Poetry is in my blood.

Misery haunts me like a ghost knocking at my bedroom door.

Never fully entering my room, but always lingering outside.

It yells, it screams, it shouts and nonetheless it whispers.

The words travel through my walls and up my ceiling.

Flowing with elegance and madness.

Covering my ears and mind like a dark casted shadow. 

With words that feel so comforting.

Feel so familiar.

There is a sense of peace in the feeling.

The peaceful sadness of misery.

Being alone and in solitude.

But oh so lonely and sad.

Wishing for feelings of warmth and brightness.

But being hugged by words of fallacious intent. 

I do not wish to let misery in my room.

I do not wish for its full consumption of me.

It grows strong feeding off of me.

Eating me like I'm the last scraps to a starving man.

Its knocks echo through me as though I am a broken castle.

Decaying and broken with halls and walls still standing. 

My walls are stern and strong.

And they are a catapult attacking my walls. 

My door stays locked with no welcome for their entrance.

But their voice still captivates me like a siren.

As the ghosts walk my halls.