Ghost House Nights is a collaborative poem that originated in the comments of a single post and grew into a haunting piece. The flow of verses between the poets was smooth, improvised, created first in a note in the feed, just to expand into this magnificent poem.
Take a breath before entering this ghost house, as you’ll be haunted forever!
Don’t forget to subscribe to the collaborators of this post if their words resonated with you, and restack to haunt others!
*Writing is where my heart has chosen to stay. If these letters have kept you company, you’re welcome to help keep the ink flowing — one quiet coffee at a time.
And the ghost whispered verses,
In that dark, haunted house.
High school kids dared to enter,
And then they saw a black mouse.
They squinted deeply at that creature,
Suddenly, they heard poetic chaos.
From that day, they were haunted,
In a lake of poems, they did douse.
Now every shadow holds a line,
Outside your poetic dark design,
let’s fill it with prescription-al verse,
bring your souls more immersed
Hunger crawls through dripping fangs
Shadows hum as authors sing
Tales of horror, strange, surreal
Your mind unmoored from want or will
Once you enter, don’t retreat
You’re welcome in… but on your soul we’ll feast.
Laura B Writing in the Shadows
The walls still hum with meter and rhyme,
ink dripping slow instead of slime,
each footstep tapping iambs in dust,
each breath a vow the ghosts still trust.
So mind the house when dusk draws near,
it feeds on doubt, it drinks on fear,
one borrowed line, one careless read,
and poetry you must then feed.
We do not feed them sugar.
We feed them the names we never kept,
the prayers we learned too late,
The chairs that stayed empty after winter.
We give them our almosts.
Our not-yet-lived lives.
The letters we burned because love was louder than courage.
They eat what time refuses.
They drink what memory leaks.
They sleep inside the questions we outgrew.
So if the house is breathing tonight,
leave a light on.
Leave a door unlocked.
Leave a sentence unfinished.
They will come for that.
And they will stay.
They will stay where the walls still whisper,
where clocks bleed dust instead of time,
where mirrors mouth yourburied secrets
in a voice that sounds like mine.
They will stay in the hollow spaces
between each word you never said,
scratching prayers into the silence
with the bones of what you fled.
Forever changed by lyrics and verse,
The need to bleed out holds strong.
We hear the cries of all the others
wanting to belong.
They do not know who they are
or who they want to be.
But through you, they see darkness turn to hope
With each strike of a key.
No one knows when they moved in.
Perhaps they were spirits of the wood
cut down to make timber planks.
They waited
in the basement.
Truth and dare kids
arrived they sunk icy tendrils
under delicate skin.
Bit down on goosebumps and pulled
out their souls.
Every night they strike,
burn the bones
and stir the words.
Poetry spell released in the smoke.
Didn’t we all start this way?
For what is a poet
If not a daring teen
Entering the dark to face the unseen?
I breathe
And the ghosts of everything I’ve ever touched
Exhale with me
Lungs made of campfire
And lips formed from courage
I breathe
And my hands shape their bodies
No longer in form
But given life on the page
Didn’t we all start this way?
Yes. We all started
with mouths full of smoke
that first drag scorched through soft tissue,
blistered the pink membrane,
turned our throats to char and cinder.
°
We choked on it,
couldn’t swallow, couldn’t spit it out.
The burn spreads like infection
down the windpipe, into the chest cavity,
filling every alveoli with ash.
°
You either exhale or you combust from within.
So we pushed it out hard,
forced the fire onto pages,
watched our breath leave scorch marks
across everything white and clean.
°
Now smoke is all we breathe.
Our lungs are furnaces,
every inhale feeds the coals,
every exhale writes in cinder and flame.
°
We don’t cough anymore
we just burn steady,
feeding the house what it fed us:
ourselves,
on fire.
Chaotic poets—
poetic chaos.
Ghosts converse,
words disperse.
Perverse verses,
pretty curses,
and vice versa.
For what’s a verse
if not a voice
in flames?
and what’s a poem
if not a prayer
without a name?
What’s a rhyme
if not the echo
of presence?
and what’s a ghost
if not a poet
rejecting silence?
When the cries cease to bleed
We write to feed our souls.
Those that have no need of bodies
still create poems too.
Anguish of old age.
Shock of much too soon.
We remember words etched in stone.
They plant footprints in the dirt
words that grow with ache and hurt.
Spirits are not gone
just writing from beyond.
© pm
© Regolith
© Laura B Writing in the Shadows
*Writing is where my heart has chosen to stay. If these letters have kept you company, you’re welcome to help keep the ink flowing — one quiet coffee at a time.
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Hi Ghosts 👻 It's blood in the house 🤣Congo Everyone You all are horror 😱 host today 🙈
Thank you!!!!!!!!! 🫠🫠