"ghostwriter" poems
The electric wires form a fox
Eyes and ears pointed at my face
Her mouth nips in the air
She's watching me
Trying to figure out if I'm prey or predator
The woods whisper your name when you walk by
When you sinned we weep of your graciousness
Rejection is a script you know too well
And I'm sorry for being a ghostwriter
Do you know? I ask
How they view you,
You are cunning and they fear it
You are smart and it's terrifying for them
You are the legends scratching cracks into history
What you have done is birth a new era
Our spines read of your sly rebellion
Millions of people have been touched by those stories
But sides have formed
And you have become a martyr
They’ve made you an example,
And I am sorry that your story is not unique
I know so many foxes
Some with white hair
Braided and ready for war
Reckless with ambition
Others with piercing black eyes
Sharp and not scared of death
Saw the injustice and called it out of its shadow
They are scared of them
Called them witches riddled with sins
Killed them without a remark for justice
Leaving their bodies in the forest
Abandon and erased
Trees have been born by their hearts
Nourished by their blood
I walked into the forest
Touched the ground
Felted the air
And came out a phoenix
So I understand the hesitation
The double step before you move
The hitch in your breath before you ask
But I am stone and statue
I speak when spoken too
Just like you, they have made me a lie
So staring will solve nothing now
Ask and you shall know what side I am on
Prey or predator?
You are still staring and I am looking back
I can see the wheels turning in your head
Prey or predator?
And taking pity
Taking rebellion by the hand
Taking you by the hand
Refusing to make you my enemy
I say "neither"
Because exil is also an exception
Because love unite foes
Because I have played the game for too long too
And you look tired of always needing to pick sides
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
I chanced to meet a ghostwriter at my door,
her transportation failed just down the road
A sojourning doppelgänger of sorts
…an elusive reflection in need of a tow
Transmuting words to wine,
We both sip time to time,
‘Til they foment catharsis
And melt to sublime.
Breathless in afterglow,
From insouciance and hubris,
Words weather to sediment
That we’ll climb to the precipice
And once at the summit
We’ll cast words adrift,
Toast our glasses to flying
And then leap from the cliff.
I read your words by day,
to skirt the wiles of your will
but I know your heart by night.
Leave me, charlatan, to my waking hours,
I know whose ghost you are
why haunt my spirit in its sanctum by the light.
I contravene with tears
in the corners of your eyes,
Guide them back, and kiss their lids
And send them off to hide.
In dark whispers,
calling you and calling you
To join them by their side.
Why must you take me with you,
is this protest not enough?
My importune to tender ears,
“I’ve things to do, I must!”
Still you wrap yourself around my world,
My overflowing chalice
And turn the wine to liquid gold,
oh, ever clever alchemist.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Got to get my Gogeta on
Time to go the cheetah runs
Beast mode I ain't cheeto
I'm cheetor
Turn the booth into Hogwarts I'm Dumbledore
My flow deep you rappers seas shore
I'm great in my own greatness what I need to compete for
Leroy kno I shonuff
I'm like Bruce Leroy with the Mic an dey Nunchucks
**** Ghostwriters ima Ghostbuster
My ghostwriter ain't even been discovered
Ha my spirit even more structured
So now you know who write these
See my spirit my Siamese
But I ain't Chinese
I wipe off blood on the Mic with a handkerchief
See I'm an endangered species
I'm rare only a few breeds of mine that ain't extinct
A TRIBE of mine an us them don't synch
It ain't a jinx
Never will I try to create a hybrid with these creatures
We could never have the same features
Being rare is much more easier
To be in this wildlife
I'm like how an lion would write
I hate the darkness cause I'm the son of the light
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
Nice try,
My didactic friend.
Only the foolhardy would use
A can opener
To pry back the lid to their soul.
If even such a thing were viable,
Which, for the record, no es posible.
But let's say it was,
In a fluffy, touchy-feely kind of way.
Performing surgery
On the immaterial
Makes as much sense
As being a ghostwriter for
A blind man's alphabet soup.
Id doesn't make sense.
Could be the hemlock
Is talking back now.
So drop the act, you gadfly,
And take up cycling.
You might as well enjoy
The scenery along your mind trip,
Sharp turns and all.
Your over-the-counter philosophy
Is quaint, but comes with a price:
Fisher Price.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 10:55 AM UTC
When I look at you...
I see an inspiration to be a better person. I see a reason to make the world a better place. I see someone that it makes me proud to call my equal. I see the person that I cannot think of without my soul hungering to be near to them. I see hands that can calm my soul with a single caress. I see eyes that throw my soul into chaos with a single glance. I see the one that I cannot fathom living life without. I see kindness whose rarity cannot be comprehended. I see wisdom and insight that can only exist in an empathetic heart. I see a patience for which I will always be thankful. I see the greatest reason that I have ever found to close my eyes and thank the universe. I see a smile that causes me to forget hesitation. I see arms that provide more warmth than a million stars. I see a hope that refuses to be broken even when the heart that holds it is. I see a love that grows like ivy and overtakes all in its path.
I see a questioning of intentions. I see a fear of being loved for the wrong reasons. I see a doubt of self caused by men that could not accept you for everything that you are, and everything that you are not. I see insecurities caused by loneliness. I see desires longing to be fulfilled. I see a mind that longs for companionship on a deeper level. I see a broken heart that craves to be made whole. I see daily progress in looking past the shadows to see the trees that created them. I see a natural depth that most could not even attempt to pretend. I see a reason to answer the same question a thousand times until my meaning causes clarity.
I see a person whose existence causes my emotion to overpower the logic I cling to. I see the one that I would fight a thousand armies to keep safe. I see the one I have spent countless sleepless nights thinking about. I see the muse that inspires my heart to create. I see the person for whom a replacement does not exist. I see the cause of a desire that overcomes any willpower I possess. I see the sun by which my world rises and sets. I see the only definition of beauty that ever made sense. I see the only person that has ever been able to render me speechless. I see the catalyst for a love that cannot be contained. I see a girl that I was enamored with that has turned into a woman I am inspired by.
I see the only person that I want to hold close. I see the cause of trembling because of emotions longing to be freed. I see the person that has taught me countless lessons. I see the person I would rather spend a day with than an eternity without. I see the person I cannot help but touch to remind myself that they are real. I see the ghostwriter that has influenced every word I have written by guiding my hand through my heart. I see the one that sustained a love so great that it could not be transferred to another. I see the only person I want a future with. I see the person that I want to grow with.
When I look at you I see the answer to every question I have ever asked that mattered.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
Ghostwriter
"Dear Diary" said the scribe onto the page. "What is it i wonder, that inflates my **** to as big as my ego when i write about myself + take the time to pretend that i care?
Tick Tock
fix-it-man
A voice to drive this passion.
Transitional transcendental trapped
betwixt
The written and the spoken
word.
A restless journey
dependent on interpretation and perception.
Then to become of word into form.
To breathe ink and birth creation
into reality.
Then i could sing these words and dance to each rythmic strain.
It would be life lived as it is written.
If time will provide.
Then of course this discourse will close the gap and bring me closer to myself.
Oh Myself! You're back again, how i missed you and your self indulgent interest.
If only you were there, the spectacle, you see, was me.
And for a nano-chromatic passing of time, you and me, us, you see, we were actually, honestly, one and the same.
The spoken word had become the written and with little contamination from self, had become true and of conscience.
And i call myself a scribe? as i pen a silent voice with softly spoken conviction
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:37 AM UTC
The words of last night
Written by the hand of a ghost
And I read them anew
Under light of a new day
And worry that
My very own Mr Hyde
Was lured out once more
With fermented grapes
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
So he had a ghostwriter?
What’s next? A freaking ghostliver?
While you’re at it, add to that a ghosteater.
A ghostsleeper.
A ghostthinker.
Ghostlover.
Ghostdreamer.
Ghosteverything.
Just bare ghosts.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC
You never had to make an excuse
I already made them for you
Justifying your careless behavior
When you didn't even care enough
To have an explanation ready
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 2:31 AM UTC
Time has generated an unfamiliarity with this space, and admittedly, I have not returned out of a diminished need. My bond with these four walls has been reduced to that of a tourist visiting foreign sacred spaces, seeking enlightenment in places where they cannot return.
The pictures painted on old white walls from light through stained glass no longer tell me a story; I only see pretty shapes, of which are reminiscent of a conventional child-like quality, where I can recognise alluring images, but do not understand what they represent just yet. This cathedral holds no new chapters for me.
I feel that my words of faith are composed by a ghostwriter. Although published under my name, they do not belong to me, and I can no longer claim them as my own. This journey was a marathon beginning at birth, and it’s time I stop running.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC
What to do
When the floor you call home
And the walls that shield you
From zones of discomfort
Crumble like the Dow
On Black Friday,
Casting you downtown
in every state,
Under the bridge
Near city hall
With 2 swollen duffel bags
And a story to tell?
It was supposed to be a best-seller
Well-researched and crafted;
Tailor-made for PC
With royalties to match.
But there was a catch,
A devilish twist
Dished by the ghost-writer
With a blond toupee.
His profile was subpar
But he had 4 stars,
A million followers,
And 10 buckets of crow.
So like a scripted clone
You swallowed the pill,
A placebo.
Now he's got the power
To write you off
Like taxes
Or health insurance premiums.
You'd better stay well
Bubba,
Cause that pre-existing *** ticker
Means you'll be fully covered
By remorse,
Not Cigna.
~ P
#AGhostwriterNamedJohn
(1/16/2016)
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
Déjà vu directs us
As the ghostwriter depicts us
Beholden to their feelings
The movie keeps us reeling
Brought to familiar places
With familiar looking faces
Queasy churns my stomach
While logic runs amuck
I know she has connections
To the writer of the scenes
Recalling intimate details
Before they hit the screen
Memories I can't recall
Though a knowingness of it all
Emerging in fragmented facts
The mind unleashed, extracts
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC