ghoulfrost

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�������� tag #ghoulfrost I am the last of the giants

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  • ghoulfrost 2w

    You've never been to Texas.
    You never really wanted to go somewhere like that:
    The scalding heat, the oblivious desert, the gun-toting outlaws (okay this part is just fictional, they don't really carry shotguns and hate black folks to the point of chasing them off with pitchforks-and-torches now, do they?.....seriously do they?...cus' Lord knows I don't know).
    You don't like the town, that's all.
    Nothing personal, you just prefer a frozen tundra or at least, a place where rain falls....often.
    As for the guns, well, you did grow up in a hood mostly filled with reckless youth who never knew what respect was so long as there was a weapon within reach, and old hands that never hesitated to beat you always near-to-death just because you existed.
    So yes, you've got no problems wielding a shank, skive, skeng, bloody Janix, and any other shit you can find when you decide to send a brother into a two feet by six feet hole early....the locals don't know that though.
    You love the nice people...but they seem too nice, and for a brother, too nice means you better vamoose before they love you to death;
    Case in point: the movie Get Out.
    You don't dig the weather.
    That place got heatwaves that rival that of Sokoto on a good day and makes Kano seem cool during summer.
    Not the weather for this reptile, thanks very much.
    You are a sucker for Alaska, and Vancouver and Siberia and the nice gentle Antarctica.
    Not coyote country.


    When you hear the name "Texas", you almost immediately have to fight the thought of the Southern outback wilderness, two opposite trains coming at full speed on what was, for many years before and many more to come, abandoned tracks;
    A jackal, a murder of crows and some introspective vultures nearby, watching the ensuing clash of the locomotives from the dry mountain-like hills that have eyes, forgive the reference;
    A black man, 6 feet plus, walking with purpose into the path of the oncoming trains.
    That man is you.

    You want to visit Texas, the good ol' loving and caring state of Texas.
    Not for the booze, which is renowned for being good;
    you don't drink, not anymore, No, Sir.
    Not for the women, and the women sure ain't gon' like you;
    A tall boy that don't talk much and don't drink and don't even want to associate himself with the locals is good for one thing only: trouble, with a capital U.
    Not for the delicious food and fine cuisines and oh, their wonderful maternal hand-me-down secret recipes;
    You love to cook but you love to starve more.
    Not for the air or the climate;
    Dry air makes your skin itch and you sweat shiny stuff like some dumb vamp in the sun.
    Not for the sex, Heavens, No;
    Why you think any lass would choose to ride BBCs intentionally/willingly is a freaking mystery, mate.
    Newsflash: they won't, so keep Fenris down there in check.
    Can't have him scaring the folks and making the men get whingy about their cock sizes.
    Not for the cowboys, thank psycho Uncle Sam for remembering that:
    You've rounded up blind bulls with your pen most of your miserable life, now is the time to rest those big balls of yours, young blood.
    Not for the livestock and wildlife;
    You've got enough animals love, and the dogs there are too feeble and small to be of any use to you,
    Except of course you find yourself a nasty giant Cujo.
    Then Steve Austin can cringe in terror as you bring Stephen King's nightmares to life on dem rattlesnakes.
    Hell Yes.
    Amen.
    Not for the hell of it;
    You want hell? Dude, you are a Nigerian with an English accent.
    Surely, only the literal Hell itself can be worse than getting chinged or crashed in on these meddlesome streets.
    Nah.
    You want to go to the Southern (or is it Western?) part of America for a whole different reason.

    Most people go to Texas for the big hearted folks, the country gals, the ranches, hell, they go there to get their asses shot at like some replay of the Wild Wild West.
    You? You want to go to Texas just so you can get run down and over to bloody pieces by some fuckin' train.
    ©ghoulfrost











    Texas is quite a lovely place.
    The movies mostly portray it in an awful light.

    Signed: a boy who
    knows what an awful
    place looks like.

    Read More

    You've never been to Texas.
    You are a sucker for Alaska, and Vancouver and Siberia and the nice gentle Antarctica.
    Not coyote country.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 3w

    For a writer, life is always ...I suppose I'd say "interesting"?
    Just a minute ago, I heard a gunshot in the thunder
    Now you may wonder how it is that I heard such
    You see, once, in another life I would have been the one to do that
    Right before I let off a few more bullets into ...well, let's not speak about the past

    I hear the rain running.
    My my, it's hard on its heels,
    Drumming its merry way straight for me
    Now I can't go out tonight to watch it
    Oh but how I miss the feeling it gave when the rain poured down on me.

    The air's chilly, I like that
    By now, you know that I am a sucker for the cold
    Immune to its misgivings and within it, I find myself at home
    But it's not as cold as I'd like, it's rainy season, not winter
    So I have settled for petrichor smells instead of rimy tears of the sky.
    _____________________________________________
    _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


    Howling debris
    and raging downpours
    Hammering hail
    and roaring winds

    Nothing is as violent as the storm,
    Nothing, well, except God.

    You like the storm.

    That gust of wind that blows left, no, right, wait..no..straight downward?
    Bad winds are the worst at giving directions
    Yet they are just heralds of a more magnificent thing to come
    You await the storm...in your own ways, prepare for it..one would think you'd made yourself a devout worshipper of such celestial weapons.
    Ah yes, isn't that a storm?
    A bloody celestial weapon of the Lord?
    The very noticeable, unrelenting, unyielding, definitely impressionistic weapon...it's like a Leviathan of the sky;
    You can't evade it, can't run from it, can't really prepare for it, not sure if you may even survive it;
    All you've got left to do is buckle down, pray, wait and pray harder you may have ever prayed before, and then pray some more.
    You love this feeling;
    You love how the storms that come are like destiny, like death;
    Absolutely inevitable.

    Don't you just love that sound of music the rain makes
    Such symphony it creates; the splash and pitter-patter of the rain as it rattles like tiny speed dancers,
    The clash of lightning bolts across the sky that give off the illusion of blacksmiths at work and warriors at war
    The tender (yes, you are most definitely mental if you can call it "tender") loving voices of soothing thunder that race to embrace anything that breathes in breathtaking terror
    The furious gusts of winds that blow like ho-ho-ho time to piss off bells and oh-so-jolly ghosts, taking swings and cuts at those that walk and turning cement men, golden rods and about any other bloody thing up on over onto their merry heads
    That fury, that certainty, that unpredictable nature of it, it is final...it knows that unless the One-Above-All deems it so, it is free to rain down havoc in lots and in plenty ...that no matter how advanced we get, we can never fight it.
    No man is a god in the eye of the storm.
    The storm knows only two things that go as far as the eye can see: power and fear.

    You hide your unconditional love for the storms from most people,
    Cus' won't it be weird if someone saw a person laying down right in the middle of a fairly used tarred road;
    Under the strong but merciless lashes of heavenly hydro-forces, with a smile cemented on their face like some distraught and delusional creep begging to get run over by an unfortunate moving machine?.....
    Yes, isn't that weird?
    So you stay inside when everyone is around and observe your graces from the supposed safety of your windows.
    Just then the temperature drops,
    The air in your chest begins to go.......and come
    Cold to the touch, brutal, methodic, slow, dreadful, seething:
    That is the storm.
    The limitless artist with dark brushes and wild paints, splashing over the world with a sense of foreboding doom, intentions seemingly unclear, you love how serenading the carnage it brings is;
    Obsidian, pale, grey, cautious, dirty, vicious, unstoppable, incredible, the real Juggernaut:
    That is the storm.

    Frothy clouds of darkened rage filled with teary pain
    Moving across
    Coal-black skies
    Waves that thrash about the oceans and seas
    Spiking winds and booming bass drums of war
    to accompany
    beautiful flashes of white
    The listening sky, overwhelmed by such weariness
    Seeks to huff and puff at every single thing in existence
    A malevolent sorcerer made of pent-up emotion having things that were once here moments before, now gone the next.

    Every living thing hides from the storm and watch in terror as the non-living suffer gracefully ...don't they?
    Every living thing........but you are not exactly living (or alive), are you?
    _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
    _____________________________________________

    I know, I know, I'm abnormally insane
    But what I can say? One could say I'm the first, and the last of my kind.
    I don't talk much this days, and even if I want to, no one would try
    So when Nature send me her visitors, well, I embrace them like a lonely child.

    It's been thirty three hours since I last slept.
    And now, it's almost 2 am, and my nocturnal nature keeps me wide eyed.
    The storm I love so much is dwindling down to a mere drizzle
    Four more hours of being awake for no reason; it's a shame I'm still alive
    6 am, do take your sweet time, I'll be lonely still whether or not you come to take my bloody eyes.
    I am not looking forward to today's sleep, and the daymares/bad dreams that will come with it.


    But all that is not the point...
    Tonight I heard a gunshot in the thunder
    And I remembered another man's life.
    ©ghoulfrost


    #storm

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    It's been thirty three hours since I last slept.
    And now, it's almost 2 am, and my nocturnal nature keeps me wide eyed.
    The storm I love so much is dwindling down to a mere drizzle


    But all that is not the point...
    Tonight I heard a gunshot in the thunder
    And I remembered another man's life.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 6w

    The truth is a pill too big to swallow.
    Maybe that's why you hide it so well.
    Every time you put that pen to paper, you're a hypocrite
    Because you are choosing the words and throwing the others down the well.




    You write about cutting yourself and watching the blood turn into your ink,
    but not about the times you had to stare at your wrists and could almost see the bleeding veins.
    You talk about the drugs and needles and all the high and ease that comes with it,
    But not about the illusions that stung at your mind like angry hornets or the dulling aches that fill your system during the process.
    You discuss about the times the necklaces of ropes and river bridges above nearly claimed your life as their own,
    But not about how it felt to slowly choke as your own blood betrayed you when the air got caught in your throat and your mind conspired to have you fall and smash every bone in to the depths below.
    You chat about the love and life and times that have gone past as you travel down memory's old road,
    But not about the moments the loneliness felt awfully good, thoughts of death seemed so comforting and limbo was a nice pit stop for you to take a piss.
    You inform everyone who cares to know about the heartbreaks and losses and trashy feelings you've got left,
    But not about the orgasms that had you weeping, or the gifts that made you smile, or even the the emotional bliss you thought you had.
    You tell everyone the tricks to conquering fears and the guides to control
    Oh wait, no lectures about how the fears ruling you keep you alive and how sometimes being led is better for some than being a Simba to the lot of hyenas.
    You sing every word, play every tune, dance to every song
    But when the silence comes creeping in, you feel nothing and tell no one about it.
    You play the victim in every story you have told and the hero in every legend there is,
    No one seems to be the villain but the other partner in all these, so how the bloody hell did you learn to cheat?
    Topical segments dedicated to the secrets you buried sixteen feet down like some demon's hound,
    Yet none about the lies that got passed around at the very same table, those ones that took lives.
    All the raves about waking the sheep and slaying the shepherd,
    Forgetting that wolves are wide eyed lambs with bloodthirsty teeth.
    Decisions to attain godhood and dispatching away harmful mental values and disdainful societal constructs,
    But you don't know which is which so you rather whitewash every single block and meditate yourself into a deadly sleep.
    Doing everything by new standards and building up new towers to do away with old walls,
    Seems no one remembers how often revolutions leads to a different breed of slavery and the tales of how empires fall.
    You write almost everything and turn a pen to a sword,
    But never about the times you gave in to the lust
    Poems about the injustice, the ruins and the blood,
    None about the fire, the cumstains and the rust.
    You don't hesitate to let us know the mouths that you feed,
    Yet you can't recall killing or abandoning your kids.
    You say speeches about the good deeds you did
    Won't you tell, in many details, about every of your vilest sins?


    The truth is too big a pill to swallow,
    So you dice it into too many bits, wash it down with drinks too sweet
    And pretend that the medicine will ever kick in.
    It's too bitter for you to chew, innit?
    ©ghoulfrost

    Read More

    The truth is a pill too big to swallow.
    Maybe that's why you hide it so well.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 7w

    Can you hear the wind?
    Do you hear its song;
    The song of the forest and all the children she's lost?
    Children she lost to the fire, children she lost to the blade:
    The fire that consumes all without mercy, and the blade that marks all without distinction.
    Mercy that men sing of the mouth of death:
    Death that forgets none and forgives all.

    Can you hear the whistles and the chirps of the birds?
    Birds that once sang happily but now scamper in the wind.
    Wind that blows from every direction towards what; we do not know.
    What we do not know ofttimes causes fear to have its seeds sown
    Seeds that rise from fickle saplings to rise into mighty oaks.
    Oaks that once grounded now tower over all our hopes.
    Hope is something wanted but to the lost, one must never show
    Loss is at its strongest when the jungle of despair is born from withered hopes.

    Can you see the leaves rustle?
    Can you see the hills tremble?
    Does the hill remember vaguely when once it was a pebble
    Pebbles that came together to build themselves a home
    A home that grew so large that it became a great mountain
    A mountain that fed itself off the blood of the men it had thrown off
    Blood, tainted,both pure and spilled as the sky heard their death throes
    Now the sky has come to claim its own;
    Can you hear its mourning moans?

    Can you feel the earth rising?
    Can you feel its core as it stirs?
    It stirs an uprising,
    As it spews the bones of the dead.
    The dead that once were creatures, some big and some so small;
    Creatures that died frightened, oh the earth, it swallowed all.
    Now the giants, they have been woken from a slumber ten thousand years long
    And now the wind is howling with the wolves as it sings the forest song.

    Did you listen to me when I cried out?
    Did you hear me tell you my tales?
    Tales of the ones you banished, stories of my people you had slain
    Can you see the sea twirling?
    Oh Mother, she must be mad
    For you killed every single one of her children
    And left this giant to fall
    Now hear me sing you a lullaby, this humble giants song
    For once the forest was empty and I am the last of the giants,
    But soon I will be no more.
    ©ghoulfrost


    #creature @mirakee @writersnetwork

    Read More

    Can you hear the wind?
    Do you hear its song;
    The song of the forest and all the children she's lost?
    Children she lost to the fire, children she lost to the blade:
    The fire that consumes all without mercy,
    and the blade that marks all without distinction.
    Mercy that men sing of the mouth of death:
    Death that forgets not and forgives all.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 7w

    It's doleful, this writing of a thing, this "living life" blah blah, inspire the people, save the world, reh teh teh teh.

    What do they see when they read what you write?
    What goes through their mind as they try to commit you to memory?
    Are you just another insane person, rambling on about how life isn't fair?
    Or perhaps a lovestruck idiot too naive to know what seems nice might not be right?
    A overgrown lost soul with wits running about, giving advice that seems boring?
    A gingerly word gyration specialist deluded enough to think to understand the universe is the only path there?

    ..what do you look like to them? What is their perception of you and how much do they understand?
    You pick pen and paper, blank screen and finger, begin to scribble, what seems like childish doodles,
    picking words apart and then reassembling them, not for you, of course
    But for them, you go on and on and try your best to have someone get exactly what you meant,
    Bearing in mind you'll know who did when you read the comments.
    You feel light headed when the words come oozing forth, a slight head ache when the spring stutters at the mouth and seizes and draws,
    Like a telly switching between clear, static and noiseless pause
    You want your heart out on the letters, your blood dousing them in gasoline fumes
    Maybe just enough that it can start a wildfire in their hearts when they read it
    You keep telling yourself "oh it's for me, I want peace, it's too much in my head, the screaming voices, it's soothing, don't you see?"

    Isn't that half of the truth?

    The other half, if told, will make you seem weak(which you are, by the way), will have you giving up the only bit of control you think you still possess,
    It's like a secret, you know, it belongs only to you and if divulged, well, you know what they say about secrets that are told...

    You want the attention, want? No
    Need the attention.. Its the only thing left for you
    Life takes everything..it takes people, it takes the love, it takes even sweet death, oh darling death , and keeps it away from your reach like drugs kept so high up away from little kids
    So why not give you the attention? You've earned it, you deserve it,
    The words they write as they stumble over themselves trying to see how best they can define what you did
    You feel satisfaction, watching them try,
    And fail
    Cus' in reality, they are never so far from the truth as when they try to explain it
    Even you.
    You can't explain what you did.
    You think you can, and it seems you can, bit you can't still
    The more words you write, the more emotions you hide,
    Deeper in the dark regions of yourself, tucked away, so no one ever sees it, that pain
    You know they can't feel it, it's yours by right and sonehie still it's the only thing you'd give out freely if you could,
    But you can't.
    You see, this poetry or writing or whatever the bloody hell they call this damn shit you write
    It has rules, and one of it has to do with secrets
    "It hides more than it seems to reveal"

    So while you delude yourself, and them,
    Into thinking you actually put your pain into words and fed it to them, you never really did.
    You just took placebos and pretended they were real,
    cus' the pain, the real pain, it can't be put into words.. You know that, they know that..bloody hell, everyone knows that

    It can't be a coincidence that you relate more with the dead than the living.
    Hilarious as it seems, it is quite tedious for you; this act of breathing
    Death is familiar, more friendly, more...easy, more..what's the word?... peaceful
    After all, isn't that why you try to kill yourself every other time it presents itself?
    You want the attention, the love, the peace, the understanding of your words, of your pain
    And frankly, only the Lord above and Death can do that for you,
    And well, you know the Lord ain't up for pity parties and unrepentant sinners
    So Death, it is.
    After surging through all that fear, surviving all that turmoil, cheating death so many times you'd be the best rep for a game of Poker gainst the devil himself,
    And here you are, ...

    You see, you want someone to read your words and tell you how to feel,
    Share how they feel, what they see
    Cus' no matter how many times you try,
    Pain is in the cards for you and life is an awful hand of it,
    And death is all you see
    ©ghoulfrost


    #doleful @mirakee @writersnetwork
    #pod

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    What do they see when they read what you write?
    What goes through their mind as they try to commit you to memory?
    ..what do you look like to them? What is their perception of you and how much do they understand?
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 8w

    Oh what a tangled web we weave
    When we make love a game of whom best to deceive
    When we lace the silk with sweet greed
    And reap our harvests off another's grief

    You fling a strand at a target to reach
    And pray and hope that your prey don't see
    Webs are weapons for the creatures that creep
    And he that makes it must never sleep

    It's a dance of spinning lies, you see
    A dance that each person learns to teach
    A step too far and to yours you'll stick
    And have the floor to receive you and your defeat.

    Oh what a tangled web that we do weave
    Am I the whispering spider? Are you Varys?
    For when men's secrets are told to keep
    Seldom do they ever live in peace

    I love you, darling, you love me too
    Now, tell me, which one of us plays the fool?
    He likes them blind, she likes them full
    But death comes slow for the one to lose

    They weep and moan and their grief is true
    Oh, ask them if they knew him and they'd shout "we do".
    But beware of the red eyed friends and dark eyes of foes
    For no one be as dangerous as him with whom you eat from the same bowl

    Now play me a tune of a man who died
    And I'll tell you a tale of avarice and cyanide
    Draw me portraits of the great ones who lived
    Watch me paint with blood the evils their hands use to create history

    When we strike out to deceive, best remember how to play make-believe
    How to dance on the silk and entwine ourselves in this dream
    Such a lovely mess of beautiful deceit
    What tangled webs do we weave
    ©ghoulfrost

    #ceeswhataweb @carolyns_challenge_account

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    Oh what a tangled web we weave
    When we make love a game of whom best to deceive
    When we lace the silk with sweet greed
    And reap our harvests off another's grief
    Webs are weapons for the creatures that creep
    And he that makes it must never sleep
    Oh what a tangled web that we do weave
    Am I the whispering spider? Are you Varys?
    For when men's secrets are told to keep
    Seldom do they ever live in peace
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 8w

    Ever tasted fire?

    Let me tell you a story about fire.
    Fire is often depicted as a bright blaze or a glorious furnace.
    It's oft described as a hungry beast ravaging landscapes.
    That much is true about it, but fire's like a pet.
    It's art in hues of red and orange and yellow, and sometimes it's dressed in blue and white too.
    Fire licks, like some slobbering old dog that's hungry and all but toothless.
    There are souls in the fires, well, not exactly.
    Not in the fire I am talking about.
    It is more like there are voices in it.
    Sparks screaming out their lungs in a bright but short flash.
    Infernos wailing and raving, mad at everything in the world.
    I prefer the flickers— they don't scream, they sing to me, quiet mournful songs about how yellow girls dance with the orange lads until the winds come and they die.
    There's rhythm in their songs, a beat that thrums and hums its silent way into my mind.
    There are tales of glory in those flames, of power and love and everything passionate about the world.
    There's a song in the flames and I call it the arson's lullaby.
    I dance to it every time I sit by a flame or light a match.

    Fire is insatiable when unleashed, spits ever so often at anything it picks and leaves dry slobber over everything it catches, like some barbaric predator with no soul, but it does have a soul.
    It drifts, from place to place, searching for something it cannot find, the very thing it destroys with its roaming scorch path.
    Fire tastes like smoke and charred paper, like fuming madness and scalding fury.
    My brother likes the fire, he plays with it every chance he gets, but I have tasted the fire and know of its revolting content.
    So I leave him to play and perhaps burn himself once or twice before I put the lights out.
    He should never have to be haunted by the harrowing songs the fire sings.

    Fire burns brighter in the dark.
    You could never appreciate its beauty until it's the only thing alive in the darkness, well, the only thing alive and friendly in the darkness.
    It casts the darkest shadows to the depths and ofttimes, the brightest fires create the darkest shadows.
    Fire is light, and I never liked the light.
    I was born in the cold arms of the darkness and the light torments my eyes.

    You should see fire burn a man.
    It makes them smell like roast pork, well it roasts then to the point it mimics alchemy and creates a delusion of edible danger, driving your senses to the point of no return.
    I have seen fires gulp children and adults alike and watched them yell for help and beg for mercy as it devours them with relish.
    Maybe those screams I hear in the fires are those of the people who died instead of me.

    Fire is like love.
    Fire does end.
    In its wake, it leaves ashes and coal.
    Nobody finds the wake of fire attractive,
    well, nobody but me.
    ©ghoulfrost

    #drift

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    There's a song in the flames and I call it the arson's lullaby— quiet mournful songs about how yellow girls dance with the orange lads until the winds come and they die.
    You should see fire burn a man.
    Fire licks, like some slobbering old dog that's hungry and all but toothless.
    Fire is like love.
    Fire does end.
    In its wake, it leaves ashes and coal.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 9w

    He knows two women he lives for, no, three he dies from:
    Loneliness, intelligence and insanity;
    The only women who never leave him.
    They never complain about his cheating habits
    Ever so vibrant, they never cease to overwhelm him and rape him senseless
    Chase everyone else away; when they're in control, they leave him breathless.
    They obsess over him, adore his very existence.
    These goddesses who own every bit of him, they are often selfish.
    Stealing him from each other's bed whilst the other one sleepeth
    They know he craves another, the gentle Ms. Silence
    You could find his lips and tongue buried deep between her legs
    Often so many times that you'd seldom hear him speak
    But insanity likes him breathing so she draws him from his sleep
    Puts him on his feet and has him pondering till his brain and knees go weak
    Intelligence comes on like a drug, rides him like a maddening horse
    Cowgirl every bloody minute till ideas come spewing incessantly all over the floor
    Alas, he is spent and now no one's left; that's loneliness for you, dirty nun in the sept
    Caressing him like a mum, albeit one who loves to fuck
    Up his life's arse and down she climbs
    Binds his hands and drains him of all fantasies
    Till nothing exists in that emotu world of his
    Silence is the only virgin he's known, she shares her juices when no one else is home
    But their dominion over his heart spells her death wish
    No one loves him, they remind him, no one cares to listen
    His eyes are dirty from the sins they have him committing
    Leaving him wanting more, almost always horny, they cum to his service
    He begs them every night to stay in bed, they love how he grovels,
    He's their helpless despondent pet.
    He belongs to them, the empty bed he sleeps in reminds him never to forget
    He knows three women that will never leave him be
    Two wives to ruin his head and a concubine called loneliness.
    ©ghoulfrost


    #vibrant

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    He knows three women that will never leave him be
    Two wives to ruin his head and a concubine called loneliness
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 9w

    Alone.
    You know that word very well, don't you?
    Friendless and lost.
    Nothing could describe you more than that.
    Mute.
    You haven't used your tongue to utter even a word for weeks on end.
    Dead.
    To the world; love is now a concept lost on you.
    Lonely.
    Even the voices stay silent when you can't talk.


    You don't even see any calls any more.
    It is almost as if you are dead to the world.
    Once again, only it's different this time.
    No more beautiful flowers to smell, all that there's left is your dark bedroom; your very own prison.
    You are a shadow of yourself, then again, there was never much to yourself to begin with.
    You stare at the fire till the coals turn to dust and crispy smoke, that hunger is ever present.
    You only ever get gassed when a song that hurts you is put on play, leaving you to swim through all that nostalgia.
    You rarely write, and now when you do, it's covered with prayers that someone likes it, talks about it.
    You don't even know where the call button is— you were never one to call anyone, at all.
    You stare at the blank screen till you doze off, and wake up to a device still on.

    You've been reduced to begging for love.
    You now sit at the corners of the internet, lurking as always, watching how everyone else enjoys the world.
    You see clearly the pretence in their movements as they dance to the tunes.
    You crave that now, that's how desperate you've become, to want the ability to pretend as if everything is superbly fantastic.

    You want someone to say a word, to stay with you, even as loneliness guides you back down to being sloppily clumsy and utterly useless.
    You remember more of every bad memory your lovely brain locked away to safeguard your already cracking mind.
    You lay awake all night, nocturnal and yet almost inactive, as if petrified by your incessant nightmares that plague your sleep ever since you were but a boy of three years.
    You want company and still hide behind this familiar weak boy's mask, not so much as even bringing out the good doctor or releasing Mr. Hyde back out into the wild.
    You have no zeal to tell your stories to anyone.
    There is no one to tell.
    There are no stories to tell.
    Where's your voice, boy? Where is it?

    You are lost, and all alone.
    No friends and not even a whimper left in you.
    Alas, you are dead to the world.
    Well....almost.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    Alone.
    You know that word very well, don't you?
    Friendless and lost.
    Nothing could describe you more than that.
    Mute.
    You haven't used your tongue to utter even a word for weeks on end.
    Dead.
    To the world; love is now a concept lost on you.
    Lonely.
    Even the voices stay silent when you can't talk
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 10w

    When I went to school, they told me tales of buried treasure, resting beneath the Earth and buried at the bottom of the sea.
    I was told of treasures that would make men swoon, and cause wars.
    I know only of two sorts of treasures:
    gold, silver, and jewels,
    And dust,
    spiders, and rotting leather.


    Men dwell on the past, duel with the present and dream of the future,
    If only they'd trust not the stars but the pockets of black between;
    For the earth cries out for blood and for peace, none of which are ever pure.

    The cosmos bears a heavy burden, yet it's but dust upon a body for the one above all,
    Knowledge has its days, but power is a friendly foe to the wise;
    Seek the truth with utmost desire, knowing that one will die at its feet, quivering.

    Best you be prepared for when the winter comes,
    Metals, no matter how loved, are subjects to rust;
    The sun shines bright and lights the path, but soon it will be the dark night's turn.



    I know of two forms of treasures:
    One by which the men of days gone and days present live by, treasures called women, riches and pleasures

    And then, there's that by which I trade and of which I live on, that which sleeps beneath the deep; lies, secrets and books.
    ©ghoulfrost


    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    #pod #school

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    I know only of two sorts of treasures:
    gold, silver, and jewels,
    treasures called women, riches and pleasures
    And
    that which sleeps beneath the deep; lies, secrets and books;
    dust,
    spiders, and rotting leather.
    ©ghoulfrost