Writing, Ideas, & Stories
they keep coming; to room 306-
they checked in, locked the door, and dissapeared-
they order room service, but no one is their to pick it up
they call it ghost
hunters come with their cameras
leave ith empty pockets
all to see room 306.
i’ve seen him, not a they, a he
he comes late and leaves early
he orders food just before he arrives
he doesn’t communicate anymore
just a being
exisiting in a shell
the hunters were so close
to catching a real ghost
littered enterprise
dangerous dump highway twelve
bishops take your queen
you dropped the ball
you missed an opportunity
she was reaching out
but you seemed
distracted
like you didn’t give a shit;
two frames and no pictures
math without numbers
paper without desk
water with frogs without lilies;
can only swim in cold water
long enough to take two breathes
not to waste on insincere feelings
i don’t believe
like i used to;
if you can strike down
the gardeners
who will tend to the garden
when the sun beats down
when crawlers feast on roots;
when you strike down the gardeners
who will watch over your tulip field
i fell in love with a Robin
an tedding out
is the new normal
featuring a segment
of regret
reporting live
from channel news one
it’s hard to look you in the eyes
and tell you i failed
when all i want to do
is give you
something to be proud of
loose colors
twisting the ends
slapping the packet against tired wrist
i can feel
the end
grasping against air
pressed against my throat
inching forward
bloody nails held vacant
wasp fingernails to the hive
only one queen
i hate it here
broke a promise
haven’t told them yet
rounding the pillars if a cracked skull
how to rip a newspaper
over shattered glass
in the valley of the fallen
we have no eyes
bound by moon and leaves
we leave our mortal feet
in the valley we fall in
our souls take flight
mirror of a feat
you show before you leave
we are the valley of the fallen
song of yellow
scared moths of the flames
a thunderous bark
n will call again
in fellow yellow
Saint's Muse 