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Literature Text
It's so dark in here.
I will drown you, unwanted pup, then dig your grave with bloodied hands and weep at your lovely funeral as I lay you to your final rest in the green pastures of my heart.
Die, you! Die in my mind as you did here.
Every time I cross my heart I find you missing from your appointed place, nothing but your echo laughing as I stumble down the halls, searching frantically from room to room, chasing your ghost like a lunatic, hoping to recapture some last shred of you.
Fade, or else you will wither in the desperate cages of my mind where I will cling to your smile with the claws of starvation.
Please die, for your own good, and mine.
I will drown you, unwanted pup, then dig your grave with bloodied hands and weep at your lovely funeral as I lay you to your final rest in the green pastures of my heart.
Die, you! Die in my mind as you did here.
Every time I cross my heart I find you missing from your appointed place, nothing but your echo laughing as I stumble down the halls, searching frantically from room to room, chasing your ghost like a lunatic, hoping to recapture some last shred of you.
Fade, or else you will wither in the desperate cages of my mind where I will cling to your smile with the claws of starvation.
Please die, for your own good, and mine.
Literature
She Wants the V
And her V is for Victory
Because she still hasn't won it for herself
So someone must tell him:
There will never be a Dicktory
Because you can't lose
If you're making the rules
~G.K.
June 14 2014
Literature
The Witching Hours
Night climbs slowly up the spires
Tow’ring above still, silent streets.
At last have come the witching hours
When ghosts and goblins dare to meet!
The gargoyles and the ghouls all prance
In gutters where the children trod
At day before a yawning trance
Did send them to the Land of Nod
The witches trade potions for spells
To keep the creeping spiders out,
Much like farmers from green dells
Ask merchants, “How much for a dozen trout?”
The poltergeists ascend the towers
And sing like choirboys all the way,
Then fly to the bells and ring out the hours
Before night will be lost to day.
But alas, the dark must end sometime,
Th
Literature
Ghost Stories
What once was wisdom,
Oral history learned over decades,
Is now become mere titillation;
Safehouse screams for shallow souls
Or multiplexed adrenal highs.
What once was veneration,
Hallowed for ancestral connection,
Is made over in Mammonite drag;
Branded, wrapped in orange
And marketed as sugar rush.
And yet in hidden corners
Some call the spirits quartered,
Yew tree truthful as ever was;
Pouring wine for the dread nobility,
Denying denial of the ghostly years gone by.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
2013.
The ghosts in our heads.
The ghosts in our heads.
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