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Zywa May 7
A house always gets

all kinds of defects, well, we --


just live around them.
Collection of family stories "Gezinsverpakking" ("Family package", 2024, 'De Chabotten'), story "Lieve chaos" ("Dear chaos", Maurits Chabot)

Collection "Home sea"
pustules still
on my jawline at
thirty years old

my yawns wretch
my proverbial ***
outta that there

but not before

a cashier girl
has some clue
I'm a loser

an old house &
it's foundation
slow-bombs itself

I'm caught between
me & my version
of you
Robin, butterfly, chaffinch calls
wisteria climbs on ancient walls,
magnolia, daffodil, snowdrop scramble
carrion crows parade and amble,
in the garden near the maze
early spring brings warmer days
Arii Apr 6
We can never be normal again,
We can never be the same again.
Is that how things were always meant
To be in the end?

I see you in the bathroom mirror
Looking back at me with the same face
Every time I go back
To that place.

Was it ever, really, truly home?
Or the only landmark you know?
Will I ever go back to that room
And talk to you?

Did we actually mean it as a joke?
Or was that the only way we could cope?
Will   I   ever   go   back   to   that   room
                                                            ­       And     talk
                                                            ­                         to     you?
I look at us,
this broken mess we've become,
and all I feel is anger—
anger that we were supposed to be a unit,
a team,
a family—
but we are nothing but pieces of something that doesn't exist anymore.
You failed me.
Each one of you.
I'm lost in the rubble of what we were,
in the emptiness you left behind
when you choose your own needs
over what we were supposed to share.
I try to remember the good days,
but I can't.
Every happy memory feels like a lie now,
a story I told myself to keep the pain at bay.
I envy the people who have real families,
who don't know the taste of hollow promises,
who never feel the ache of knowing
that the ones who are supposed to love you
are the ones who destroy you the most.
And you—
you with your empty words and broken actions—
you don't even see it,
do you?
How much you hurt me
by pretending that everything was okay
when it wasn't.
You still don't get it.
You still don't care.
And the anger builds up,
like fire in my chest,
raging against the truth I've had to swallow:
We will never be whole again.
You broke us.
And I hate you for it.
Ruheen Mar 17
there is a house atop a hill
that houses the lonely and hurting
the ones that have burned their edges
they sit within their ship
incessantly sinking
and panic has already set in
so they grab at one another
pull at their hair and skin
because they fear time
they fear time will fail them
****** them from where they stand
end what is incomplete
what they must complete
but what they cannot
because time has interfered
and time is not the adventure they seek
because there is a house
that is haunting
it stands tall, unafraid
but alone
a house that is time itself
one where they gather
only to hurt
and inflict wounds
so deep
no one ever bleeds
because there will never be time
never enough time
to say anything
but what they mean
a kind of time
that they stretch
so they exist at every point
at every end
but they never witness
the whole
because they refuse to believe
that time is only a dream
Inspired by:
Time and the Conways by J.B Priestley - Last bit dialogue from Act 2
If I were not old
I would paint the house
and shore up the insulation.
I would go out and **** the garden
and cut down brush and vines
that have taken over the yard
and suffocated my flowers.
I would put in a metal fence
and plant roses around it.
But I am too old for that
and I may die here one day,
in a darkened room, caught
inside the crumbling plaster,
whose windows are covered by ivy,
which reaches its fingers across the walls.
It is almost as if the errant plants
strive to imitate the flowers
I used to bring inside and
place in bouquets to brighten
my world, no matter how small.
I shudder to think what will be,
now that the flowers are gone.
The idea of painting the house came from a line in a film; a man was asked what he'd do if his situation were different (can't recall what it was) and he said "I'd paint my house'. I identified with that and the frustration of not being able to do it. Then it veered off into aging and death, and I just followed my errant thoughts--it's foolish to ignore them!
Salem Mar 2
A desolate house
empty, devoid
once filled with life
its wood always warm

a desolate house
deep in the dark woods
taken over by leaves
untouched by a foot

a realtors nightmare

a young man full of pride
who's heart is too big
washed up in the tide

a nice diamond ring
a love never there
a dying dead flame
a head full of hair

bound to another
a small tiny crack
a  staircase now fallen
the very same wood
now singed black
                                              
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it hungers. it breathes.
in each wall, they seethe.
the victims inside, the ones he cant see
they beckon they call
they seethe and they seethe.
this poem is about my original character Eliott Blanchette.
Vianne Lior Feb 16
The door yawns open—
its hinges groan like old bones.
Dust blooms in the light,
a ghost of every footstep
that once passed through.

The walls inhale,
exhaling the scent of old wood,
something sour, something lost.
Wallpaper peels like dead skin,
exposing the raw ribs of the house.

In the kitchen, the table waits,
a chair slightly askew—
as if someone had just left,
as if they might return.

A single cup, cracked,
lingers in the sink,
stained with ghosts of coffee,
lips that once pressed its rim.

The stairs creak beneath my weight—
not in protest,
but in recognition.
They know me.
They remember.

Upstairs, the air thickens,
choked with the weight of silence.
A door stands half-open,
swollen with time,
holding its echoes close.

The bed is made,
but the sheets lie stiff with dust.
A shirt drapes over the chair,
sleeves limp, reaching—
but for no one.

I reach out, fingers grazing glass—
a shadow stirs in the corner of my eye,
but when I turn, nothing waits for me.
Only absence.
Only the house, patient, watching.

I swallow,
but the house does not.
It keeps everything.
It keeps them.

I turn to leave—
but the walls hold their breath.
They know.
I will come back.

I always do.

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