>>>>>SILENCE<<<<<
>>>>>TRACES<<<<<
>>>>>EVERY<<<<<
>>>>>PERSON<<<<


U
HAVE
BEEN
WARNED
Its there u just cant hear it....
The sounds of tiny footsteps patter the roof of the car.
We sit inside protected from the winter elements.
The frosty rain comes down more extreme
as time goes on.
I feel comfortable.
Safe while you’re in control.
You dazzle me,
Venus in the flesh.
The dove of my life.
The serenity of our drive collapses
With your screams.
The man in the window
Wrenches on the door handle.
Panic rushes through our bones.
Movement not at all possible.
I want to protect you, but what can I do.
The word drive is the only thing I can cry.
The man in the window.
The man in the window.
A Poem about something that happened that made me scared and feel weak.
Fọlá 5d
I believe in ghosts.

The haunting memories of nightmares past.
The spooky stories buried inside.
The life I thought I left behind.
The demons I thought I left in the past.

The scary torment of which I thought I was free.
The sins I thought were forgiven.
The bodies, deep; that I hoped were forgotten.
The creatures I thought were dead to me.

I believe in ghosts.

I see them taking form.
Circling, over a prey they thought was lost.
Rejoicing, that their moment has come.
I believe in ghosts.

I’m all alone in the dark.
A dark and creepy night.
Armed with nothing but the moon’s light.
I believe in ghosts.
amber 5d
what if i hurt you?
i'm past wondering if you'll hurt me, i no longer mind.

but i'm volatile
sometimes i don't know what i'm doing
sometimes i don't know what i'm thinking
and sometimes i can't act the way i want to

you say you don't mind
you say it doesn't matter and i'm still what you want

but what if it's inevitable
and we're just building this up to break?
I  think about the souls
And I think about them a lot
I think about how they see me and I can’t see them
No, not the souls conceived by material
The bodies of the human race
But rather the whispers of air
I wonder, though, if they hurt more than me
If I could be with them and not be here
Instead of constantly asking why I am
Instead of staring at the black screen
At my reflection on the monitor and pondering
In the bath as I slowly choke back on my tears
It sounds unreal, something from a fiction book
But this is my life, that I’ve lived for 5,445 days
Sometimes I hope for more
They hope for more. He hopes for more.*** hopes for more. We hope for more.
But then again, we all hope for “more”
“To own, then you’ll receive”
I think about the lost souls
That are screaming as we walk past them
Hoping to be heard
Even the dead hope for more
Isn’t that a wild concept?
Those who can’t even feel,see,touch or hear
They have hope
More hope than the girl who wishes she was dead
Not usually the type of poems I write but I needed to write my feelings out. :)
lauren Jan 10
ghouls roam the cemetery at midnight,
and the witch does her spells at three,
dead souls and hollowed bones merge
out of the soil, all this alacrity in a place
seemingly empty;
old man with his graying headstone,
and murdered woman under an angel
caught mid flight,
along with the others they awaken
and yawn as day slips into the night;
there are spirits at peace
alongside ones filled with rage,
then others who have forgotten
their hate, wandering calmly
in this place;
sipping upon the tea of sorrow,
they do a spring dance with grace,
crypts and graves closing as
the sun rises golden in the morn',
praying to slip past the final gate.
i adore visiting cemeteries and got inspired to write this after going to one nearby. the first two lines were taken from my 'poetry of the dead' creative writing assignment from last semester.
In a world of greatness
She felt so small
Unaccomplished
Because the world
She lived in
Wasn’t physical
It was her mind
Her thoughts
Her fears
And that was not a world of greatness
But of agony
Of words
Gone unsaid
Of empty promises
Gone unfulfilled
Of an empty soul
Not shown honesty and kindness
Of an empty heart
Untouched by love
It was her own world
Yet she was an outsider

She had seen the others having fun
w̙̻̰h͕̭̫͔̩y̟̣͖ ̭̝͕c̼o͙ṷ͙͖̮͙͙̞l̠̳̼̤̝͕d̝̹͙̘̯̼̻n͙̜̞'̖̜̗t͉̯̘̜ͅ ͕͓̬̘̫̤s̯̮h͍e̱?̯

W̰̳͍͉͚̹h͎̫̮̩ͅy͚̭̟̞̫̮ ͍̖̦d͉͉̳͙̳͇i͍͓ḏ̻ṇ͍̩̹͓̣’̼̪̙͎t͈̺͇̺̭͉ͅ ͔̮̣ͅt͇̦͈̰̬h̻̮͉̦e̝̙͔͎̗͕y̘̥ ͙̠t͕̻͇a̻̙̮̲̫̜l͉͖͓͍͙͍̱k͕̤͓͇̘̪̪ ͎̙̥̪̗͖̪t̬͙̹̦̗͔ͅo͕͕̞̪̥͍̬̼̭ ̹̙̟̱͎̬̬ͅh̯̬̤͖e̘̭r̭̲̼͈̟̯ͅ?̙

W̱̞̪̟̮̞ẖ̮͉̗͕̜̣̜̯a̺̹̣̻̠̠̥͙ṭ̱͎͙͕̩̰̫ ͉̺͓͍̹̜͚̗w̝͉̥̦̠a̝̳̘s̥̩̦͈̰ ͉̜̳̺̲̲̗ͅs̞̲͇̺̙͈̬͈̙h̭̞̳̭̪e̤̯̘ ̯͕͈̯͈̱̭̜d̩̗̠͔͉̫̺̬o̜̯͈̰̪̯͇͇i͉͎n̮̜̻͖͈͕͇̞ͅg̮͍̖ ̯̰̣̖w͖̬r͓͚̹̹̘͕̹̱o̠̞͔̳̞͕͖̪n̩̮̟͉ͅg͍̬̪̳͍̘̱?̗͈

S̪̞̰̦̦̦͙̺͈ẖ̬̰̖̞e̥̭͎͍­ ̥̲̟͎͔̳i͚̣̮͓s̱̻ ̙͕͚͙d̮̯̖̱̝̙o͚̬̦͍͍i̮̲͚̮͔͖̹̹n̠̥̗g̜̦̠̗͓ͅ ̗̭͕h̥e͉͎͓̟̳͓̰r̩ ̟̱̣̩b̞͎͎̘e̟̞s͇̻̦͓͇͈t͍̞̙

S͈͍̣̥̹h̥e̺̤̜͉̜ ̳̺̰̥͇̻̞t̮̗̻̼̫̜r̻̹̙̖̗̖ͅị̹͇̩͉̲e̩͕̜̱ș̹̝̜̥̩ͅ ̜̣̗̟͉s͔̞̠̬o̯̗̱̘͈̳̟͖ ̣̬h͈͍̠̞̲͉̲a̦̮͔̯̪̞r̰̣̥̺̗̲d͔̖

S̭̗̠̺̟̮h̝̲̻̮̮̭e̙̲͙ ̟̹w̦a̹̦̪̼̹̭̲̙ͅn̹͙͖̮̦̣ͅt̯͉s̖̯͙̮̖͙̼ ̟͙͖t̮͖͚̱̫̩̯h̹̜̖͎̩͉̰̞i͎̩̘s͈ ̟̬̙̯̻̲̩̠͔t͈o̤͔͓͉ ̖̤͉̠̞̜e͙̜͙̦̭n̼̜̠͚d̻͎̰̩̲̘̱ͅ

S̤̳̜̩͚̼h̪͖̼͕̣̝e̤̖̦̳ ̪̦̰̩͕̳͈̬c̳̹̪̼̹͉a͚͇̺n̲̱̝̣̤̬ͅ’̼̠͙̺͔͚̫̬t̝̰̫ ̼̼̦̬̥̬͙̹̼d̺o͉̳̪̠͖͖͔ ̤͖̣t̤h͖i̗̞̣̠̖͇͖s̙̭̟͓̫̘̳ ̖͔̺͍͓̬͖a̰͎̲̙͎̱̭n̥̬y̭̫̙͎̬̘̥̘m̙͙͎̘̳̫o̼͈͙̮ͅr̤͓̳̥̺̱̥̝e̺̹̦̠



It wasn’t her that pulled the trigger
But the questions
Unanswered
Robert Jan 3
after some time passed
I got used to feeling sad
but that never made it
any better at all

and after I've reached
the deepest of pits
no longer I see
any light at all

and I've read that
I can only go up from here
but I think
I think I got stuck
Becca Dec 2018
The words bleed out
As you tell me
About the monsters
In your mind
ravyn Dec 2018
like a demon trailing behind you
screaming and howling all the way

it might be walking but
through my horror even
i can tell that this act is not
walking in its basic definition

the action is more
accurate to be called
dragging or pulling itself
closer with
every
step? its gait is
steady? as much as
this jerking and twitching
could be called
steady

it begs me to answer its
questions
screeches in a grating noise
that makes my ears shatter and
brain stutter to
a halt and a static
fills it

the biting sting of blood hits
my nose a second after
i turn to face
the path in front of me
the moon filtering through the
sharp fingers of the towering pines

theres a light up ahead
i can feel its
warmth calling, it promises
protection from
the beast
and at
the moment i would give
anything for the fuzzy soft eveloping
safety of my mothers arms

my mom isnt here but
a porch approaches
i feel the white hot breath of the beast
on my neck and
smell the gutwrenching putridity of
rotting flesh
and fresh blood

one step away and i,
i notice after a moment
ive stopped moving,
i taste dirt and iron

the howling stops
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