ghoulfrost

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�������� tag #ghoulfrost There is a river. It's beginning to rain, little one.

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  • ghoulfrost 1w

    Here's to the lies and truths.
    Raise your glass as he plays you for a fool.
    Let the wine overflow as she teaches the real meaning of abuse.
    It's quite a merry night, love.
    Your tears won't be permitted to fill this pool.
    Cardinal is the chlorine fancied to treat it;
    Isn't romance such a nice cutting tool?
    So much to say, but by all means, please, let him blame you.
    Take a seat, my good man, and listen closely to each and every sin she swears you repeatedly commit.
    Where are the crackers, boy? Seems your olfactory nerves are numb to the coffee's scent.
    Dear little one, is that you on the floor, bleeding white from behind the eyes as the roses sing a dirge in honour of their falling petals?
    You wonder what you did to have him turn deathly cold towards you.
    You ponder on all your crimes as her phone's answering machine informs you of its temporary owner-induced unavailability.
    Boo-Hoo, here's to the façade called young love.
    A toast to the broken hearts;
    Doff your hats, lads & lasses, to the sobbing crew.
    Cheers to the fallen, to the losers and of course, to you.
    ©ghoulfrost
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  • ghoulfrost 9w

    I. The eyes of the snake holds the bird
    And the river never weeps yet there lies its head.


    He's known many sons born to be hung;
    Many men, dying to be led.
    He's liked many daughters but only loves one;
    Many women, and they're all dead.

    He has heard the song of the willows.
    The dirges and ballads that play forth from the choir of the damned.
    To run away is to seek madness, and to approach is to embrace death.
    My darling dances with another and I can hear the crows break bread.

    There is a way to the lost that points right,
    When taken, the abyss waits at the end.


    The ocean is a raging mourner, the serpent a pretty liar
    For the river weeps not but over there lays its head on the very bed,
    And the serpent's eyes are but basilisk songs to a bird.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 20w

    I took a hike at twelve-thirty-five...
    The streets are dead but the roads are busy.
    In the distance, the merrymaking of drunken misery can be heard and seen.
    Oh, such a ghost that is me to haunt this bag of bones that wears my face.
    I whistle a tune to haunt the forest too and the night jars carry it on.
    I named the little critters that scurry all around the floor even as I watch their inevitable falls.
    Oh, such a cruel player that I am to play such wicked games.
    A firecracker lights the sky, then another and now I wonder what day it is for such festivities.
    That reminds me.. It seems I forgot my birthday again.
    Oh well, it's just another date for the calendar man.
    I gaze at the stars in the sky as my fingers trace the scars on my arms.
    Oh, such a fool that i am to bring such woes to a timid beast that is me.
    It's been awhile since this stroll began.
    Round and around we go, yet I never tire of you.
    I wonder if you're online right now and if you'd reply if... Never mind.
    There must be words I should say here but none of them would matter.
    Oh, such a bother I must be to the ones I love, ever running away only when the song begins to play.
    I've come to a standstill... This place seems new.
    No, it seems I'm the only new thing here.
    I ponder the mistakes of the past week just as much the possibilities that may be in store for me if I were to be discovered here.
    Sleeping bodies in every room, diurnal creatures of habit living out memories.


    I know it hurts down in the deep end
    When the currents sweep you up like inescapable dreams
    and your seizing breaths as you discover yourself here when you awake.
    Such a mystery you are, beautiful little one.

    ...I think about you, Miss, singing a welcome to the end of the world
    As I stand in unfamiliar territory on a cold December night. ©ghoulfrost

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    I took a hike at twelve-thirty-five...
    ...I think about you, Miss, singing a welcome to the end of the world
    As I stand in unfamiliar territory on a cold December night. ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 28w

    It grows tiresome, the pointless conversations.
    It's become a chore, this endless salutations and dreary felicitations.
    You try to pick up where you left off but
    that won't work.
    This is not a class of your kind, we killed them off.
    You grow close to beautiful faces and create familiar names
    But all this proves is that you're obsessed with strangers.
    You try to force us into talking to you?
    How stupid do we seem?
    You must be blind, little wolf,
    Or perhaps a little dim.
    You think we care how your night went, little boy?
    Don't bore us with the details, we get it, it's just a ploy.
    You require too many answers... Turn off your lights.
    It's amazing how well you lie these days when you say your days are allright.
    More lines in text than words that ever come out your lips.
    You say it's a drag instead and yet you find no comfort in sleep.
    Lie awake all night and you get bored enough to turn off the music.
    Such a fool, little boy, you are just another thing useless.
    Can't shake off the feeling you're being dodged every minute.
    The messenger says goodbye but the light's still turned on.
    You've been lied to, little boy, you're the one they're avoiding.
    It's not that they hate talking, it's just you are quite annoying.
    They dance around it cus' it's become too easy to tell when the moody little boy is moving.
    Moving mad as you begin to vent to your brain and your rants end up running.
    Running around all over the place and their timelines pick up the chatter.
    Their phones ring and the collective sighs grow louder.
    They say "the little boy is sad again, and guess who he is blaming today? "
    You, the quiet one, has become the chatterbox.
    Devoid of company, you latch unto finer cords,
    Switched into higher chords and took on the talker's curse.
    For you thought "how lonely can I say I am if all I do is avoid the noise? "
    Alas, you've danced your way into a crowd and it's gotten worse.
    Did you think this through? Oh no, we think you did not.
    Your craving for love is a fool's errand, little boy.
    You know what you are so don't try so much.
    Stop being so needy, you're a clingy sod.
    No one wants to hear you whinging, it's a boring song.
    "no one needs me anymore" " no one loves... "
    Little boy, do quit your gobbing, we've heard it all before.
    Now cringe in your corner and be the ghost you are.
    You are not to be noticed, young Sir.
    You're the odd one out.
    Remind us again why we let you out.
    You're not human, little boy.
    You're something else that's not right.
    Go find your machinations lost in that creepy mind.
    Here, little wolf, take a bite.
    A little care and compassion and the bait you bite.
    You fall for this ruse every single time.
    It's such a shame, this thing you are that desires warmth.
    So many incomplete conversations and awkward silences.
    It's just another boring façade in a cage you've built.
    It's a drag knowing humans.
    It's a drag indeed.

    —Sink deeper, little one, sink deeper beneath.
    Sink, little fool, you know you don't exist.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    You, the quiet one, has become the chatterbox.
    Devoid of company, you latch unto finer cords,
    Switched into higher chords and took on the talker's curse.
    For you thought "how lonely can I say I am if all I do is avoid the noise? "
    Alas, you've danced your way into a crowd and it's gotten worse.
    You grow close to beautiful faces and create familiar names
    But all this proves is that you're obsessed with strangers.


    –Sink deeper, little one, sink deeper beneath.
    Sink, little fool, you know you don't exist.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 30w

    Hello again, little one.

    It's me.

    Don't run away just yet.
    A long write this will be, ol' bub, but the old soul I am has coughed up one more hurriedly written tale of his existence.
    Now I know this would be the time for you to expect from me some very frightful things
    But I believe you've seen the last of me on the Halloween scene.
    I've not lost my touch for gore but out went the will for horror,
    And somehow, it's to my delight to say we will be seeing it no more.
    ____________________________________

    He's alone on this train.
    He's a witness scarred like a bloody combatants vest.
    Time's frozen this streets and everything stays still but the dry breeze.
    Too many years past to have the love back that used to exist.
    The forgotten footpaths have revived into a fading green.
    He can feel the open door's creak, it's like some scary dream.
    In here, everything not currently occupied with the task of being born is busy dying.
    It's a psychoclimatic survivor's habitat where you don't dare breathe.
    No one's running anymore;
    Everything here has been kissed by the grave.
    His heart is ticking, the rhythm is tocking to nothing in particular.
    Many burnt bridges out here, the few still standing will collapse from underneath you.
    Rivers no one will cross for fear of being lost,
    Oceans without ships for none has ever sailed far;
    They all sunk.
    An empty home, a relationless junkyard.
    Chairs that bear the weight of dust and tables that carry nothing but mulch.
    Roofs that taste of rust,
    Floors that crack to ash.
    The bed has lived out its life in here, the walls have faded away.
    Restlessness doesn't find here comfortable;
    Peace was buried here.
    Tracks show only signs of long-dead flames.
    The engines have lost all hope of ever burning again.
    He feels colder than usual down here:
    It's to be expected of him being at home.
    Bones intertwine and lay uneasy, you couldn't even tell if this was a bird or a rodent.... It resembles a new species of dirt.
    He sees faces he hasn't seen in years, there's a story that will never be heard anywhere but here.
    A stranger looking in through the window will see nothing but the pane.
    Light is not welcome here, no gateways to let it in.
    Breathe in the old rancid odour of the apologies for things lost and lies that were bought and sold.
    Sights to see include all the damage he's caused, numerous tombstones for the regrets and the lives wasted down the road.
    Does it seem too fast, this melancholic monologue locomotive?
    He doesn't think so, neither do the scarecrows stuck to the lampposts.
    Then again, they have never thought and they never will for a thousand years more.
    There's a lullaby being played in the background somewhere,
    on a violin in his hand by the fire near the edge of the seashore.
    It's the only warmth in a cold dark world he's got.
    The blizzard begins.
    Here comes another decade-long storm.
    It's late, little one.
    He falls.

    There are no survivors.
    He's alone in this ghost town.

    Don't wake him up, leave him to his lonely mind.
    He's gone.
    The pen drops.
    _____________________________________

    He's done, little one.
    I am gone.
    The pen drops.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    There's a lullaby being played in the background somewhere,
    on a violin in his hand by the fire near the edge of the seashore.
    Breathe in the old rancid odour of the apologies for things lost and lies that were bought and sold.
    Sights to see include all the damage he's caused, numerous tombstones for the regrets and the lives wasted down the road.
    It's late, little one.
    He falls.

    There are no survivors.
    He's gone.
    The pen drops.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 33w

    I live in a house.
    It's a big house with spacious rooms.
    The closest house to mine has a family in it.
    They just moved in.
    They don't know I live here.
    I like the silence that comes with living alone.
    They never do fancy keeping quiet.
    There is either a shouting voice or a crying child being heard in there.
    I ...
    My father tells me that perhaps the lady of the house is scared of being alone,
    Hence she makes up for the silence by all that cacophony of lunacy.


    I live in a flat.
    It is a hostel for students.
    It is comfortable enough for a recluse loner like me.
    The roommates, though, never know when to shut up.
    It's either a loudly played song, a moaning 'n' a groaning of bonking lovers, or a jumble rumble of voices and feet.
    I ...
    My feet tell me that I've done enough runs for today;
    The noise will still be there when I get back


    I walk into a store.
    It's a mega-supermarket that has it all.
    Well, almost.
    It has what I need, at least, for today.
    A set of teens and young adults just walked in.
    The noise they make, the laughter so loud.
    A trio of pretty ladies are browsing the same aisle where I am.
    Ironic, innit? They keep snickering right where the bars of Mars and Snickers are.
    I ...
    My watch says to me shopping is over for today.


    I...
    I ...
    I ...

    I am struggling to take this.
    I grew up with a few key codes.
    One of which was learning to take pain and torture in absolute silence.
    I ... this is hard..this thing called complaining.
    I tend to fix things instead.
    Shouldn't people learn to live in silence or at the very least, in less noisy ways?
    It's bad enough one has to deal with certain laws ...now one has to deal with a whole new growing generation of noisy complaining slobs.
    Who knew a day would come when I could almost identify with a serial shooter?
    Almost...

    I... got to bottle this rage.


    Alas, I am not a furnace.
    I do not scorch everything.
    The chap was right.

    I am just cold and quiet, and on days like this, it sucks.

    ©ghoulfrost

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    I am cold and quiet, and on days like this, it sucks.

    Shouldn't people learn to live in silence or at the very least, in less noisy ways?
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 34w

    I am a man of ice in an empire of ash.

    It's cold outside tonight.
    You ask yourself if the laughter you hear ought to be annoying or cheerful.
    Not an understanding thing, this thing called sleep.
    Denies you its sweetness until it's six in the morning.
    There are nightingales tonight.
    You're a bit miffed.
    You ended up posing a question to the lady your OCD impulses picked
    (And out of nowhere developed an obsessive need for)
    Knowing you haven't talked in weeks due to her not replying you quick,
    Or at all.
    One false move, you delete.
    Then no more need for company.
    She's the last link.
    She doesn't know it and quite frankly, you won't be missed.
    No apologies do you require or else your resolve on this becomes weak.
    Here's to knowing (or fervently hoping) she does not care; Cheers.
    Everything's almost a sore subject like the infected wound caused by ticks.
    You don't even dance around most of it,
    You walk through and within;
    The dog eats what he sees and sees what he eats.

    You are writing what is currently rubbish, the half filled ash screen.
    White words written on it, here and there a glitch.
    You're unsafe to be around with, normal on the outside but nursing something you have to keep under lock and key.
    Good call you haven't had anyone to talk in twenty three weeks..apart from Miss Irene and that's for the poem you didn't complete and for which a reply has not come yet.
    It'd be a shame to talk in public, the very private nature of yours doesn't tolerate spills..and conversations that you can predict.
    It's a sad day to be hard on the inside and the out.
    A bad night to be cold hearted and feel right to the teeth.
    Alas, the call of sweet sleep.
    It's six a.m and finally, the nocturnal animal falls deep.

    I'm a man of ice with an empire of ash.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    It's a sad day to be hard on the inside and the out.
    It's a sad time to be a man of ice in an empire of ash.
    The worst night to be nocturnal and a bad writer of rubbish.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 35w

    There is a river.
    I hear the sound of oncoming rain.
    It is like the voice of my Father.
    His Spirit I ask of Him gently;
    To fill me with, for I am empty.
    The river that runs without end.
    The earth and its people reject it nevertheless,
    Though they drown in their self-pleasing thirst.
    There is a river paid for with blood.
    The blood that was shed for man's own fault.
    The faults so numerous, it was done on a cross.
    The Cross that is the message that should be taught by the Church.
    The Church that now wallows in iniquities and self-love.
    Nevertheless, there is a river and it was paid for in blood.
    To wash it all away, the sins of both the kind and the unjust.
    There is a river.
    I hear the rain that comes.
    I see the clouds gather.
    It was only in drops before.
    Them that are troubled, come ye forth.
    Saved but still oppressed, drink of the water that falls.
    Quench your thirst and be filled and washed.
    There is a rain.
    It comes like a storm.
    To cast asunder the chaff with winds and feed the crops.
    There is a rain.
    It's beginning to fall.
    The flow of the Spirit, the reviving Pentecost.
    It falls to guide, to teach those willing to be taught.
    The children that have come forth, bought by the blood.
    There is a river.
    From it I now draw.
    I ask of my Master to make it a flood.
    I know He that made the very world.
    Even Him that stood after it all, and before.
    The rain, like a deluge, He will send once more.
    To pour it all out, even on your daughters and sons.
    There is a rain.
    I hear its approach.
    ...

    .....

    .......

    ............

    .
    There is a river.
    It is calm, yet it overflows.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    There is a rain.
    It's beginning to fall.
    There is a river.
    From it I now draw.

    there is a river and it was paid for in blood.
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 36w

    Tonight, I write about silence.
    I write about the silence in a house that was never a home when not quiet.
    I write about the silence in a time when everyone is told by anyone to speak up.
    I write about the silence in a phone that once held nine thousand eight hundred and three sad songs but I've deleted them all.
    I write about silence;
    I, a boy who ....apparently has nothing to write about himself this time.
    I write about silence whilst outside, one can hear the pitter-patter drizzle that came after the violent rainstorm.
    I write about silence when from the distant house of a neighbour in this estate, there is laughter and crying all at once from little ones and women in their prime.
    I write about silence, finally, after waiting for a few days, give or take, for a woman I may ....for a lady I wanted...
    Again, no accurate words to describe this...so in this silence, one could say I waited for someone to remember I exist long enough to write this with me.
    I write about silence when I know I have written about it several times in the past five weeks but none seemed nice enough for others to read, or so I believe.
    I write about silence, the very same thing most people like to say they require to think.
    I write about silence and now for the first time in months, there is a mosquito singing its drinking song by my ear.
    I write about silence as I try to avoid having to support the outspoken people all over the internet and the app I post my poems on because they are mostly against my beliefs and stand for notions and ideas that I detest.
    I write about silence as the telly comes on because AEDC decide to bring back the light..hold on, I'm thanking the Lord Jesus for that instead cus' the power company sucks.
    I'm writing about silence as a Jimmy Swaggart song called Troublesome Waters begins to play and I'm beginning to feel better about my life.
    I'm writing about silence when there is a book I ought to be reading right now.
    I'm writing about silence cus' after all is said and done, that's all there is to it and only in the silence can i hear my Saviour's gentle voice.
    I'm writing about silence seeing as this poem will probably get few reads.
    I'm writing about silence and I'm an expert in keeping quiet.
    I'm writing about silence.
    See, this is a veteran speaking, a participant and facilitator of cold wars;
    So much so that very few people know I'm still alive and I speak to even fewer.
    Then again, in truth, I speak to none at all.
    I'll write about silence ...and i may need help doing even that.
    I'll write about silence tonight.
    Would you like to see?
    ©ghoulfrost

    #timetowrite

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    Tonight, I write about silence.
    Would you like to write with me?
    ©ghoulfrost

  • ghoulfrost 38w

    Love is no inoculation against murder;
    It's a debt paid in blood.
    ©ghoulfrost

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    Love is no inoculation against murder;
    It's a debt paid in blood.
    ©ghoulfrost