Get Your Premium Membership

Family Matters

In the attic, above wooden floor, through the hallway of psychotic, locks upon my door, near the broken window and glass of the sore, hiding in the shadows, bloodstains on the wall. Number nine, house at the end of the street, where lights are low, where silent never sleep.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

Date: 7/3/2013 5:41:00 PM
This is really good! I like the darkness of it.
Login to Reply