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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 16, 2018

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Submitted: August 16, 2018



Not sure where I fit in this space i can't un-find. 

Not sure if this tape's stuck on fast forward, or rewind.  

I keep finding new circles 

that don't tolerate straight lines.


Like christians mold an old book 

to fit each new vice they find,

Never know which road I took. 

Never give enough of a fuck

to read the signs.


I thought I'd draw a map 

with the ink of wounds that never bled. 

Found it watered down 

by tears I never shed. 


Now here I am 

Teaching limbo to the lost. 

The faux found.

Dressed to impress fools, 

feeling like a damn clown.


My demons,

with puppet strings, 

beat me to dance 

without sound.



she sings a little more outta tune,

each time those ghost ships 

rise from a bottomless blue. 


So here I am in limbo.

Not lost, not found. 

Too tired to impress, 

or turn this down upside frown. 


Guess ghosts enjoy shit shows they've staged. 

They only stay 

to press replay. 


Can't see them till it's too late,

till they're nipping at your heels.

Commit to concentrate,

then they're slipping you little white pills. 

Doesn't matter who's in your wallet.

They get off on chaos and cheap thrills. 


Fight ‘em off if you can, 

but leave your weapons at home.

The trick is they've told you 

you can't do it alone. 

Their lies have fossilized, 

beneath the skin 

to the bone. 

But they only stay as long 

as you let them feel at home. 


We are not puppets. 

There are no strings. 

Except the ones 

we sling ourselves around. 

Our destiny is shaped 

by the souls we let our spirit surround.

© Copyright 2018 Phoebe J.. All rights reserved.

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