Sharing my Creative Writing Publications! <3

A House for Ghosts
by Gabby B-G i.e. StarryNight

when we first bought the house
it was white-washed and sweet
with a commercial feel
and the contract was sealed
against those expansive dreams
we stacked up like pawns
consumed in our pondering
we waited till morning

until the gray clouds
passed over the bright moon
we slept in cold sheets and
drank in those dark perfumes
behind the lacy curtains
tied to those twisted trees
were these forgotten ghosts
wrapped in our silly schemes

but we stared into the field
and there was no way back home
from the secrets that had
once turned us to stone
what monsters had we
unearthed from beneath the grave
outsiders yet to have seen
what greed can do to a man

tonight we sit in our rooms
draped in the crimson light
staring out into the hypnotic skies
waiting for the day it ends
whispers from our familiars
who walk to and fro in the halls
now empty dust and echos
with robin’s hair walking on eggshells

we sit on our happy beds
consuming crackers and jam
as the dark outweighs the light
waiting for a skeletal moon
to pass her hands and wipe us away
to pass her hands and heal the day
from the house of midnight
the house where we used to play
and now in their name we pray, Amen.

I especially recommend this article I wrote on Prose: Bipolar Beautiful

https://theprose.com/post/31951

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https://medium.com/@gabzgrl/misfire-751672cce31d#.gxjq2n97g

Misfire by Gabby B-G

There was something wrong with her brain. She saw through and knew more than
they could maintain. She exhaled the exhausts of summer, and came down
into a cold winter slumber. Her paranoid schemes had projected into her
world an array of delusions divine. They came to her bed, with an
assortment of pills, informing her of her condition and she would not be
going home until her soulful scars were nursed back to sleepless
oblivion.

How does a window become a painting, or a painting become a window into dead
ends and black holes. Bright dreams visited the child as she lay in
that lifeless sketch, but their eyes she sketched only blinked twice in a
dream that felt so real she swore it was and she didn’t hide her eyes
she drew them because they had followed her waking days when the reason
was never obvious. In a town without eyes, where the hidden reality was
disguised in that strange all absorbing eye in the center of a window
which could see everywhere, and what was it… broken lies. What did it
mean to me?

Her mother had always been crazy borderline paranoid, but her innocence had
shattered. Her daughter saw her father’s and mother’s lives as a book
of bipolar moments unraveling, she imagined where they may have been
when the false past concerned itself with new plots and they walked
between the worlds because the edges didn’t bleed their flesh was not
afraid of new horizons and crossing over before the beast built a wall
between us and the future was scattered.

Somehow all the pictures and, the memories, and the secret of his stories
remained within her locked in a box. She fought so hard to bring it
back, the bright spark her mother sang about as the cinema becomes a
cadaver of human endeavors that would cure her depression since her mind
could not come back.

The difference between freedom and mental dependence, a sort of Genesis .
The parents bought her books and she was visited by her mother’s
friends, before the war before the war before the war that began with a
God who loved a woman. Her mother always had those letters because no
one seemed to understand — that a voice could move mountains.She
tried everything to keep her daughter afloat during the dark night of
broken visions. There were invisible scars that no one could see. There
were imagined possibilities and some kind of electrical activity she had
to keep pressing against the sky until she was free.

She had to keep waving until it made sense to anybody.
They were almost transcendental, scars that came from an unknown source,
like a re-awakening as she entered adult-hood into enlightenment, and
had started hearing their voices. They said that she is eternal.

She was handed a fate that caused such distress, her to be near death. she
was erratic and manic, and a schizophrenic. Something had to be done to
bring her down, but their lack of understanding merely pushed her
further from the shore of the memories into resistance to their false
authorities.

She refused their placebos before it made her dizzy and disheveled and she
was forgotten about. She got scared and resisted and was tortured but
her mind insisted. She got thrown out of the institution . Miracle pills
are their false solution after all the torture but it had terrified her
enough to keep believing in her disease.

It only takes a spark to get a fire going, and this is the song her mother
would sing when she was dying to reach for that light — and the light
would flutter like an immortal being bitterly persuading them to keep
existing, The daughter didn’t know why it failed her, and this appeared
to be a strange test. we cannot depend on the sun for eternity, we must
become our own we cannot fade in the face of these creations. Sparks
eternally bursting within the distant suns of an opposite universe.

They bled like a streak of blood across the sky, strange. But to her it was
an omen. The next day, she lost her mind again. She had been testing her
limits, she had been trying to overcome this fatigue of awareness, this
impending doom. She wanted to conquer Death … She had no idea what made
her so different then…The teachers watched her fall, and when she woke up with a lack of
recollection and a disheveled madness, a dark heart, and failed to melt
the endless snowflakes that danced upon her figure that seemed paralyzed
with fear, as if mocking her theories which were eventually swept
away….and medicated for years.

Her parents locked her in the institution because they couldn’t find the
medicine that colored her cures. It hurt her even worse. She was afraid
to speak aloud and didn’t want the people there to hear her. Girl
-alone — she was upgraded to a new facility and her scars were once
again buried. There were still constant night terrors, staring up at the
mirror above.

Questioning herself, and her sanity, wondering what her
revenge would be for this assault on her reality. She experienced such
tortures. She wondered if she would even be able to forgive her father
as he stood over her in her sickly state, not realizing the amount of
pain she had endured. She looked up to him as he stood over her begging
her to comply with the slave-holders. She was the resistor- she was
being like her mother, resisting to be treated like a slave.

She could see in him such a vast hollow emptiness, could he not fathom
this horrid existential and human pain…from….her….hate.She
wanted to reach God, to touch him, to stop the pain. She saw visions of
his future. somehow he was the one destined to save humanity. How these
fantasies somehow reflected, she never knew. But from one there was
two. There’s something internal rising from the shores of a distant sea.
She would do all she could to keep history free, and promised to bring
him home with her to follow his heart, to know every word because his
life to her is worth so much more. She wants him to understand this
mystery, as it presented to her in visions of before.

I sought to become an inspiration to the lost, to overcome such fears, I
depicted an image of carrying her through the Gates of Heaven, which had
been closed for so long — and God said he would allow me to rescue her
from the suffering of darkness. But even in complete darkness, there are
distant stars to reach. There might even be invisible ones that we
can’t see, those are the sparks that mom was talking about. So I shower
the world in sparks, and hope we catch them like fireflies.if
you only understood the power of love.

And now, claiming the spirit once bruised by the war scars of history.
Dreams and memories that are now a fantasy, if they ever did exist —
a telescope must be found to
find the unseen. For all that appears likened to a dream, may become
mere essences of palm prints in the sand — of a better time and space,
of a distant shore or land. If you can find the atlas to the stars a
Place up higher, maybe now you’ll see the other universe maybe now you
will succeed at claiming your self from the endless loops of time to
beat the odds and rise, rise, rise.

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Nice work Gabby! I wish I was so talented!

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Thanks!! You are!! :sunny: Writing saved me and I’m proud to say. Though I have been writing every day from the time of my first episode, and even within the hospital. HUGS

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Tonight i lay my hope on brass knuckels
They show up at my door tonight
They waving there guns and pointin thierr knifes
Brass knuckles save my soul
Brass knuckles to defend my soul

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**@StarryNight…these are really beautiful! :herb: **

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thankyou <3 http://www.love-is-madness.blogspot.com/

That’s my blog :smile:

here’s my tumblr too if anyone’s into artistic stuff http://gabriellebg.tumblr.com/

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