Europa's Space Of Poetry

thinking about the scariest thing possible, having moments where I’m not sure if this might be a low audible, or is it a ghost? being haunted because I don’t know how to not do the most.

so it seems like my vibrant energy disturbs the dead, and I’m not sure how that works, but I said what I said. feeling like you can conquer this piece of work, my energy is like a virus; this energy will spread! starting from your toes and will work it’s way to your head. Ooh’s, is creepy, and the boo’s, that’s sleepy.

I’m not just saying, this is really real, getting smacked by a sheet, and looking at the floor to see no feet. Whoa! yet, as I speak I’m feeling the cold in these chills… goosebumps up and down my arm – the room is warm, yet every nerve in my body keeps jumping like I ain’t got the heat on.

everyday is scary, and being in a house alone, automatically takes your mind to this is a haunted home… here comes paranoia now, as if you seen the ‘It’ the clown. this is an unusual poem, the tradition of it is peculiar; maybe as you keep going you’ll see that it’s always better when its unfamiliar…

ultimately it’s nothing really left to say, ghosts don’t talk anyway, they make retarded noises, thinking they are really haunting the people that left them roses, when really its new tenants didn’t know this..