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Marri Dec 2019

Can't you hear the creak of the floorboards?
Can't you hear the faint call of a name?

The house still thinks you're there;
The rooms still think you're breathing.


Can't you hear the crunch of the frost coated grass?
Can't you hear the turn of the engine?
(Roaring to life)

The earth still thinks you step there.
The car still thinks you drive there.

Feel it?

Can't you feel the sweat building up between tightly grasped hands?
Can't you feel the head so gently laid upon your arm?

The hands still think you're coming back--
The heart still thinks you're beating together.

The image of you and her dancing barefoot throughout the house still flashes.
The sound of you and her whispers still linger.
The feeling of you and her still in love is there.


The sound of the radio still statics in and out.
The feeling of warm love still beats inside.
The sight of a smile and laughter still is engraved in the mind.


You and her together.
You and her forever.


She remembers.
She still sees you dancing through the house.
She still hears you whispering love melodies.
She still feels you there with her,
Lingering, tingling, staying forever--
Haunting her.
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The dog is nine years
three months
six days old
and still counting,
the old man sits and counts up in
a chair rocking on an old porch,
creaking floorboards faded wooden again
from turquoise,
turning raw in their old age.
Parts of the floorboard have chipped away beneath
the chairs wasted slats
and yet the old man still sits, counting
like a train whistling at a
trespasser on the tracks
like a stray hair curling from
it's braid
get off those tracks
'cause you know it's not your place.
All we ever do is rot back down to
the floors we came from
and maybe
all we end up doing is completing a week
and then we're not counting anymore,
and maybe
the chair doesn't rock back to dust
and forth to
nine years
three months
and six days old
and we sit on our old porches
watching the train tracks and
maybe we know it's not the
time or the place
but a train whistles at the
and we watch the young girl
and we count down, looking away
when it happens.
But we're not counting any more
and we sink into the porches we came from.
Baylee Sep 2015
Everyone is quiet,
Papers rustle,
The slow speed fan
Creaks above our heads,
The air conditioning
Is broken,
We start to sweat
From sunlight coming in
Through the tintless windows.
We sit in silence,
Unwilling to share
Miserable in this heat,
Someone drops their pen.
As he picks it up
The room sighs,
Almost as if in relief
That he retrieved it,
While no one else moves.
It's far too hot for that.
The table smells like mothballs,
And the people around me
Smell like sweat,
Perfume and cologne.
You can smell the coffee
Oozing from their pores.
Bloodshot eyes,
Aching backs,
And all-consuming stress.
I'm in class.
Deena Jun 2015
I thought I wanted to be alone.
I thought it's what I needed.
Peace and quiet.
But sitting here in the corner of this room.
This horribly quiet room.
I'm having second thoughts.
Except I can't think.
The silence, it's loud.
Too loud.
It's starting to get to me.
My eyes scatter around the room.
For noise.
Just a trace.
Not even a creak from the old floor board.
I need sound.
I need someone.
In my head the noises that wear so many guises torments me.
I hope that they might sway, indeed just go away and leave me be.
The messages they scream each night as I do dream cause me such grief.
They tell me of such dread about those who walk un-dead, defies belief.

They act in such deprave as they walk free of their grave, Inside my head.
I see it in a way that they walk past me where I lay, in my own bed.
Almost like a feature, a silver screen cast creature lurks around.
Though silent in its play in so many shades of grey it makes a sound.

I cannot scream into the night, through fear and through fright, I lie awake.
No volume do I speak as floorboards start to creak, I start to shake.
The darkness in the room is heavy, full of gloom and I am warm.
And through my open door will entities and more decide to swarm.

The sweat will run its course, my sanity divorce before nights end.
As the footsteps come my way, with tears as I pray my mind does bend.
My mouth opens to howl as I witness of the growl and I stay still.
Does it know I'm there and does it know just where and will it ****.

With blood racing around from heart to where it's bound, I cannot breathe.
My throat is dry and rough I cannot cry enough and I believe.
My end is coming nigh and I feel that I will die, no more of life.
And as it comes so close I realise it is no ghost, it's just the wife.
26th November
Rockie Oct 2014
Stop, the
creak, creak
Listen, to the
creak, creak
Of the silent home, going
creak, creak
Not everything is as it seems,
Hear your steps going
creak, creak
But you're not moving,
creak, creak
What is it?
creak, creak
Anyone there?
creak, creak
You'd expect the
creak, creak
To answer?
creak, creak
Nobody there,
creak, creak
It's an old home,
creak, creak
No it's not
creak, creak
**** you
*creeeak, creeeak
M Clement Apr 2014
And it's like you expect me not to hurt;
I mean I am the perpetrator,
but that doesn't make it any

Easier would have been everything working
All the cogs aligning, workin' properly

I almost lost it on a .gif
I almost cried from viewing something that reminded me.

I made the right choice, because the cogs are aligning on my side,
they're workin' properly
But that doesn't make this grandfather clock creak any less.
Breakups, man. I tried to make this one more about me than anything else. It's pretty personal, but I felt like sharing it anyway.

— The End —