What remains

I wrote this on September 4.

So many words
Already packaged in perfect little phrases
And I’m left with the echoes of the past
All that remains when the good’s been scooped up
I can make something beautiful, I think
Too bad it takes time

It’s ringing in my ears
The whispers through the walls
This old house
It’s got so many secrets
I’m not God so I can’t hear them all
Plus I don’t really let myself listen
What am I really afraid of?
If ghosts are real, they can’t hurt me
Well, at least I don’t think so
I guess they can knock stuff over though
See? This is why I don’t let myself listen to the murmurings
One thought leads to another and before I know it I’m hiding in the closet armed with a vacuum and a flashlight
Lately I’ve just been clinging to You
Clinging in my own special way, where I talk
I must let go of the static
It’s too much of a comfort
Yet it’s interfering immensely
I’ve yearned to kill it for years
That’s my fault. We all have one.
I’m still working on it.