Sensitive

You hear footsteps in the hallway when no one else is there 
 you ask about the shadowy lady who looks at you sometimes 
and you are told to stop pretending
stop being sensitive….
and its easy to laugh and ignore the sounds when you are with people
but in the all alone
its like a splinter in your waistband
and you can’t stop yourself from listening
from watching 
the world around you rising on so many different levels 
there are pieces of dreams left behind which
are sometimes claimed
and their footsteps echo in a sensitive ear
a knocking, a breeze across a closed window 
or a gaze just missed
grazes the back of your neck
perhaps it’s like taking a long last look and waving until you wave back
a little something to prove itself to the still living
a ghost story is a history after all…
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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3 Responses to Sensitive

  1. kamilica2002 says:

    Like your poem very much but don’t agree with your last words, when love exists there is no history in that story.

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