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@ghostinkpoetry
Hey, I’m Ghost — I write poetry that speaks to the parts of you that don’t usually make it into conversation. The grief you tucked away, the loneliness you survived quietly, the love that didn’t have a name. I built ghostinkpoetry because I never saw softness and pain held together honestly — not without being turned into something cliché. So I made a space for it myself.
If my writing has ever felt like it put your feelings into words — this is for you.
Counting the Days Until Freedom
When we look at our lives, what do we see? Not the labels they press into our skin, not the shape we’re forced to wear so others can sleep easier believing we belong.
When I look at mine, I don’t see much— hardly anything at all.
Purpose feels like smoke: it gives direction, but slips through your fingers when you try to hold it.
How do we find one that’s real? Not unreachable, not too simple, just hard enough to make life feel worth playing.
Because even a game with no challenge dies before the second level.
For me, it’s a void. Darkness, or maybe potential— I haven’t figured out which.
But honestly, I don’t think I’ll live long enough to know.
Not long enough to watch the sun rise without the weight of the day pressing on my chest. Not long enough to watch it set without yawning through exhaustion.
Not long enough to feel happiness as something steady— not fleeting, not borrowed, but something that stays.
My eyes are heavy, and I think the heaviness has moved in. It’s not a symptom anymore, it’s a soulmate. It clings like a mother protecting her child.
And I stand at the shore, alone. Looking into the darkness like an old friend, wondering if stepping forward will spark something— anything.
But feeling has become a foreign language. So I march on, because they told me to. Told me I’m strong. Told me to keep going. Told me I’m a soldier.
But I’m not. I didn’t survive war— I live in it. The grenades still fall. The shrapnel still buries itself in the characters of my mind, the ones I made to feel less alone.
They say your inner child never dies. But maybe mine did. Maybe humans live twice— once as a child, once as an adult— and I’ve already burned through both.
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t care anymore.
I am terrified of death, yes— of leaving, of watching from the stars the life I couldn’t finish. But part of me wants to see how the story ends.
I’ve never liked opaque endings, so why should mine be left unread?
Still, staring into the void, there’s nothing. No emotion to tell me which way to go.
So I’ll sit here. In the quiet. In the nothing. Counting the days until freedom— whatever that means— because that’s what I’m worth, and maybe, that’s all I’ve ever been.
@ghostinkpoetry
Counting the Days Until Freedom
When we look at our lives, what do we see? Not the labels they press into our skin, not the shape we’re forced to wear so others can sleep easier believing we belong.
When I look at mine, I don’t see much— hardly anything at all.
Purpose feels like smoke: it gives direction, but slips through your fingers when you try to hold it.
How do we find one that’s real? Not unreachable, not too simple, just hard enough to make life feel worth playing.
Because even a game with no challenge dies before the second level.
For me, it’s a void. Darkness, or maybe potential— I haven’t figured out which.
But honestly, I don’t think I’ll live long enough to know.
Not long enough to watch the sun rise without the weight of the day pressing on my chest. Not long enough to watch it set without yawning through exhaustion.
Not long enough to feel happiness as something steady— not fleeting, not borrowed, but something that stays.
My eyes are heavy, and I think the heaviness has moved in. It’s not a symptom anymore, it’s a soulmate. It clings like a mother protecting her child.
And I stand at the shore, alone. Looking into the darkness like an old friend, wondering if stepping forward will spark something— anything.
But feeling has become a foreign language. So I march on, because they told me to. Told me I’m strong. Told me to keep going. Told me I’m a soldier.
But I’m not. I didn’t survive war— I live in it. The grenades still fall. The shrapnel still buries itself in the characters of my mind, the ones I made to feel less alone.
They say your inner child never dies. But maybe mine did. Maybe humans live twice— once as a child, once as an adult— and I’ve already burned through both.
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t care anymore.
I am terrified of death, yes— of leaving, of watching from the stars the life I couldn’t finish. But part of me wants to see how the story ends.
I’ve never liked opaque endings, so why should mine be left unread?
Still, staring into the void, there’s nothing. No emotion to tell me which way to go.
So I’ll sit here. In the quiet. In the nothing. Counting the days until freedom— whatever that means— because that’s what I’m worth, and maybe, that’s all I’ve ever been.
@ghostinkpoetry
Two Faces of a House
The smile is porcelain, polished for the neighbors, for the sisters, for the friends who never see the cracks that bleed underneath.
Inside, the mask slips. Every word a blade, every silence a cage. Rules appear like sudden storms, punishments shared like plagues. Your room is never yours, your breath never private, your life a performance in a theater you never auditioned for.
They call it love— but love does not corner, does not threaten, does not turn your pulse into a ticking clock of guilt.
The world outside applauds her calm, her laughter, her “grace.” The world inside knows only the tremor in your hands, the way your voice folds itself small before it can be heard.
And slowly, the spiral takes you: anger first, burning bright, then pain, sharp as glass, then nothing— a void where the body walks but the soul refuses to follow.
You drift through crowds like smoke, learning only how to survive, never how to live. The mirror shows a face you do not know, not broken— just emptied.
And somewhere, deep down, a silence whispers: this is what it means to be unseen.
@ghostinkpoetry
When Mother Earth passed her infant She was crippled by a vision, That left her screaming from her knees, Of her son in pieces She couldn’t save him So she said it was a dream But mothers always know They always know what’s coming for their babies A Father, once that son, eats his children One by one, he chokes them down One sticks like chalk as it scrapes his esophagus This one was just a dummy, the real one, out of mind And all while he digests the rest, they conspire in his stomach As for that begotten child; the one he long forgot, Who looks like he was carved from stone; Dons his rusted steel To save his sisters and his brothers Laces their sweet honey wine stored beside the aspirin He knows his father cannot deny temptation of the bottle His father takes it like a shot and then projectile vomits Regurgitating his flesh and blood As that baby’s babies burn with rage, they cut him into pieces Down to hell, they cast him Only sockets where his eyes were: Long and empty with an echo We deem the children: heroes Read their stories in our beds and in our schools Yet if the vinyl looped around We’d call them sinners, traitors, tricksters Their acts: of disobedience, unfaithful sons and daughters Each took a turn to strike their father when he burned their cheeks in acid And he will not forgive them Even though they are just like him Just as he is like his father And on the line continues But if that baby’s babies Ate of what had eaten them Our faithful would condemn Then, whole, they would devour Their minds, bodies, and their spirits Till every son and daughter becomes the one who they call father
Unwoven
I was not born for love, just written into margins of stories where names mean nothing. Not the chosen, not the cursed— just unwritten.
Friends passed like flickers— half-said hellos, hands never held past usefulness. They laughed, but never heard. They stayed, but never saw.
Family, a hollow frame hung in the house of silence. Blood means nothing when no pulse passes through it. No warmth. No word. No anchor.
They say fairytales lie, but even the lie never called for me. No curse, no prince, no tower. Just me, and the rooms I rot in, waiting for nothing because even nothing forgot to come.
The art I make bleeds too quietly to be noticed. Screaming on paper, but it dries before it’s read. Everyone loves the pain until they see what it really looks like.
My face: a closed door. My voice: a static echo in a world built for connection, yet I remain untouched, unloved, unlinked.
Not broken. Just not chosen. Not missed. Just misplaced. Not crying. Just tired.
And I keep waking up only because the body won’t stop. Because breath is automatic. Because the loop repeats and repeats and repeats.
This is not tragedy. It’s not beauty. It’s not even worth myth.
It’s just a person no one ever picked and no one ever will.
@ghostinkpoetry
“Neck-Deep in the Quiet”
I stand where the sand forgets its name, where the tide comes in without asking, and moonlight spills like mercy across the blackened skin of the sea.
The wind doesn’t call me. It doesn’t need to. I am already walking.
Salt clings to my ankles, and I think—this is where feeling used to live. Now, it’s just static. A soft hum in my chest where thunder used to be.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream. There is no rupture to witness, only the stillness of something unraveling quietly.
The water greets me without warmth, no warning or embrace— just the slow, patient rise of apathy, curling around my knees, my hips, my ribs.
I keep walking.
There’s no one behind me to call me back. No one ahead to tell me when to stop. Only the dark, and the echo of waves whispering lullabies to a girl who forgot how to care.
Now I am neck-deep. Now I am tired. Now the moon watches me drown like it’s seen it a thousand times before.
And still— I do not panic. I do not fight. I only breathe once, then let go.
Because numbness doesn’t come with flailing. It comes with surrender. Soft, like the hush before a storm that never arrives.
@ghostinkpoetry
We Play So the Silence Doesn’t Win
We stopped writing when the words dried, when even bleeding softly felt too loud.
So we turned to strings and chords, to broken headphones and looped playlists that knew the shape of our ache better than people ever did.
We play now, not to be heard, but to stay afloat— because sometimes survival sounds like a single note held just long enough to keep the dark at bay.
Pianos don’t judge. They don’t say, "You're too much," or "You're making this up." They take whatever your fingers can give— even if it's shaking, even if it's just pressing the same broken key until it gives way.
There are songs that know us, that saw us crying in math class, in toilet stalls, on walks home in the rain we pretended not to mind. They remember what we can’t say, and they play it back to us like a lullaby with teeth.
We weren’t looking for applause. We just needed a sound that didn’t hurt.
So we filled our lungs with music— bass like a heartbeat, melody like a wound being kissed instead of ignored.
And somewhere in that noise, in those aching minor chords, we found a place where no one asked us to smile. No one told us to try harder. No one said it was our fault.
We don’t always cry now. Sometimes we hum. Sometimes we just sit, and let the sound say everything we’ve been burying for years.
Because when you’ve lived in silence long enough, even the softest song feels like salvation.
@ghostinkpoetry
Some stories don’t begin. They linger. In a rain-soaked city where names are forgotten and memories grow like ivy through the cracks, one man begins to unravel — not through violence, but through longing.
The Volumes of Silence a gothic literary tragedy told in rain, letters, and obsession.
There’s a woman. There’s a bench he waits on. There’s a room she used to live in, filled with the silence she left behind. And there’s a city — fog-drenched, time-stained — that watches it all unfold without ever intervening.
—
🖋 for readers who crave: • melancholic atmosphere and poetic prose • broken minds and beautiful ghosts • love that was never love, and memory that won't die • abandoned greenhouses, rusted keys, and the sound of a violin behind closed doors
If you’ve ever loved someone from a distance, if you’ve ever been haunted by someone still living— this is for you.
In the fog-drenched city of Thornhollow, nothing stays buried - not grief, not memory, and certainly not love. When the narrator - a poet wi
"To Survive Quietly"
They said school would shape me— but it carved hollows instead. I walked corridors with a heartbeat like a secret no one wanted to hear.
Friends laughed beside me while I collapsed inside. Not loudly. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough to disappear without anyone noticing.
They said, "it’s just anxiety." But grief doesn’t ask for permission. Pain doesn’t always come with a name people are willing to believe.
I wore a smile like armour, stitched from silence and stained with survival. The kind where living doesn’t mean you feel alive. Where breathing isn’t a relief but a responsibility.
I told myself: just one more day. Just get through today. Make it look easy.
They didn’t see the betrayal. They didn’t feel the weight. They only saw what I let them see.
Now I stand on the edge of something new— not healed, not whole, but unbroken enough to try again.
Not better, but still here.
And sometimes, that has to be enough.
@ghostinkpoetry
Me: I don’t write love stories.
Also me: — A violinist who plays like she’s trying to forget. — A boy who writes poems about her silence. — Obsession mistaken for devotion. — Memory used as a weapon. — Guilt that smells like lavender and rain. — A city where even the fog remembers you.
The Volumes of Silence is not a romance. It’s a confession.
It’s what happens when longing curdles into hunger— and you mistake being haunted for being in love.
If you like stories that feel like rain in a cathedral, If you’ve ever loved the wrong person beautifully, If your favorite color is grief—
You’ll understand.
In the fog-drenched city of Thornhollow, nothing stays buried - not grief, not memory, and certainly not love. When the narrator - a poet wi
It's so hard to envision my life without you,
The cruelty of imagining you spending your days,
With someone by your side,
Hits so hard upon my chest,
Cutting deep inside,
My breathing becomes so erratic,
Admist of my dreams that turn into nightmares,
My sleepless nights make it hard,
For me not to find you there lying by my side,
I can just can't rest easy until I get to feel your hand in mine,
Where I want to have you close to me,
Because I don't want to lose you,
Feeling that I am not enough,
As nothing makes sense if you're not a part of me...
©️fallencalliope
Beautiful 🫶🏻
Breathe Blue, Breathe Easy
Breathe blue, breathe easy, I said nothing— because silence was a shroud, so much softer than the jagged truth you never earned.
In the stillness, I became a ghost of myself, haunted by the phantom of your hope, the weight of your gaze that begged me to heal a wound I was never meant to touch.
You looked at me like I was the key to a door I knew could never be opened, and I saw in your eyes the ruins of a dream that crumbled before we knew its name.
Some things stay broken because they were made to be shattered— glass scattered beneath the weight of stars, never whole again.
I trace the air between us, each breath a trembling thread, fragile as the moment before dawn, wondering if I could unravel the distance you never saw like smoke against a drowning sky.
Breathing hurts when it’s not for someone— and loving you was like sinking into the ocean with just enough air to sustain the agony of knowing you’ll never surface.
So I’ll let go, not with the clamour of knives or fire, but with a quiet surrender— a soft fading, the kind of goodbye that resides in the breath I take without you, as the world collapses inward and the silence is all I have left to give.
@ghostinkpoetry
Fast Car, Stained Windows
I see your silhouette leaning into the headlights— not quite clear, like a memory half-remembered, half-refused.
We drive through nights that taste like gasoline and something bitter, your heartbeat syncing with the hum beneath cracked vinyl seats.
Tracy’s voice floats from the radio— your voice joins, half the lyrics right, the rest just feeling. We laugh like it matters, like we’ve still got time.
“We’ll leave tonight,” you say, as if the road hasn’t heard that before. But the streetlights flicker past, smearing into the dark, and your eyes stay fixed on the rearview.
I reach for your hand— calloused, still warm. We hold it like a promise neither of us is ready to break or believe.
The fast car growls, spits dust across the blacktop, but how fast is fast enough when the past rides shotgun?
Still, we move— fear and love crammed into the space between songs, between words we don’t say.
And tonight, I choose to believe we’re not escaping. We’re searching— not for a place, but for a light that finally feels like ours.
@ghostinkpoetry
Just posted a new piece on medium. This one’s personal. Raw. Heavier than most.
I wrote about what it means to survive school — not just the grades or the pressure, but the emotional toll no one really talks about. About betrayal, depression, pretending you're okay just so others don’t feel uncomfortable. About wearing a mask until it becomes your second skin.
But also? About the relief of making it out. About the complicated freedom that comes after. And what survival looks like when healing still feels far away.
If you’ve ever felt like you were holding it all together with shaking hands — this one’s for you.
It’s strange, isn’t it, how the idea of school is sold to us as something that shapes us into who we’re supposed to become? Like a…
Being a writer is all fun and games until you have an idea haunting you at 3am but you have school the next day
This is actually so real. I also play the guitar and somehow it only seems to call to me during the night. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
"We Write to Bleed Softer"
We write because we can't scream— so we etch it quietly into silence, each line a wound folded neatly on the page no one reads aloud.
Not all writing is pretty. Sometimes it reeks of rot, of a childhood stitched together with silence and duty, of love never fully given, of being seen but not understood.
We write because the ache needs form, and no one else is listening. A therapist would ask too much. A friend would turn away. But the page—the page never flinches.
Some days, it’s poetry. Others, it's confession dressed in metaphor, like calling your sadness a storm so people stop asking why you always carry an umbrella.
We write to survive the quiet, to name the ghosts before they settle in. We write because the mirror lies, but the ink doesn't.
Because trauma has no edges, but a stanza gives it shape. And if we're lucky— we make the pain beautiful for just a second, just enough to keep going.
We write to feel seen, but not too much. Heard, but safely. We write because we were never taught how to ask for help without apology.
So we pour instead, again and again, until the words sound like breathing, until the silence finally breathes back.
@ghostinkpoetry
