bombs
Waiting to kiss the sky
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.

Another pill passing lips
From broken fingertips.
I wonder why my hands died
Before the rest of me could.

Empty monsters
Fill up attics
With my dead friends.

They walk past


Laughter and


Just as empty by the end
As they were at the start.

So far
Nobody good
Has mentioned
My dead hands.

The drunken ghosts
Whispering to walls
Still blame me
For your death.

And my beauty is blurred
By my dead hands.
And my chest is bruised
By your young death.

And my glass philosophy
Has begun to shatter
Under the light
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.
A more abstract poem inspired by my words page.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
in lamplight's hiss
I sat and watched the attic dust
dance under spotlights cast
by moonbeam
on a stage of memory
and forgetting
Isabella Howard Jun 2020
Death is a friend who caught my eye
Ten years and three months ago
Up in the attic
Hiding all alone.
When the monsters come and find me
They'll take me back home.

& Death is a friend
Kept closer than any.
He doesn't get angry
His eyes never leak
As he watches me paint lies
Over blue bruising cheeks.

Death is a friend
I'm falling in love with
As months crawl by
I'm gaining the courage
For that first final kiss.

I almost was brave
Ten months & three weeks ago
Driving alone down an old country road
Death in my passengers seat
My skin growing cold.

& Death is a friend
I'm more than halfway in love with
He was all I could see in your face
As you painted in bruises & blood
To put me in my place.

& I cried to the old brick road
I told all of my secrets
I told of all my pain.

Death is a friend
I fell madly in love with
Ten days and three hours ago
Hiding in that alley alone
Begging for death to take the rest of me.

Or some profound piece of me.

But Death is a friend
As cruel as he is kind
In moments of need
He is nearly impossible to find.

Ten hours & three minutes ago
I chose to make death mine.

After ten glasses of wine
These three bottles of pills have finally fogged my mind.

Here I lie
In the attic alone.
I've only got one cigarette left to go
Till the monsters will never find me again.
neth jones Oct 2019
Little shadow
         harked madam

a bird who wears her wings
only as wardrobe
  (though she dreams
   in fits
of infantasy)

  dusty in her bedroom
in trust to her headspace
      an attic dweller

    home school tutored
a burden to her wellspring
   and buried to her title

         feet behind the curtain
little shadow
         with the unclaimed
the name of


         A foe in the night
an aviary of the berserk :
          vocal nicker
and disputes at high frenzy
  lend from her garret

uneasy on the household
coughing up all of the family
  cussing from their berths

the awoken
shamble and mumble in the hallway
  move in a broken thread up to her attic
   they’ll crack open her privacy
     and find her fast out on the bedding

you can’t spell that to her ghost
        in Elizabeth’s sleep
    it’s sprung from its host

a living haunting
a messed up devotion
  expresses itself on the family
   enforces itself emotionally

the hallways are trailed
    with dried flowers
   and stinging nettles

don’t tread the halls at night
without a pair of slippers
K Balachandran Feb 2019
attic civet cats,
wake me up; in a day past.
time travel by chance!
V Dec 2018
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
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