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Adilson Smith Sep 2017
On nights of sinful solitude
I hear myself creaking.

It’s not loud. More,
A gentle inner misrule
Organizing quietly.
arian Jan 2019
these silhouettes strolled across, through the creaking bridge,
walked on it as if they didn't notice the noise,
stepped on it like they knew which path to take next,
but one thing they knew was that they had to cross over
without knowing it would break and took them down
and fed them to the raging waves below.
Emma Aug 2018
I am hearing rain for the first time
Like soft hurried footsteps,
The sounds of mice scuttering,
The creaking of an old house.

I am crying again in the darkness
Caressing my true self,
Feeling her ****** fur
As she flinches from my careful fingers

Her eyes are endless black pools
Her thin legs are injured
Curled up, she whimpers
And cowers in pain

I get too close and she scurries away
Into a shadow,
Leaving me alone with the rain
Breon Oct 2018
Another night staring skyward where
          Every creaking shift fills the world
                    And the ink-black sky's toothless maw,
Shocks and aftershocks of sound
          Where a moment's discomfort swells
                    To a frenzied crescendo, incessant,
Pressing against skin from within
          Until a saint's patience would break
                    Like lips parting for a stifled sigh.
Midnight falters and fades to dawn,
          Surrenders to the unconquered sun
                    Who, grinning wide as the horizon,
Watches the twisting, turning world
          Tear away from night's dreamless womb
                    Sleepless, stumbling away in a daze.
Keith Collard Mar 2014
Such wintry presents is incandescence, flakes shooting through magnificent lamp's orange glow, such a beauty contestant is my love spotlighted below,
white wedding lace is her hair that intercepts crystal snow.  I am her groom tall in suit dressed in drifting bank's dark soak.
     Those flakes incandescing, starting west, then darting east, finally on her hair are resting, in that orange incandescence, give foot prints no longer lone , and night chimes of metal creaking signs, remind  of just her and  I, and that is more than fine, for when weather vanes act insane, in that lonely night snow, and my prints are lone, she is near my heart staring up while standing on my toes,

Wonderfully lonely when the streets are dead,
under street lamps glow much magnificent,
Her snow flake lashes night sky has sent,

Our sole footprints in globes lonely presence,
Watching night snow turn incandescent.
Harsh Jul 2015
I roar with a bravado
that echoes throughout
the deepest caverns
of brave souls

yet with every time
there lies a risk
of my own reverberations
shattering my heart

I am fragile glass
fashioned into
the fearsome form
of a lion

I have been chiseled at by
Father Time and Mother Earth,
carved away by my pains
and my worries.

I am no façade;
there is nothing ornate
about me designed to
hide something heinous

I can shatter
just as easily
as my mother’s
prized china set

But I roar on
even as I chip away;
my joints creaking
and my body scorched.

Do not mistake my
scratches and cracks
for weakness,
I have demons of my own.

I walk this ground
with the hope
that my roars,
in spite of my fragility,

will instill a sense of hope
into all of you
with glass hearts
such as mine.
This piece was inspired by this -> which doesn't seem to be working, but the piece was entitled "Paper Lion"
Roman Soanco Aug 2016
The song of creaking wood
from this warm old rocking chair
soothes my restless mind.

As a stream of hot air,
smells of old books,
cradles me to sleep.

My window panes soaking wet,
filled with tiny little droplets,
from these tears of humanity.
Dare to look outside
winter Dec 2015
bones creaking,
thoughts creeping
from the back my mind
and take form in the shadows.
my thoughts seem to be leaking.

I have a castle
in my mind
which has turned me blind.
dark corners
occupied with foreigners.

these evil creatures walk free
torturing me;
protection is seldom,
shine is not welcome,
and there is no hope of rebellion
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
Safe in the wet nest's rocking
I listen, with a passion. to a conversation about passions
Rising muffled from the party's tossing to and fro, below, below,

While a world away, upstairs on a huge expanse of white cotton,
With one gesture becoming an origami whale
Breaching silently the smoked-glass horizons of dresser-mirrors

She and I, remembering some tricks for odd half hours spent alone
Travel tides not knowing what needs destroy our hearts.
The Party's ceiling, our bed's floor, hardly creaking with our pressing.

But just as the Ocean's creases can become too fine    
So cruising her body my hands have no future    
Await the tragedy of the ******* to fly true and strike home -    

So, at the moment of our coming, killing the whale    
Only I know the enormous guessing it takes
Striking the blow personally in a spiral stupor.
Does the whaler harpooner dream of his girl or does the young man with his girl imagine harpooning the whale? Ah well, who knows ...
Elena Oct 2019
Our bed is the epitome of careless love
“Blue caress, blue sheets, blue dove”
But creaking like broken bones
And eyes so sleep deprived
This voice was cracking
And failed to verse the final line
So this is what we call rosy then?
A bare thorn without a flower
Your music transparently
repeats our chilling song
but still you sing,
“Blue promise, blue jay, blue flame”
And with the softest blow
We always fade away
As bells softly chime
A ringing cry,
“Blue dreams, blue freedom, blue winged bird, 
of mine.”

Tenor Kemp Jan 2013
woke up old with cold bones creaking,
bright knives cut through shuttered blinds;
i gasped and breathed, remembered, rose
and crept out from the dark to find
a bag sat packed; the words came back:
"Come see me then, if you're alive."

the mist hung down from cloud and sky;
a sun sat brave but weak and low;
the trees so straight and tall remembered
summers young and long ago.

the engine spat and growled and every
tread declared its vigour still,
and soon the trees, the sun and mist
were lost behind the valley hill.

and on i sailed through burning winds
and grey and smokey white-lined seas.
i thought of all i'd say and all
you'd ask and what the past would mean,
and all those summer times we climbed
and hid among the valley trees.
23 July 2011
Megan Jones Sep 2016
I awoke in the night and felt your back against mine
Was this some sort of sign, some distance I couldn't explain?
Or was this a self-perceived storm in the making
constructed from nothing that was real?
The darkness took comfort in those nights we spent
back to back
Ticking, ticking, ticking-
Searching for an outlet, even forging one out of our lack
of subconscious physical attachment, trying to
create a wedge

The wedge served as an object that would separate
my vulnerability from reality
Creaking across my temples and finding solitude in
the destruction of everything I held dear,

As time went on, naturally that wedge became an abyss
and every night I fell hundreds of feet over and-
over again- until my heart shrank into a thread.
The feeling of uncontrollable anxious behaviors
began to manifest in my chest
There it remained-
digging around to find its home, once more
In my adolescent insecure tendencies
Seanathon Jun 2018
For months a struggle in vain I've been. Deliver me now my Lord.

Allow me to see for a moment beyond what this human heart thinks it adores.

Because I do not wish to continue like this, give me strength now to close this old creaking door.

Would you allow me to be, in my present need, at peace with this anxiousness, and within me no more?
Letting go of what I want. Opening my eyes to what he wants for me.
Jarret M Spiler Mar 2016
I slide in and out of my room,
closing the door ever-so-gently,
I don't come back until the break of dusk.
Sometime later.
I feel like I can't go into my own apartment,
I cannot trust myself to leave any doors open,
Or even leave my toothbrush not hidden.
I fear the creaking of the shadow in the other room.
They live with nothing.
They live with horror,
and muster up terror.
I am afraid of seeing the shadows utter in the space of our apartment.
The sun doesn't shine on our space,
it burns it.
Nick Burns Aug 2018
My alarm clock screams.
Been awake for three hours;
so ahead of the game,
unaware of my powerless range.

I’ve been tossing, turning, creaking,
coming up with new names;
another attempt to link together
all of my fireless plains.

Hey, I’m running on fumes.
Hey, I’m Eugene Tooms;
stretching, twisting, warping,
got you reaching for clues.

It’ll all come together,
posted up in a small room;
just typing up a dichotomy
of life as a lifeless plume.
Francie Lynch May 2017
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.

Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.

Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******,
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.

Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
My brother is turning 64 next week.
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