Well... This.
Natasha Yount
Jan 25, 2012
I am everything you ever were afraid of
i am everything you ever were afraid of
i am the dark
the monster beneath your bed
the creaking door in the
silence of night
i am the spiders who crawl
the birds who fly
the growling beast in the woods
i am the nightmare
that keeps you up at night
thunder is my voice
and lightning my eyes
i am the death of your lover
your family
the car smashing to bits
i am you
dying all alone
i am everything you ever were afraid of
you cannot hide from me
i am always here
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Oct 18, 2010
The darkness is...
the darkness is a friend
the darkness is a foe
it protect me from the light and keeps me whole
as the darkness grows t feel more alone
yet part of me is drawn to the light
the light stings my eyes and burns my flesh
i return to the darkness and this is where i will remain till im ready for the light
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1832 - 1888
Our Little Ghost
Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.
A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.
A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.
Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'
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I feel like poetry has disappeared from the "cool things" basket nowadays, and people completely forgot about it. It is all about photos,apps etc. and never about Art in physical form of words on paper anymore. It's intriguing how we have all 'evolved'.... but in a good or bad way? Am I making sense to you?
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