The graffiti
that appears on these four walls
isn’t just scribble isn’t just scrawl
it’s magic is intangible
tangling us all
mystical symbols enthrall
They detect and protect
us all from bad spirits
Entities that would eventually suck spirit
from soul and bone
not leaving us alone
Who writes this graffiti no one knows
spirit guides hands that glow
in the throes
of a wind that blows
what it says nobody knows
except the writers hands.
My iOS
is analytical
my circular thinking sometimes is an ellipses
my blacklight is the moon
I sometimes feel a sense of doom
pessimistic gloom
whether I am apple, android or Linux driving this computers machine
I laugh until I scream
My search bar is Firefox
not Google
It’s has an interesting internet history
why is a mystery!
special interests
religion
Science
and philosophy
A cacophony of voices
and anxiety about choices
My App Store has flaws
is yet to be developed
my operating system
has ghost code
I sometimes have to try to avoid goblin mode
I find social stuff hard
Autism spectrum disorder
It’s hard to understand
even with AI
I know I am wired differently
I just don’t know why?
I already said I loved you
I already read the words
I already looked for answers
in the sky your heart and the free flying birds
I already grasped for your hand
I already whispered to your soul
I already took the plunge
but fell short of my goal
I already spent days with you
I already kissed your cheek
I already have your voice in my head
I already am that mad every week
the loss of you spiralling and making me sad
the chances are we will never meet again
but I am glad we were once close
I already thought about it already is my ghost…
whispers of poems in every generation
long forgotten
bodies may decay and become rotten
But the words hang in the cold fresh autumnal air.
The undead poet from their grave may save
humanity still
it’s a battle of wills
selling poetry at bookshop tills.
softness and grace left in memories of one’s who knew them the most
although it’s his words live on like ghosts
a gnarled wizard staff
summons the poets craft
summoning words and stanzas
and questions rhymes and answers
Pulling them from sleepy faded ink
to relive times and make us think…
In side the beaten white walls of an mental institution
where people go to be uprooted from their delusions
Sat a man his hand outstretched as if holding hands with the dark
No spark to light his way, only the tragic marks his way
he used to play childish games by himself
look they say where is his mental health?
has it left him altogether why does his play childish games
he would call a name on the wind
for the child he lost unbeknown to them
Tilly or Matilda the ghost of a child of six
who he held in his arms before he was sick
she swallowed her tongue in an epileptic fit
but before then were eye spy and guessing games
before then were pin the tale on the donkey and blind mans buff
I guess we are all in a way sheltering memories like ghosts
In the places in the heart we hide
which we can never move away from no matter how we stride
or how many steps we take
life is sometimes an evil fate.
In the doorway I can’t escape
I can’t walk through the door
to reset my life.”
my life has game over in the title
it’s sometimes all too frightful
I am ghost of the man I could have been
can you feel my afterlife come along?
It is overtaking me, I am feeling wrong
I know I have to face the demon in the mirror
I know I can forgive her and myself
my dreams are still mine and I have their wealth
But can I go the distance alone?
I know my heart beats like a living stone
but I know from the earth
I must ground myself and find my worth.
The radio booms on speakers
it’s enough to wake the dead
zombies re attach their heads
ghosts clammer for attention.
What’s this dissenting dismal story
breaking from the ordinary
it must be the radio news.
This towns a ghost town and we are out of sight
dead ravens take flight
like they have been reanimated by Edgar Allen Poe
the word nevermore repeated.
Disco lights dance in the dusty ghostly radio station studio
the presenter moves his skeletal hand
and slides the controls to the peak setting.
his voice a long forgotten recording
playing jingles old songs and adverts
for a town where no one is around…
Rain falling on the decomposing leaves
cold autumn air breathed in warm lungs
the wind blows muttering ghost stories
into our ears.
Pumpkins carved into wickedly twisted smiles
we dress up for Halloween discos and parties with style
gathering sweets as we go
while the full moon glows
Bonfires built as we wait for the 5th of November
when fireworks will explode and sparkle in the night sky
we remember the gun powder plot
as we toast marshmallows on the bonfire.
In a house on a hill
there was a married couple
with woman who’s will was broken
domestic bliss
started out with one kiss
now she’s haunted by the ghost of how her life should’ve been
he said he wished they never met
he yearned for a life of adventure
he says he’s been held back
through the crack
In the wall of their house
She believes she can see the stars.
Her eyes puffy from tears
her heart putty to fears
which shape her into clay pot
of wasted memories and time
why didn’t she travel the world?
instead of having marrying him
though she doesn’t regret having two boys and a girl.
She’s a haunted spouse
who will one day haunt a house
with memories bitter sweet
and taste the the pain of defeat
of eyes that shouldn’t of met
his stare
she yearns for another man to hold her and care
love and life are both unfair
and don’t hold her gaze
she sits and smokes her life to ashes.