The ghosts dance in the attic. Do they bother you? I put on a 45, drop the needle and let it spin. Why do we sway like the tide? You startle. Look in the mirror and see my eyes. My face, your face, isn’t it just enough to exist in this space? Now you close your eyes. Feel the spector of my embrace. The night fades to black, just like I like it, but come sunrise that’s me on your skin. Deeper, deeper than a kiss. You’re what I dearly miss. Darling, darling let me in, forever, and ever, -and ever more.
The haunted house down the street sends people crying all the way along the neighborhood it annoys me sooo much because I don’t even like haunted houses.
i saw you wishing wonder why i can’t go far
i walked right up to you as if this were a bar
you’ve haunted my memories
like a vr simulation of my failures
we woke up too late to pretend we were asleep
we thought our poetry kept an iambic beat
i remember the moments in time
like a friendly frozen smile plastered on a politician’s face
can we relive our greatness or do we masturbate?
He would die for you. Over and over again, in a hundred million ways. First the body, when blood and skin turn to ash, food for the worms. And then the mind. His last thoughts only of you, how this is for you. All for you. And finally, the soul, stripping free from what was left to haunt you.
I’m not sure why my wife is so obsessed with haunted houses. She claims she’d love to live in one, but has she never watched horror films? It’s not just all fun and games and ghosts – people die in those damn abodes. But no, she says I’m just a scaredy cat and can’t handle a little “excitement” in my life.
“Bungee jumping is exciting,” I tell her. “Skydiving is exciting. Ghosts are not my f***ing cup of tea.”
So, I didn’t know what the meaning of this word, but I searched in google translator and discovered that mean “assombrado”, so I know a haunted house, it was near my school when I was a child.
An handful of dust, recycled far too many times, was once again scooped into a leathery sack and pushed out into the light. And later it shivered under the black canopy, and looked through the only clearing to the stars, which shone like many eyes watching down, and reminded of the many terrors watching from just in earshot. And the infinitely more terrors that grew as restless ghosts in the sack, osmosed in from the dew of lonely mornings, the rustle of grass in warm winds, found it again from old times when old sacks were torn apart and all dust strewn again into anonymity with the ground. If only this could be the case, all would be quiet again. But this sack could not allow it, its own enemy, and spent its days filling more sacks and taking the quiet from that dust, because it could not stand the silence of its own being.
I have always thought the hut at my grandparents house was haunted. It had boarded up windows and a faded green chimney that birds loved to nest in. Sometimes when I glanced at the doorway I thought I saw the shadow of a man standing there.
there once was a time i used to watch a movie called haunted house and it wasn’t really scarry.
There are a lot of things which can be haunted, as a house and a person among others.
The ghosts dance in the attic. Do they bother you? I put on a 45, drop the needle and let it spin. Why do we sway like the tide? You startle. Look in the mirror and see my eyes. My face, your face, isn’t it just enough to exist in this space? Now you close your eyes. Feel the spector of my embrace. The night fades to black, just like I like it, but come sunrise that’s me on your skin. Deeper, deeper than a kiss. You’re what I dearly miss. Darling, darling let me in, forever, and ever, -and ever more.
The haunted house down the street sends people crying all the way along the neighborhood it annoys me sooo much because I don’t even like haunted houses.
I am haunted by my past.
Oh, more past than you can dream of. I am haunted by the ghosts of the kings I danced with, of the people I fought, and the ones I couldn’t save.
But you?
You’re the most persistent ghost.
i saw you wishing wonder why i can’t go far
i walked right up to you as if this were a bar
you’ve haunted my memories
like a vr simulation of my failures
we woke up too late to pretend we were asleep
we thought our poetry kept an iambic beat
i remember the moments in time
like a friendly frozen smile plastered on a politician’s face
can we relive our greatness or do we masturbate?
He would die for you. Over and over again, in a hundred million ways. First the body, when blood and skin turn to ash, food for the worms. And then the mind. His last thoughts only of you, how this is for you. All for you. And finally, the soul, stripping free from what was left to haunt you.
I’m not sure why my wife is so obsessed with haunted houses. She claims she’d love to live in one, but has she never watched horror films? It’s not just all fun and games and ghosts – people die in those damn abodes. But no, she says I’m just a scaredy cat and can’t handle a little “excitement” in my life.
“Bungee jumping is exciting,” I tell her. “Skydiving is exciting. Ghosts are not my f***ing cup of tea.”
new changes on Microsoft confuse me. I am almost 82, give me and break and make it easier. We are not computer geeks.
So, I didn’t know what the meaning of this word, but I searched in google translator and discovered that mean “assombrado”, so I know a haunted house, it was near my school when I was a child.
An handful of dust, recycled far too many times, was once again scooped into a leathery sack and pushed out into the light. And later it shivered under the black canopy, and looked through the only clearing to the stars, which shone like many eyes watching down, and reminded of the many terrors watching from just in earshot. And the infinitely more terrors that grew as restless ghosts in the sack, osmosed in from the dew of lonely mornings, the rustle of grass in warm winds, found it again from old times when old sacks were torn apart and all dust strewn again into anonymity with the ground. If only this could be the case, all would be quiet again. But this sack could not allow it, its own enemy, and spent its days filling more sacks and taking the quiet from that dust, because it could not stand the silence of its own being.
I have always thought the hut at my grandparents house was haunted. It had boarded up windows and a faded green chimney that birds loved to nest in. Sometimes when I glanced at the doorway I thought I saw the shadow of a man standing there.