not in the old house on the hill,
a self-haunting far worse
than the stuff of horror pictures.
sorrowful and scarring,
fed by our own words and incantations,
lies repeated like sacred rituals,
conjuring the false seeds planted by others,
but watered into full ghost-hood
like obedient children, afraid of the truth,
that we might be magnificent,
creatures loved and of love,
spectacular creations, unique and strangely powerful
and maybe because of,
About this poem
Not my best poem, but it’s a thought that has been on my mind recently. I needed to write it out just to get it out of my brain. Poetry is like that sometimes.
I am a big believer that what we tell ourselves we become. Good and bad. Often others begin the process of breaking us down, but more often than now, we take over and repeat the falsehoods a thousand times for each time others lashed us with their words.
It can, however, work the other way.
I believe this.
The picture was taken in Surry County, Virginia.