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I imagine ghosts exist, if only to float and dance through the mist.
Not remembering who or what they are.
They don't speak, they don't weep
Instead they howl, gut-wrenching
Echoing down emptied halls.

They pass through spiders spinning webs
brushing the dust off statue heads
Forgetting names, or important places
They don't speak, they don't weep
Instead they wander, broken
Peering through ***** windows.

I imagine they prefer to haunt empty homes
Places like them, left alone
Gutted hollow, naked rooms
They don't speak, they don't weep
Instead they haunt, barley noticed
Wailing for their names
Has anyone else been bingeing ghost stories on tiktok? cause...
Peel back the scales
the blackened bits
the blistered redness
the purple putrid scabs
inside are paper thin cuts
unhealed
20 Words on trauma
What is it about that visceral sting?
A slap laced in venom
Oh, how it rips the skin
tearing our scars clean
Opened to the air,
the wounded will scream

A sophisticated song
Rupturing a forgotten well.
What is it about that sting?

Painful cuts bleed masterpieces
Our art is within
The viscous call it out
The hurt pours the shroud
What is it about that visceral sting?
Why is pain so inspiring?
neth jones Apr 20
.
told frigid outside                                                          ­                    
within   love is stretched thin         this home   puckled tight
sealed  and buckled in      from all the social weathering
from the gatherings    in heated public yurts and gymnasiums
that fail short of ***** ****
from the bothersome geographic features out there          
       demanding expeditions, exploration and organization

within   we can see the fridge light                                      
                     ­                                in the middle of the night
we can receive signals and visions                      
                        but are pressed ******* our hearts
waiting out the winter wound
neth jones Apr 13
i enter the river
later the woods
tour natures suicide spots
snub them for a man made bridge
snub the bridge
    because i find life pretty today
    too pretty to bend deaths ear
                             and suspend
26/02/23 : date of earliest version
notes -
you go to the woods to end your life
to bend deaths ear and suspend
mending your feedback of strife
neth jones Apr 6
hungry
belly growling
go    c a n n i b a l i s t i c
on   victims     of   my   appetite
people flee me with their tidy routine
t r a u m a t i c a l l y    busted up
meat flowers    devoured
my glutton grows
hungry
rictameter style
neth jones Apr 6
daycare drop off
he sees me cross a sunbeam on the way out
rushes up to stop me
and gets me to crouch so he can give me a 'sunbeam hug’ (his words)
neth jones Mar 28
the interior     night
he divided a dream into many dreams
worlds opened    diva-ing
and flares   pething out of darkness
seeming obedient  at first
                                 he visited
in truth      they were playful
  but explored his ugly secret details
        and gave no hint of a healing effect

deceived   he was tossed
   exhausted into a new day
                      of occupation and toil
neth jones Mar 28
my       teeth       hurt          in       Winter
the   beginning   of   Winter     for   sure
a                      fantastic                     ache
even           when      the      wind      sits

even             the       cleanest       breaths
          draw       hard          on       my       chest
but my heart still draws on the beauty
invites   stillness       to   meet   stillness
from previous winters attendance
neth jones Mar 27
a reclaiming tide
each spring   the forrest laps
at my shanty door     then  retreats
nature demonstrates  to me
its permission
tanka style
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