there's a ghost in the basement
who comes out when it's raining

i don’t know what he wants
but i don’t want him to go

i find comfort in the hauntings
and i hate to admit this

but i think i’m more afraid
of being alone

You awoke in the blackness
A ghost in the kitchen
A weight pinning you to your bed
And here's the interesting thing
About ghosts and spirits and such
Not because I dislike them
Not because I wish them ill
Not because with reason and wit,
Should I weild my pen
and ****
But because
The subtle things are often missed
Things that are better
Than all of this
Are hard to see
With the pressing of the moment
When right and wrong
Are both their most strong
When true and not
Make all else to be forgot
But in the cracks the scientist stoops
Finding missed information
Little treasures and reminders
Of what was lost
In the gap
The smallest of oversights
The alternate worlds
Of pancake batter cooked
with the children
On a Saturday since forgot
Or the trace of *****
on the couch
From the love made last Christmas
The dna of a lover
Hiding under your nails
In our presence
But also separate existence
The shortcut of a conversation
Where words were said
But those heard were not
How is it different from that spectre?
A trick of the stimuli
A preset of the brain
Or remembering that place
Where I last put my keys
But they aren't there.
I find them in a space
But I know I didn't put them there
It must be a ghost!
But if a ghost it be
Does it want me to see
It's misty form
Or hear it's clamber in the next room?
Or is it a subtlety
Come to visit me
And show the moments
Of my life
Lost in the crevice
Never even noticed

These are images that once were
The tan lines stretching across your shoulders;
Like starlight from some supernova;
Your photos in my albums;
Our shadows beneath bright suns;
Those ghosts have come and gone.

Then love became a memory;
And memory is the ghost
That frightens me the most.

how long have i been standing here
the edge of the roof seems so high
and i've always been afraid of heights
but like the fool i feel i should leap

why won't the songs i love
fit the mood that i am in?

i keep pressing shuffle,
"surprise me," i ask the universe
that embodies my fingertip
as i press the button
over and over again

and i sit at the edge of the world
which is only a rooftop,
looking for the right song for the occasion

how can every sound feel wrong?

in this moment, i'm convinced
you've sabotaged my goodbye

so i stand back up, looking over the edge

it's only a ladder's length down,
but somehow climbing is scarier
than a fall could ever be
the pace makes all the difference.

so perhaps, i should just take
a couple steps back
and take a deep breath

and while the sky isn't blue
and i am alone with thoughts in my head
perhaps this might be a nice place
to paint a picture of what it is that i want

i feel like i'm constantly forgetting
who the little girl i wanted to be
had as an answer for the future

but one day i'll make her proud

her little smile is worth it

and maybe, that's what your sabotage did

it made me look away from the world
and into my head for a moment
and i've spent so many weeks clearing out cobwebs that i wonder
if it was your plan all along

you think of me often, but your hand
hovers over the button

press send. stop leaving it to fate.

i can only have 3-day lovers for so long

i still remember how it feels to run
my hands through misbehaving hair
cinnamon sighs escaping unkissed lips
as we discuss what's on your plate
before you fill mine with fresh fruit
and pancakes

why are you on my mind?

you've been a stranger far too long to be a friend

and yet i see you in my dreams

ask to kiss me in the dead of night
lazily lay an arm on my waist
and whisper out wishes for tomorrow

are you letting yourself rest nowadays?

are you still worried about your brother?

are you still in your head?

did he ever message you back?

do you still write songs?

did you unite your preponderances

with the sound?

or are you still sitting in your void

snapping to find the echo

within an empty room

cluttered with fancy clothes

and fairy lights?

perhaps your top hat sits upturned
among your sheets and ship
along with two copies of a tape
of a movie you don't care about

maybe you're shutting out the world
with parties you know are unsafe
to feel alive during the plague

do you still think of those two bears
on their bike, left to their own devices
in a little display where we could point
murmuring between camera clicks
that "that one's dressed like you!"
and "this one has my hat!"

do you still hate my guts for crimes
i never commited?

do you still want my father's job?

i still have a wrapped up piece of you
in a plastic bag in my bedroom
half hidden so i dont think about it

i have other means to get high,
so i never smoked it.

can we trade?

you don't need to say hello,

or to hold me as i cry.

but could i please have my stuff back?

i miss those safe pages i let you hold

in a moment i’m a child
my eyes heavy in the back seat
a highway hymn and i’m nodding off
the tires singing on asphalt
the train rattling, perfectly distant

i fall awake as the car bends
through glass i meet
the curb we last saw your bicycle

i remember you ran away that night
off something no one really said
or really did
but you decided that ghosts
would be better at explaining

pedaling faster— until launching
forehead gashed, again
no emergency visit this time
in a reality made of rust
and rubber, you lost grip
a victim of your own imagination

i know we moved years ago
but i still come to the bend
just to see the way they paved over the grass
the wheels still turning
in my manufactured memory
your spirit rising, or smoking
i feel you here, still
and it hurts you don’t miss me
and i keep saying you’ll come around
but i forget that’s the kind of ending you only watch in movies
and i forget what channel we were on
before the power went out

Snow is but listening silence,
Sent from our dark past,
Inaudible ghosts made visible
In the butterfly net of cold.

if these streetlights could speak,
they'd narrate stories that would
keep you awake at night

and if these corners could scream,
they would never stop screaming

and if these streetlights could speak,
and these corners could scream,
would you listen?

are you listening?

I think everyone is being haunted
Maybe not by something supernatural
But something more sinister:
Regrets
Missed opportunities
and
the choking sensation of their fear

And as I turned the corner
Into her old room
I saw what I had been warned not to see.
The apparition.

To describe its features would be a great feat;
It had no features so to speak
Just a vague veil
Of a time and place gone by.

In truth it was not terrifying to look at,
In fact it was rather soothing;
The history kept behind the pale old eyes
Kept me drawn to its pale old face.

I was rather calmed by its presence
Until suddenly features started to appear
On its cold dead face
And what had previously been a vacant plane

Was now the vessel of a horrifying creature.
And the sound.
The sound which shattered all the windows
And had with it a tone of fury and anger

Which made my ears cry out in contempt.
And at that point I understood it.
Why it was called what it was.
When I’d heard the cautionary tales of Draymore

I assumed they were nothing but wild fantasy.
But with her scream of a shivering evil
With no compassion in the tone
I realised why
They called her the scream.