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Evan Stephens Jul 2019
The girl from Dublin
comes to me here
under the the summer sun.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

She drinks her new city
a cup at a time,
until her coffee is done.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

I love her early
in the curtain of morning,
where the red trains run.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

She has wild light
under her step
when she walks or she runs.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

I wait each day
in an old black chair
until we can be one.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

The girl from Dublin
waits for me here
under the summing sun.

   Her beauty is soft
   as the day-ghosted moon,
   & never outdone.

Her beauty is soft
as the day-ghosted moon,
& never outdone.
SomeOneElse Oct 2018
Rejected by a few more friends
Just thrown out like the trash
I'm falling and i see no end
Expecting a big crash
They used to all give me support
They used to to have my back
And now the facts they do contort
They stabbed me in the back
I am so sad and ******* mad
Why can't they let me be
I didn't do anything bad
Yet they've abandoned me
Bad enough that i was ghosted
And left without my group
Now I'm left to be composted
While trying to recoup
They used to like my company
They used to sing my praise
Now most of them won't talk to me
Alone in my malaise
I keep losing so many friend
Forgotten, lost in time
I really wish this **** would end
But ghosted one more time.
Written after my mental health support group ghosted me because i was sad.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
She said, ‘You are funny, the way you set yourself up the moment we arrive. You look into every room to see if it’s suitable as a place to work. Is there a table? Where are the plugs? Is there a good chair at the right height? If there isn’t, are there cushions to make it so? You are funny.’
He countered this, but his excuse didn’t sound very convincing. He knew exactly what she meant, but it hurt him a little that she should think it ‘funny’. There’s nothing funny about trying to compose music, he thought. It’s not ‘radio in the head’ you know – this was a favourite expression he’d once heard an American composer use. You don’t just turn a switch and the music’s playing, waiting for you to write it down. You have to find it – though he believed it was usually there, somewhere, waiting to be found. But it’s elusive. You have to work hard to detect what might be there, there in the silence of your imagination.
Later over their first meal in this large cottage she said, ‘How do you stop hearing all those settings of the Mass that you must have heard or sung since childhood?’ She’d been rehearsing Verdi’s Requiem recently and was full of snippets of this stirring piece. He was a) writing a Mass to celebrate a cathedral’s reordering after a year as a building site, and b) he’d been a boy chorister and the form and order of the Mass was deeply engrained in his aural memory. He only had to hear the plainsong introduction Gloria in Excelsis Deo to be back in the Queen’s chapel singing Palestrina, or Byrd or Poulenc.
His ‘found’ corner was in the living room. The table wasn’t a table but a long cabinet she’d kindly covered with a tablecloth. You couldn’t get your feet under the thing, but with his little portable drawing board there was space to sit properly because the board jutted out beyond the cabinet’s top. It was the right length and its depth was OK, enough space for the board and, next to it, his laptop computer. On the floor beside his chair he placed a few of his reference scores and a box of necessary ‘bits’.
The room had two large sofas, an equally large television, some unexplainable and instantly dismissible items of decoration, a standard lamp, and a wood burning stove. The stove was wonderful, and on their second evening in the cottage, when clear skies and a stiff breeze promised a cold night, she’d lit it and, as the evening progressed, they basked in its warmth, she filling envelopes with her cards, he struggling with sleep over a book.
Despite and because this was a new, though temporary, location he had got up at 5.0am. This is a usual time for composers who need their daily fix of absolute quiet. And here, in this cottage set amidst autumn fields, within sight of a river estuary, under vast, panoramic uninterrupted skies, there was the distinct possibility of silence – all day. The double-glazing made doubly sure of that.
He had sat with a mug of tea at 5.10 and contemplated the silence, or rather what infiltrated the stillness of the cottage as sound. In the kitchen the clock ticked, the refrigerator seemed to need a period of machine noise once its door had been opened. At 6.0am the central heating fired up for a while. Outside, the small fruit trees in the garden moved vigorously in the wind, but he couldn’t hear either the wind or a rustle of leaves.  A car droned past on the nearby road. The clear sky began to lighten promising a fine day. This would certainly do for silence.
His thoughts returned to her question of the previous evening, and his answer. He was about to face up to his explanation. ‘I empty myself of all musical sound’, he’d said, ‘I imagine an empty space into which I might bring a single note, a long held drone of a note, a ‘d’ above middle ‘c’ on a chamber ***** (seeing it’s a Mass I’m writing).  Harrison Birtwistle always starts on an ‘e’. A ‘d’ to me seems older and kinder. An ‘e’ is too modern and progressive, slightly brash and noisy.’
He can see she is quizzical with this anecdotal stuff. Is he having me on? But no, he is not having her on. Such choices are important. Without them progress would be difficult when the thinking and planning has to stop and the composing has to begin. His notebook, sitting on his drawing board with some first sketches, plays testament to that. In this book glimpses of music appear in rhythmic abstracts, though rarely any pitches, and there are pages of written description. He likes to imagine what a new work is, and what it is not. This he writes down. Composer Paul Hindemith reckoned you had first to address the ‘conditions of performance’. That meant thinking about the performers, the location, above all the context. A Mass can be, for a composer, so many things. There were certainly requirements and constraints. The commission had to fulfil a number of criteria, some imposed by circumstance, some self-imposed by desire. All this goes into the melting ***, or rather the notebook. And after the notebook, he takes a large piece of A3 paper and clarifies this thinking and planning onto (if possible) a single sheet.
And so, to the task in hand. His objective, he had decided, is to focus on the whole rather than the particular. Don’t think about the Kyrie on its own, but consider how it lies with the Gloria. And so with the Sanctus & Benedictus. How do they connect to the Agnus Dei. He begins on the A3 sheet of plain paper ‘making a map of connections’. Kyrie to Gloria, Gloria to Credo and so on. Then what about Agnus Dei and the Gloria? Is there going to be any commonality – in rhythm, pace and tempo (we’ll leave melody and harmony for now)? Steady, he finds himself saying, aren’t we going back over old ground? His notebook has pages of attempts at rhythmizing the text. There are just so many ways to do this. Each rhythmic solution begets a different slant of meaning.
This is to be a congregational Mass, but one that has a role for a 4-part choir and ***** and a ‘jazz instrument’. Impatient to see notes on paper, he composes a new introduction to a Kyrie as a rhythmic sketch, then, experimentally, adds pitches. He scores it fully, just 10 bars or so, but it is barely finished before his critical inner voice says, ‘What’s this for? Do you all need this? This is showing off.’ So the filled-out sketch drops to the floor and he examines this element of ‘beginning’ the incipit.
He remembers how a meditation on that word inhabits the opening chapter of George Steiner’s great book Grammars of Creation. He sees in his mind’s eye the complex, colourful and ornate letter that begins the Lindesfarne Gospels. His beginnings for each movement, he decides, might be two chords, one overlaying the other: two ‘simple’ diatonic chords when sounded separately, but complex and with a measure of mystery when played together. The Mass is often described as a mystery. It is that ritual of a meal undertaken by a community of people who in the breaking of bread and wine wish to bring God’s presence amongst them. So it is a mystery. And so, he tells himself, his music will aim to hold something of mystery. It should not be a comment on that mystery, but be a mystery itself. It should not be homely and comfortable; it should be as minimal and sparing of musical commentary as possible.
When, as a teenager, he first began to set words to music he quickly experienced the need (it seemed) to fashion accompaniments that were commentaries on the text the voice was singing. These accompaniments did not underpin the words so much as add a commentary upon them. What lay beneath the words was his reaction, indeed imaginative extension of the words. He eschewed then both melisma and repetition. He sought an extreme independence between word and music, even though the word became the scenario of the music. Any musical setting was derived from the composition of the vocal line.  It was all about finding the ‘key’ to a song, what unlocked the door to the room of life it occupied. The music was the room where the poem’s utterance lived.
With a Mass you were in trouble for the outset. There was a poetry of sorts, but poetry that, in the countless versions of the vernacular, had lost (perhaps had never had) the resonance of the Latin. He thought suddenly of the supposed words of William Byrd, ‘He who sings prays twice’. Yes, such commonplace words are intercessional, but when sung become more than they are. But he knew he had to be careful here.
Why do we sing the words of the Mass he asks himself? Do we need to sing these words of the Mass? Are they the words that Christ spoke as he broke bread and poured wine to his friends and disciples at his last supper? The answer is no. Certainly these words of the Mass we usually sing surround the most intimate words of that final meal, words only the priest in Christ’s name may articulate.
Write out the words of the Mass that represent its collective worship and what do you have? Rather non-descript poetry? A kind of formula for collective incantation during worship? Can we read these words and not hear a surrounding music? He thinks for a moment of being asked to put new music to words of The Beatles. All you need is love. Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. Oh bla dee oh bla da life goes on. Now, now this is silliness, his Critical Voice complains. And yet it’s not. When you compose a popular song the gap between some words scribbled on the back of an envelope and the hook of chords and melody developed in an accidental moment (that becomes a way of clothing such words) is often minimal. Apart, words and music seem like orphans in a storm. Together they are home and dry.
He realises, and not for the first time, that he is seeking a total musical solution to the whole of the setting of those words collectively given voice to by those participating in the Mass.
And so: to the task in hand. His objective: to focus on the whole rather than the particular.  Where had he heard that thought before? - when he had sat down at his drawing board an hour and half previously. He’d gone in a circle of thought, and with his sketch on the floor at his feet, nothing to show for all that effort.
Meanwhile the sun had risen. He could hear her moving about in the bathroom. He went to the kitchen and laid out what they would need to breakfast together. As he poured milk into a jug, primed the toaster, filled the kettle, the business of what might constitute a whole solution to this setting of the Mass followed him around the kitchen and breakfast room like a demanding child. He knew all about demanding children. How often had he come home from his studio to prepare breakfast and see small people to school? - more often than he cared to remember. And when he remembered he became sad that it was no more.  His children had so often provided a welcome buffer from sessions of intense thought and activity. He loved the walk to school, the first quarter of a mile through the park, a long avenue of chestnut trees. It was always the end of April and pink and white blossoms were appearing, or it was September and there were conkers everywhere. It was under these trees his daughter would skip and even his sons would hold hands with him; he would feel their warmth, their livingness.
But now, preparing breakfast, his Critical Voice was that demanding child and he realised when she appeared in the kitchen he spoke to her with a voice of an artist in conversation with his critics, not the voice of the man who had the previous night lost himself to joy in her dear embrace. And he was ashamed it was so.
How he loved her gentle manner as she negotiated his ‘coming too’ after those two hours of concentration and inner dialogue. Gradually, by the second cup of coffee he felt a right person, and the hours ahead did not seem too impossible.
When she’d gone off to her work, silence reasserted itself. He played his viola for half an hour, just scales and exercises and a few folk songs he was learning by heart. This gathering habit was, he would say if asked, to reassert his musicianship, the link between his body and making sound musically. That the viola seemed to resonate throughout his whole body gave him pleasure. He liked the ****** movement required to produce a flowing sequence of bow strokes. The trick at the end of this daily practice was to put the instrument in its case and move immediately to his desk. No pause to check email – that blight on a morning’s work. No pause to look at today’s list. Back to the work in hand: the Mass.
But instead his mind and intention seemed to slip sideways and almost unconsciously he found himself sketching (on the few remaining staves of a vocal experiment) what appeared to be a piano piece. The rhythmic flow of it seemed to dance across the page to be halted only when the few empty staves were filled. He knew this was one of those pieces that addressed the pianist, not the listener. He sat back in his chair and imagined a scenario of a pianist opening this music and after a few minutes’ reflection and reading through allowing her hands to move very slowly and silently a few millimetres over the keys.  Such imagining led him to hear possible harmonic simultaneities, dynamics and articulations, though he knew such things would probably be lost or reinvented on a second imagined ‘performance’. No matter. Now his make-believe pianist sounded the first bar out. It had a depth and a richness that surprised him – it was a fine piano. He was touched by its affect. He felt the possibilities of extending what he’d written. So he did. And for the next half an hour lived in the pastures of good continuation, those rich luxuriant meadows reached by a rickerty rackerty bridge and guarded by a troll who today was nowhere to be seen.
It was a curious piece. It came to a halt on an enigmatic, go-nowhere / go-anywhere chord after what seemed a short declamatory coda (he later added the marking deliberamente). Then, after a few minutes reflection he wrote a rising arpeggio, a broken chord in which the consonant elements gradually acquired a rising sequence of dissonance pitches until halted by a repetition. As he wrote this ending he realised that the repeated note, an ‘a’ flat, was a kind of fulcrum around which the whole of the music moved. It held an enigmatic presence in the harmony, being sometimes a g# sometimes an ‘a’ flat, and its function often different. It made the music take on a wistful quality.
At that point he thought of her little artists’ book series she had titled Tide Marks. Many of these were made of a concertina of folded pages revealing - as your eyes moved through its pages - something akin to the tide’s longitudinal mark. This centred on the page and spread away both upwards and downwards, just like those mirror images of coloured glass seen in a child’s kaleidoscope. No moment of view was ever quite the same, but there were commonalities born of the conditions of a certain day and time.  His ‘Tide Mark’ was just like that. He’d followed a mark made in his imagination from one point to another point a little distant. The musical working out also had a reflection mechanism: what started in one hand became mirrored in the other. He had unexpectedly supplied an ending, this arpegiated gesture of finality that wasn’t properly final but faded away. When he thought further about the role of the ending, he added a few more notes to the arpeggio, but notes that were not be sounded but ghosted, the player miming a press of the keys.
He looked at the clock. Nearly five o’clock. The afternoon had all but disappeared. Time had retreated into glorious silence . There had been three whole hours of it. How wonderful that was after months of battling with the incessant and draining turbulence of sound that was ever present in his city life. To be here in this quiet cottage he could now get thoroughly lost – in silence. Even when she was here he could be a few rooms apart, and find silence.
A week more of this, a fortnight even . . . but he knew he might only manage a few days before visitors arrived and his long day would be squeezed into the early morning hours and occasional uncertain periods when people were out and about.
When she returned, very soon now, she would make tea and cut cake, and they’d sit (like old people they wer
AJ James Mar 2019
Consistently, I'll crave your inconsistency,
Consistently, inconsistent


Heaven, is what I feel when you touch my
And when you sin with me in the dark,
Dark night I wonder if I
Get the chance for this song and dance to last

The past is holding you back
From me.
Be still, stop running
Stop ruining everything in your path


Funnily enough, I know you're slipping through
My fingers, so
Linger no longer in my bleeding heart

Just part ways with me already, I am not
On my own two feet with/out you

See? I am defeated, I am so defeated
As I crave our moments, so

Hot like fire; soulful desire
Is my craving for you to admire


But you won't see--


Be---ating hearts, stutter,
Muttering soft murmurs of want,
Of need, of peace, of release

Haunt me
With your absence,
Have sense
To never come back
I won't take you back,
I won't take you back
(Lie, lie all I do is lie)

My, by and by I slowly die
And without care
You stare at my pain
And scoff
A brush, a kick in the dirt,
Don't you see my hurt?

Ghosted by you,
You don't see anything through
To the end

Scared little boy,
Ruined little boy.
Hurt little boy,
I would've loved you,
Little boy.
You foolish tool

I bid you adieu,

My Ghost.
RisingUp Aug 2018
I was lost
Didn't know how to be found
And then you came
And turned my life a bit around

Messaging you
Brought joy to my day
Light to my eyes
Sadness melted away

Flirty remarks
Danced in my head
My hopes grew
My heart wasn't dead

A couple of dates
Went very well
I had a feeling
I was "under your spell"


The messages stop coming
What did I do?
How could this go wrong
This is just so new?

My mind had planned
Well in advance
That you would probably
Give me a chance

Alas I was wrong
I pushed you away
Nobody to blame
but my own foul play

And now your silence
Stabs my gentle heart
This wonderful future
Brutally torn apart

I wish I understood
Your lack of replies
Forever left
With a multitude of whys
Peter J Thomas Apr 2016
Ghosted mist,

Free floating friend,

He'll come for you,

And it's the end.
Joseph Valle Oct 2012
I sip on scotch and sit here
and secretly, I hope you'll appear.
At first, you'll glance through the crack in the door frame,
I'll look like the intellectual you were missing all this time.
You'll wonder why you ever left and how it was that you thought
you could do without me.
I'll feel the burning of one eye upon me,
so as to keep your furtiveness, your surprise,
but then a second reveals itself, and then your cosmic third.
The desk lamp will shadow your outline
when I slowly, intuitively, glance over my shoulder
somewhat unexpectedly, to you.
My eyes will pry, if only rhetorically, "Who's there?"
and you'll slowly, almost shyly,
though we were never shy with one another,
creak the door open to unveil your then-lit body.
Your radiant figure will send vibrations
through the wooden floor slats into my feet
and I'll begin to feverishly dance,
right then and there,
as if bitten by the largest of tarantulas.
I'll stare in disbelief
thinking that maybe it's the alcohol
which has created this image of you,
or maybe, in fact, I'm devastatingly sleep-ridden,
and so against my heart's common sense
I'll rub my eyes to clear the vision.

You, who haven't shown up night after night,
through all of my writing and pondering
and talking-to-self and drinking
and questioning and driving
and aimlessly-staring and searching
and forgetting and trying-to-understand
and resenting and hating
and loving and forgiving
and grinding and howling
and loving and missing,
but this one night,
this blue moon event,
I guess you could call it that
though it's already passed,
after consuming too much,
you'll appear.

Then I realize,
I am here
and you are nowhere.
Always I think I hear sounds
similar to returning footsteps
barely audible over the taps on my keyboard,
but it's never you.
And so, I continue on,
peeking over shoulder,
awaiting my cliché,
as I sit here and sip scotch after scotch.
Long night drives with a can of golden liquid bitter bluntness are two ultimates that ease the shaky hands and ghosted thoughts

You left me heaving through punctured lungs and broke every rib along the way and I picked up my scattered bones and apologized for the mess

How many more cups of tea until I become harbour?
Paul Butters Jan 2011
My head feels dull.
Not even “comfortably numb”.
No mood for rhyme
Yet must cast my soul
Back through time.

No more rhyme.
Just cast my mind back.
Seek that spark.
Call out my Muse.
Be inspired.

Excitement shines
Like a billion suns.
The merest touch
My every nerve.

Magical mysteries
Unveil themselves.
Brilliant, fluttering butterflies
Flash and flicker
Those rainbow colours and more.

Deep inspiration.
Adrenaline rush.
Electrical discharge.
Cascading sweat.

Thunder-drummed tornadoes.
Lightning storms.
Rose tinged dawns,
And silver-ghosted Moons.

Inspirational volcanoes
Of Muse-blown delight.
That’s how it was,
To be in Love.
(C) Paul Butters 2010. An attempt to show the "magic" (James Reeves) of poetry.
topaz oreilly Jan 2013
"Footnotes" she publicly said the personality shorn,
both from my poem and the club,
the camaraderie I had expected as foregone, now unmerited
and the role trodden, had died.
C'est la guerre.
wraiths Jul 2015
i'm just a ghost of what you aspire to be,
a whisper in the midst of a hurricane.
the trees bend and shake when they hear,
but it isn't even audible to someone
as potent as you.
Jordan LC Murphy Jul 2016
Premature departure,
Your soul escaped this maze,
Haunted by your spirit,
Just a ghost is what remains!

A floating hollow figure,
Triggered in my nightmares,
I chase you every night there,
In fields we used to live,

11 years and going strong,
Your presence and your bond,
18 years was all you got,
To give it all you had,

Bitterness, emptiness, sadness,
Was how it made me feel,
Be my angel stay with me,
My ghosted friend appeal.
Love always has two angles
Whenever two people are involved.
From one perspective,
He/she is here out of kindness,
One of many old lovers & confidants
Who know how far down the other can go,
Whenever in-between relationships.
Each knows, has learned
Through many silent ghosted months,
That the other will always,
Will eventually need them again.
He loves me, she loves me not,
Either one, just freaking terrified.
Never giving one's self completely,
Just one more lobster for the steamer,
"Scuttling across the floors of silent seas,"
One more sacrificial lamb,
First to the shearing house,
Ultimately, the abattoir.
One more cavalier mariner,
Crossing oceans of time,
Carefree swashbucklers are we,
Boffing whomever, at times
Dismal enough to fall in love.
And vice versa, of course,
Thinking about putting down
Shallow roots again.

(Ghosted: A term used to describe when a man (or woman) you've been seeing for a while stops taking your calls and answering your texts. These actions are usually preceded by many a broken promise to "hang out" "have a drink or two" or "catch up" on the part of the Ghoster. The Ghostee is left wondering whether the person just beside them two weeks ago is now alive or dead. Neither can be definitively proven.  "I had been sleeping with Vicky/Jack for about a year and a half before he Ghosted me. Even a "*******" would have been better.")
OJ Apr 17
All I have
Are these items you gave me
But how can I live
When the ground is a mile beneath my feet
All I need
Is a sign that you are okay
But I'll look around
And all around me is a grey empty sky

I won't plead my case to you
You don't know what I'm fighting through
Though I may shatter
Life has glued me back together
But this time added strings to hold me

All I feel
Are your words that will haunt me
So why even try
When you won't either
Unlike you
I have several lights that will guide me
Yes, this is a hard time
But you could at least say Hi

I'm done making excuses up for you
I'm always fighting through
Though I may crumble
Life has stuck me back together
But this time stuffed me with paper so I can hold my own
I wrote this when a good friend of mine just ghosted me, he makes up excuses and I'm done, this is therapy for me.
Alexander Daniel Jun 2017
Short brown hair girl
She stared at me with her big brown eyes
Made me feel like she was going to be mine
Now I sit here wondering why
Why hasn't she texted me
Why did she say we will doing something on Sunday
Oh well I guess she was never mine
I was just another guy....
I went on a breakfast date today and it went great or at least I thought it did. She has only texted me once since then. Oh well everything happens for a reason.
Nik Bland Aug 2019
You were supposed to be there
Five foot three with brunette hair
With eyes that held the kind of stare
That could strip these walls down

Bring me back to ground

Sounding words out to make sure the emphasis
Is on the feeling I found I missed
Which you showed me within a kiss
That was some thing new
Temporary bliss

And now you’re this

There’s a new perspective
Mission statements paint directives
As I dive into introspective
To make sure intents are pure

Is this intense? Well, sure...

So long a heart obscure
Feelings, malady and cure
Potent potions cause commotions
That I must endure
In an analysis of myself
So I might be worthy of the wealth
That comes in the form of a girl
Of a gift beyond this world
Coveted amongst any and all
The darkness broken by creeping dawn

A hope that you may text back
But a knowing that you’re
Jennifer Swoish Mar 2012
I'm sorry
I was wrong
Forgive me
I love you

One of these you said
clearly never meant
Lynde Rose Dec 2016
A light by the hall,
A key under the mat,
An extra plate on the table
Have such a habit
Of not leaving,
The way she keeps watering dead flowers
Hoping they’ll grow back
Hoping that if she just keeps
Giving them what flowers need,
They’ll stop being dead
Can someone
Tell her
They’re never coming back?
Samy Ounon May 2013
The best thing about me is that I'm mute
I can say whatever I like and no one seems to hear me
I like being mute
I don't feel the guilt of my words
Because they go unnoticed

The best thing about being mute
Is that I can throw my voice around
And I can scream my words of pain eloquently crafted into the night
And I'm not deemed, "drama queen of the year,"

The best thing about being mute
Is that I can I sing "Hurt" at Joan Sutherland volume
And the only thing suspected
Is that I'm widening my range
Becoming well-rounded in my repertoire

The best thing about being mute
Is that when I'm approached by my comrade
Four years my junior
And am scolded for not taking care of what I was "supposed to"
And now HE must bear the burden of my carelessness and selfish tendencies
I can drop my vacuum and set down my washing
Beseech him to not use those words against me again
And am later chastised for usurping my lieutenant's role
Out of personal, hormonal hurt
No-one suspects
The fact that I am scolded in this way
Means that they don't hear

And that's when I start to wonder
When my throat is sore and my lungs ache
If I'm not really mute at all
And if they're just deaf

The best thing about being mute
Is that no one hears me at all
No fingers of shame and eyes of admonishment are cast

The best thing about being mute
Is that I can look in the mirror and tell myself,
"I'm strong"
"I'm smart"
"I'm generous"
"I can do it"
But the words mean nothing
If there is no fog of breath
Ghosted against the glass
Helen Jun 2015
She whispered to her husband with a little unease
They want to remove these but without them I might no longer be able to please...

Let them take them!
You're not just your *******,
You're not just your beautiful eyes
I wouldn't care if you'd been plucked blind!
You're not just a pair of luscious legs
that hold up that beautiful peach of an ****
You're the very air that I breathe
and every beat of my heart
I don't care if you don't have a thing on your chest
I only care, that without you near
I would follow you into eternal rest
Please let them take them
I'm not interested in anything
that doesn't have you to support them

His gaze started at her pretty pink toenails and travelled leisurely up her calves, his hands followed his eyes, to her knees and paused halfway up.
His hands skimmed her rounded belly where their three children began their life then traced her tiger scars onto her rib cage but his eyes were on hers, glittering like stars.
He ghosted up her torso and rested a trembling hand on her pulse
He whispered gently, against her lips

*This is what I want to feel the most!
pampeliška Oct 2017
i don't wanna see your pretty smile
that wasn't meant for me anyway
instead i would like to see you cry
and crawl like me in this pain
Maytin Paige Jan 2014
Have you seen the snow
as it falls
on a winter night
that was dark as could be?
White dots flew at me through
my headlights.
The night swallowed me
in its darkness.
High-beams would make
fly at me faster,
the white dots
A fog-like
blanket of snow
over the road,
hiding lines and tire tracks.
It was so very beautiful.
as milk.
It flew at me in flakes,
and ghosted over the road in blankets.
N E Waters May 2013
This earthly body is incomprehensible. Piles of cells which make muscle, bone and nerv(ous)es. This earthly body too heavy for a spirit--too light to touch the ground. I beg you not to weigh me down.


don't weigh me down. I try in earnest to touch your face, to feel for only a moment sweet flickers of skin on skin, but I grasp right through you.*

I felt about a ghost town,
ghosted around; marveled
upon shivers of what I knew
was dead. I walked
so insolently as the living
through fields that whisper
passage and rivers calling out
on moments gripped in sun.

I walked
right through
you. Ghosted around.

Scoffed at fading memories empty
pitying passages long since written down:
I read you like fiction,
ghost town: fancied myself
so solid among your intangible willows.
Ghosting around. Now
come to find seeking skin on mine I
breeze right through you.
I try a second time, a third and
come  to find it's I
who's too light for living.

It is I who passes through the solid walls
and wails in caves; it's I
who fade into night irepperable by light.
I who watched the world so arrogantly
as the living
like it would pass before MY eyes. But
here I waver unbreakable in the shaking
shining of many tiny lights.

Ghost am I.
AumaObure Sep 2019
Why do I miss you so much though?
Now that you have probably given up on me,
You went quiet without nay explanation
My pride gets the better of me, I can't bring myself to texting you or calling you.
Now that I decided to face my fear and drop a text,
You didn't reply
We communicate professionally on emails
Work related.
You view my status and don't say a thing
I swallow my pride again to text you 'i miss you'
That too go un replied.
I decide to just call and get over it,
Call too not picked.
I don't know why I feel this way
Fear of rejection of being walked out on.
Fear of loosing in my own game.
I don't love love you, I swear,
But I loved loved the attention
The constant calls that sometimes I wouldn't pick intentionally
The annoying 'i love ' texts that I never replied!
This is how it feels to be ghosted?
Gosh, just come back, I need to win this game.
I can't live knowing you are the one that walked away
I can't stand being ghosted,
Gosh, I miss the flirts, the attention, the love
I know it's selfish, but I do miss you
Maybe for the wrong reasons but,
I miss you.
Portland Grace Aug 2013
I woke up to find you still lingered on my tongue,
even though you left so long ago,
I felt your kiss every time I puffed on a black american spirit
and I felt your hands every time the river waters embraced my waist.

I would have gone anywhere with you,
if you wanted to trek the biggest, coldest, mosquito eater infested mountain
I swear to God I would have followed you.

I wanted to trace the cupids bow of your upper lip every night
before I went to sleep.
I wanted to take your hand and put it against my cheek
and kiss every single one of your fingertips
because they create magic
because everything you do is magic.

The feel of your soft hands ghosted on the small of my back
as I tried to push your face out of my mind
through empty bottles that make me miss you even more.

I've loved before and I'll love again,
but what would I give to love you and only you for the rest of my life
and I'll wish on every shooting star
and every fallen eyelash
that some way some how,
I'll kiss you goodnight
and help you fight your nightmares that I know come so often.
I'd never want to see you unhappy,
and I swear if you let me hold you,
I'd never let you go.
Kathy Z Apr 2013

I thought of you again,


Staring out at the window that was coated with a fine screen of early dew; trickling down the cold glass-

somehow, I thought-

Maybe, if I touch it-

I'll see your face again.

There have been times, I admit, when we both fought.

For the sake of my childish superiority-

you went along with a gentle smile on your face.

Where we both swore not to talk,

when I ignored you with a foolish and triumphant stubbornness,

You just laughed quietly and held my hand.  

I always thought-

Someone who makes you laugh that hard-

who makes you smile so much that your face might freeze that way-

Surely they get the benefit of doubt, right?

Hey, you know?

You gave my pathetic life meaning.

The soft angelic light that glowed in the room shone,

only for you.

Once, we both had a beautiful dream of an eternal forever.

Where did that naïve hope go?

"We'll be together forever."

Linking pinkies together and running out into that dark street, we laughed like there was no tomorrow.

I wanted to make that time sincere-

Because, you, who had grown up already, knew-

anyone can just string painful words along and slap on a label called emotion.

"I realized yesterday,"

You began, sighing.

"Even if you pick up the fallen petals, that beautiful flower will never bloom again."

You duck your head against the cold winter air.

That small death on your hands-has your time frozen still?

The sky glowed through the trees with a soft light-

laughing for all the eternity that cried.

When we both danced to that Tarantella of separation.

Now I can't stop wondering-

If I hadn't pretended to be strong, would everything have been fine?

You gave me a silver ring, remember?

When you did, I felt like I had everything in the world.

But somehow-did you know that you weren't coming back?

Is that why you smiled so sadly?

And that story that we listened to-

Me laughing along in the bright sun-

You quietly humming with a smile-

We still laughed together, yeah?

At that moment, I thought-

This kind of happiness should be illegal.

You made the world round, so that no one would cry in a corner, didn't you?

And even now, you lament tearfully that there's nothing that you can do anymore.

My head resting on the corner of your bed, I closed my eyes.

"I used to believe that crying was only for the weak, and that only the strong could survive."

In a voice that was faintly above a shimmering murmur,

Your hand shakily ghosted the top of my hair.

Those brilliant red ribbons that marked our time together-

have become dull and faded now.

Now, ten years later, I grab my coat and run to the promised spot.

You were not there.

Panting, I tried to smile.

The things that had hurt me to much in the past seem childish now.

Is this what it means to grow up?
Read please! :D You may notice that some lines from my other works are in here. Well, this poem was actually for a contest, so I basically combined all my poems together. Hope you enjoy! :)
Izzi Jun 2014
Inspired by: Duke Ellington "Solitude"

The lights low
Music slow
My palm rests itself on the small of her back
My shoulder holding the weight of her head
The rhythm of "Solitude" moving the souls of our feet
With every step builds our wall of love
Taking away
All the pain we thought was here to stay

God is certainly on my side
As her eyes begin to hide
A ghosted smile upon her lips
Bring her closer, grab her hips

Tonight I fall in love
With a beauty that can only be sent from above
I take away her fear
Take away her shame
Take away her pain

Tonight we lock our hands
As we end our Lovers Dance
This is dedicated to Jake Muir for giving me hope
Sylvia Fénix Jun 2018
It wades down the end
From upon the hill, it descends
In it's raggedy, misshapen claw it desperately
clutches a tool,
or a weapon
The scythe sways idly from left
toward right
Brushing along the tips of
the field's innocent leafgreen, darkened
by the dusk of the night
Through the stealth, it's entire form is
blackened. Hidden from me

An occasional glimmer of moonlight
glances my eye, reflected from it's iron blade
It beams infrequently across it's figure
allowing me to spy it's features
Pinhole eyes, a dark but somehow bright white
gazing right through me as I into it
It's mouth was stitched up, but smirking toward me
fabric lips stained with crimson betrayal
I smile at the symbolism and accept
I feel a sharpness drawl against the flesh
below my chin
The movements holding the same creeping terror
But I stay unafraid
I close my eyes
I make my peace
I right my wrongs
I ready myself for the reaping

But then my eyes are open
And the field is bright
Daylight shone upon the roses and the daisies
with the foliage inbetween blazing green
For a moment I theorize a dream
That the encroaching monster
was simply an unconscious figment
But as my hand ghosted my neck
and felt light scaring over it's delicacy
My ideas drift towards the reason
why that thing left me standing

From across this strange place I see
perched upon a simple, smiling scarecrow
a bat
usually, this would be quite the worrying situation
especially as he was staring directly at me
But I could only smile at the black-winged one
And wave my own wing in it's direction
Turning around, I began to make my way elsewhere
In whichever direction destiny would push me next
Weightless, feeling free of my hand-crafted shackles
The cage I designed for myself broken
And you know what?
As I left that field

I think the bat might have smiled back
new chapter boyes and gorls
lets see where it takes us
Tabitha Olthouse Jan 2019
Together we                                
                              ­ Bonded and Paired
Everything we                          
                                    ­Shared                               For each other we                                                                 Cared, Dared,    
When I was
To you I would      
You always knew what I                      
Best friends we had
Never imagined you I would
My­ heart was
                       We were 14+ Years
What went so
Wishing u were here on this sad day  
To take all my pain away
We were best freinds. It was you andme! We were us, not those other stupid prep girls and when you got the chance you left me.  Just expressing that after 14+yrs and all of a sudden being treated like a ghost doesnt feel very good. You Wil forever have a spot in my heart
a m a n d a Aug 2016
i am
a rare and
beautiful bird.


i watch you
out of
the corner of
my eye

and i see
your tricks

i see
your games

you forget
that i can fly
(an aerial view)

and i know
what you
are up to.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
There he sat
All dark unsaddled
Brains quite addled
From the blow

Brigands laughing
All about him
There to clout him
Should he run

From his good eye
Squinting sneaky
Peeking out
From swollen brow

Primrose Pete
Considered options
Or fight or flee

Counting up
The five marauders
Such close quarters
Peter smiled

In a wink
The first two fell
Hellbound from
Pete's shining blade

One was cut
From prow-to-keel
Didn't feel
The lightening slash

Two was dead but
Still a-stagger
From Pete's dagger
Through the throat

Pete then turned
His one good eye
Upon the three
Left standing there

"Knock ME from
My gentle ride!"
He chided them
And took a step

In a flash
The third man died
His manhood hung
From Peter's blade

Number four
Jumped up in-close
They danced a rosy
Final step

"One last waltz"
Said Primrose Pete
And short and sweet
The blood ran hot

Last of all
The Highwaymen
The fifth of five
The last alive

A tall man
Taller quite than most
With ghostly eyes
And hammer hands

A man who felt
That pain was fun
This one-on-one
Was just a tryst

So they stood there
Eying up
While trying not
To give a tell

Of their planned
Last brave attack
While Pete held back
To catch a breath

All at once
The fight was on
That bloodied lawn
Would find no peace

Both men fought
With all their might
From Noon til Night
On into dark

No Moon sang
The stars shone mute
A suit of cloud
Hung o'er the fray

Blood and dark
With ought a sound
Save the pounding
Steel on steel

Come the Sun
There on that field
Without yield
For Honor's sake

Cut for cut
Both men held true
And on into
A second night

A third then
Into a fourth
A fifth of course
They battled on

It's said that
Both men died that day
T'was slay for slay
Though neither fell

He fights on
Old Primrose Pete
His ghosted feet
Still dancing true

With his blade
Of shadow pure
Against a worried
******* dark

And it's said
On summer nights
When the wind
Is right and odd

One can hear
Old Pete's mare
Out there braying
On the moor

And beneath
The old hag's whinny
If you skinny
Up your ear

You can catch
Old Primrose Pete
Sweetly dancing
With his sword.
After thirteen days of dry, 90-degree-plus, it began to rain this afternoon....  and I connected with all my ancient Irish Heroes.
mike dm Feb 2017
the ever briggy snapperjab,
once as trallhup as spacescrapers,
had his woo jotty happenstance
jejuned and nooned

and i soon saw
that i too was too much tooned
in the known visible wavelurf
where roving fate is ghosted
by inexhorrorbull ringly meedecree
of blingee choo choo Hist-o-Then

ever since,
my crave
has castled me down
into whitened gray limb petrify

where diggy beclouded sendersave replaces
Becca Jul 2013
In a world of tree bark and sand stone
she was silk.
Where others croaked and barked
her voice caressed. Where they lumbered along
with pounding footsteps
her feet ghosted o’er the ground.
Their age is painted on their skin
in wrinkles, spots, and scars while
she reflected newborn innocence.
They grapple, she embraced.
They bellow, she chimed.

Around her the brown,
the grey,
the worn and weary,
the walking dead
swayed like crumbling monuments
lit only by her glow.

But in a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk cannot last.

Her voice, so soft and quiet
below their din grows hoarse
as she fights to be heard. She loses
her footing as the ground
shakes with their steps and learns
to keep their time
just so she might stay up
right. In their pain she wallows,
frown lines slowing eroding her as
the sorrow sets in.

She learns to match their strength.
Her laughter is drowned in their cries.

In a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk gets caught, gets pulled.
Strands are ripped and unraveled,
the pieces are trampled,

The lingering rags falls to the ground,
forgotten but for the memory that once
their was something beautiful
where they lie.
chloe fleming Jan 2018
Love is the greatest myth we tell each other
So that we don't worry about being miserable
oh me oh my Jan 2013
There were times when you
me to tell,
let you unravel the cord wrapped
so tightly wound around
lies, secrets, ghosted and deadened emotions.

You weren't surprised when
the cobwebs latched in my throat,
eight legged creatures in the bend of my spine

You didn't turn around
from the ghastly sight,
nor shield your eyes.

You grabbed a broom,
grabbed a shoe.
Gathered away the webs,
swept in a pile.
Murdered the creatures,
washed the evidence,
cleaned smooth.

You grabbed a chair,
no, grabbed two.
One for me, another for
my feet.

You insisted
so incessantly.
I agreed.

You unraveled the thread,
started at my head.
Through my frontal lobe,
straightened my two crooked front teeth,
loosened my spinal cord,
kissed my scarred thighs,
lingered on my faded striped forearm,
held me close.

You gained the keys
to each and every lock.
Heard every story,
kissed every scar.

It was a sad day
when you threw the keys.
Into the black river,
threw it all away,
and instead caught her.
Middle Class Dec 2014
Rainfalls peddle in sunsets of peach falling on, falling on like autumn leaves
Floating down like sour snow.
Am I ghosted?

Through my great lens, looking how the remedial planet spins on and wept. I cannot say it did not create
I cannot speak words as is the writer's fate

My silent observatory
observes the world, even me
The diamond and the rough
In every Swallowed ambition, estate addition, and paintbrush.

I'll climb to every mountain top
Speak my name to the cyclops.
Don't give me ***, don't give me ******.
Show me the lives you live, the years you order.

A tear shed in your silent walk
I'll carry joys to your sidewalk chalk,
When the tide comes to foam,
And the ocean is but loam,
Could it still be?
Will everything I see, be familiar to me?

I think I've done this all before,
I feel every moment as if it's spent,
I'll be here watching the 4th dimension,
In permanent sentiment
Am I ghosted?

— The End —