The Ghosts
The Ghosts poetry stories
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allenhiltbrand
allenhiltbrand Poetry Webpage
Autoplay OFF   •   a month ago
Everyday, a ghost takes a knife to my solar plexus and cuts small pieces of spirit from my body,

The Ghosts

Everyday, a ghost takes a knife to my solar plexus

and cuts small pieces of spirit from my body,

my mind is heavy, and full of ice.

I can't see past the voices in my head.

my mothers dustpan

my fathers trowels.

they sit unoccupied like war bunkers in

a house full of organ meat and iron curtains.

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