PoemsBrowse PoemsSlamsFresh DropEchoes
LearnWriting TipsPoetry TermsPoets & ArtistsBooksFor Teachers
ExplorePoetry GenomePoem MapEchoesTake ActionGroups
AboutWrite a PoemDonateSign UpLog In

House


The clock makes a ticking-tocking sound as the chair rocks on the ground. Up the stairs the wind shifts between the walls, dividing all that falls. The house outside was quite alright. The shutters creaked as the wind shrieked through the streets. The sound of cars whispered by the mailbox on the street. The mailbox was red and shaped like a bed, which most people had dread. Four was the number of people who lived outside the house. Under the rocks they stay as they went away. The house still lives today. Another year it will be there more. Visitors come all around to witness the house that could not be found as it fell to the ground.
©All Rights Reserved

Something wrong with this poem?

Share

Replies are closed for this poem.

Bubblybubbles

View all poems →

Your Poem's Voice

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.

Log in to leave a comment.