Her Soul Roams In My Home

Blood stains on the floor
Blood stains on the ceiling
Wash them and they’re back again
Oh what an eerie feeling
I know where they come from
It has that distinct smell
The smell that reeks of sin all over
I know it all too well
She still lives in my memories
In her time she was a beauty
If she had been not dead tonight
She would have turned thirty three
Sometimes I hear her steps
Her soft voice near my bed
The sweet song she used to sing
Vaguely lingers in my head
She never wanted to leave me
She never will leave me alone
Her body lays in my fridge
Her soul roams in my home

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38 thoughts on “Her Soul Roams In My Home

      1. Haha. Isn’t that why we create art? And also appreciate it? Because the words or the images don’t mean anything except what it means to the individual who behold it.
        At the time of my first comment I was experiencing extreme anxiety over how my actions may be interpreted. And reading this helped to soothe me that even if I have to “take some space and me time”, even if the other person is super mad at me and everything.. instead of taking my actions as an attack, they’ll upset but will wait it out.
        It’s a poem. It’s figurative. It means something to me that is different to you. That doesn’t change the poem. Only your perception of me. And I am okay with that.

        Liked by 3 people

        1. Whoa. Um, I was just amused by your unexpected comment, is all. It has absolutely nothing to do with my perception of you as a person. I don’t know you. I agreed with you on the first part here, but then your comment took a really weird turn. Space and me time? What the heck? Scratching my head in puzzlement.

          Liked by 1 person

          1. Omg I’m so sorry. I just.. I have felt so attacked lately, I didn’t mean my words to seem like an attack on you personally, it’s like… the “you people” sort of thing. I’m just so bummed about having to explain my words? If you get what I mean? I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean the pointy sharp tips my sWORDS to be directed at you. I just… sigh… I’m really tired. And sad. Of always having to explain my word choices. Sorry Sailor Jupiter. πŸ™‚ nice name by the way. πŸ™‚

            Liked by 2 people

  1. The blood is the memory, the fridge is your heart. Make sure you don’t run out of energy…who knows what happen if the ice sculpture isn’t frozen anyway and turns to real, Frank. Pushed away “things” by swords can hurt af

    Liked by 1 person

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