House Where the Clocks Are Wrong
It’s the hour between the clicks, when the clock hands stutter and the wallpaper curls at the seams,
Where every minute lasts a year and the house smells of rot and winter-burned skin,
Night slips in sideways, dragging its nails across the windowpane,
You hold your breath in the hallway, certain something watches,
The old boards never creak right, they pulse, slow and sick, under your bare feet,
You remember laughter that never fit here,
Not in this house, not in this night,
Not with those faces, not with those hands,
Something cold whispers under the bed—your name in a broken accent,
You try to recall the taste of sunlight, but it slips through your teeth,
You only ever remember the crawling, the locked doors,
The place under the stairs where you used to hide,
The way the house pressed its thumb to your throat when you lied,
Eyes in the vent, watching, always just out of sight,
The scratch on the glass that grew every year,
A question you never dared to ask,
A shape in the mirror behind your own,
A voice in your head that isn’t yours,
You press your ear to the floor and hear breathing in the pipes,
A child’s voice, soft and mean,
It says you made it up, you always make it up,
None of this happened, not the bruises, not the bite marks,
Not the thing that crawled from the closet the year you turned nine and learned to stay silent,
Not the shadow that wears your father’s belt and your mother’s lipstick,
Not the hands that grew out of the walls, cold and real,
That touched you once, and once is all it takes.
You pace the hallway, counting the faded flowers on the runner,
Trying to find the pattern you missed as a kid,
Trying to convince yourself the locks are just locks,
The voices just dreams, the stains just old water,
But something keeps knocking behind the drywall—
And every knock is a heartbeat you lost in that long winter,
Every knock is another story that never happened,
That’s what they told you, what you told yourself,
No monsters in this house, no blood on the sheets,
No night that lasted forever, no cold hands,
No silence thick as concrete,
No words you swallowed like broken glass,
No need to scream, no need to run,
It never happened,
It never happened,
Except you never sleep here,
Except the walls remember everything you won’t,
Except every mirror in this house shows your mouth open,
Like you’re still begging to wake up.
Every clock is lying, every shadow’s wrong,
Floorboards moan your secrets, night just drags along,
You walk in circles, eyes on the door,
Swear you heard breathing from under the floor.
There’s laughter in the corners, thick as winter rain,
A memory in the mirror, all teeth and stain,
Old wallpaper curling, names you never spoke,
Something in the silence wants you broke.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Knocking in the drywall, voices in the vents,
Your name in a whisper, thick with old regrets,
Locks on every memory, ghosts behind each door,
You forget what you remember, but you come back for more.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Night crawls the hallway,
Hands out of sight,
You close your eyes and pray
You’ll make it through the night.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Give me the next horror. Or tell me where you want the pain to go.
You wanted a nightmare with a pulse and teeth. You got it—long, sharp, nothing soft, nothing wasted.
Title keeps its mask on—no fluff, no sugar, no closure, and no Hallmark shit.
Poem first. Then the song.
Buckle in.
Crimson in the Clover
Rabbit tracks in the mud, tangled with broken glass and cigarette butts,
Children’s voices echo in the weeds behind the old trailer park,
A flash of white fur at the edge of the vacant lot, red eyes glinting,
Every nightmare you ever had about bunnies chewing through your nerves and gnawing the edge of your sleep,
A whimper, a giggle, then something else—teeth on bone,
The fence line shakes, the grass parts, claws slick with last night’s rain,
Somebody’s little brother went missing at dusk,
Mother screams into the field, her voice ragged as rust,
But the dirt keeps secrets, and so do the soft, hollow tunnels where they pull you under by the ankles.
Don’t talk about Easter, don’t say cute,
You’ve never seen these fuckers drag a dog under the porch and strip it in the dark,
You don’t remember what the missing cats smelled like after a week,
You try not to look at the twitch in the grass, or the way your own heartbeat skips,
Kids dare each other to spend a night outside,
Try it once, nobody tries again,
You hear something crunching just outside your tent,
A shape that sits up on its haunches,
Ears black with dried blood, nose twitching for your fear,
It waits for your breath to hitch,
It waits for the shiver, the scent, the hope that you’ll call out for help—
But you know better than to beg in this town,
You learned that here.
Midnight and every shadow flickers with the memory of a pet that never came home,
A brother that vanished, a sister that screamed,
An uncle’s shotgun left by the back door,
Nobody talks about it,
Nobody ever buries what the earth refuses to swallow,
Just more holes in the yard, more hollow places in the family tree.
You wake up in the weeds, knees scraped,
Blood under your fingernails, your socks gone, your mouth dry,
You tell your mother it was nothing, but you watch her check your skin for bite marks,
She’s seen them before—knows when to keep quiet,
Knows which wounds heal and which ones only fester,
Every burrow in this yard is a mouth waiting to swallow the smallest piece of you.
At dawn, the dew is slick with fur,
You pretend it’s grass, pretend it’s just the season,
But you walk quick past every shadow,
You run when you hear the soft, rhythmic thump,
Every hop in this place is a countdown,
Every childhood memory is teeth in the dark.
Nobody leaves this town without scars,
And nobody, not once, ever brings home a rabbit’s foot for luck.
Midnight in the trailer park, dirt full of holes,
White fur in the moonlight, crimson on the knolls,
Kids dare each other, but the dares turn cold,
Something hungry’s watching,
And it never grows old.
Mama screams at the field, shotgun on the stoop,
Cats go missing, dogs too, bones in a loop,
Whispers in the weeds, something under the floor,
You pray in your blanket,
But you don’t pray anymore.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Blood on your pillow, fur in the dew,
You lie to your mother,
But the bites bleed through,
Everyone’s got scars here,
No one asks why,
And nobody brings home rabbit’s feet—
You just learn to hide.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
You hear the thumping in the dark,
A twitch, a shiver, a hungry spark,
Don’t close your eyes, don’t make a sound,
If you’re lucky,
They’ll leave you above ground.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Here’s your long, sharp nightmare.
Every line its own wound. No limp fragments, no closure, no mercy.
Title is not the prompt.
Poem first. Song follows.
Let’s fucking drag them into the dark and show them what gets exposed when it rains.
It’s the hour between the clicks, when the clock hands stutter and the wallpaper curls at the seams,
Where every minute lasts a year and the house smells of rot and winter-burned skin,
Night slips in sideways, dragging its nails across the windowpane,
You hold your breath in the hallway, certain something watches,
The old boards never creak right, they pulse, slow and sick, under your bare feet,
You remember laughter that never fit here,
Not in this house, not in this night,
Not with those faces, not with those hands,
Something cold whispers under the bed—your name in a broken accent,
You try to recall the taste of sunlight, but it slips through your teeth,
You only ever remember the crawling, the locked doors,
The place under the stairs where you used to hide,
The way the house pressed its thumb to your throat when you lied,
Eyes in the vent, watching, always just out of sight,
The scratch on the glass that grew every year,
A question you never dared to ask,
A shape in the mirror behind your own,
A voice in your head that isn’t yours,
You press your ear to the floor and hear breathing in the pipes,
A child’s voice, soft and mean,
It says you made it up, you always make it up,
None of this happened, not the bruises, not the bite marks,
Not the thing that crawled from the closet the year you turned nine and learned to stay silent,
Not the shadow that wears your father’s belt and your mother’s lipstick,
Not the hands that grew out of the walls, cold and real,
That touched you once, and once is all it takes.
You pace the hallway, counting the faded flowers on the runner,
Trying to find the pattern you missed as a kid,
Trying to convince yourself the locks are just locks,
The voices just dreams, the stains just old water,
But something keeps knocking behind the drywall—
And every knock is a heartbeat you lost in that long winter,
Every knock is another story that never happened,
That’s what they told you, what you told yourself,
No monsters in this house, no blood on the sheets,
No night that lasted forever, no cold hands,
No silence thick as concrete,
No words you swallowed like broken glass,
No need to scream, no need to run,
It never happened,
It never happened,
Except you never sleep here,
Except the walls remember everything you won’t,
Except every mirror in this house shows your mouth open,
Like you’re still begging to wake up.
Every clock is lying, every shadow’s wrong,
Floorboards moan your secrets, night just drags along,
You walk in circles, eyes on the door,
Swear you heard breathing from under the floor.
There’s laughter in the corners, thick as winter rain,
A memory in the mirror, all teeth and stain,
Old wallpaper curling, names you never spoke,
Something in the silence wants you broke.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Knocking in the drywall, voices in the vents,
Your name in a whisper, thick with old regrets,
Locks on every memory, ghosts behind each door,
You forget what you remember, but you come back for more.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Night crawls the hallway,
Hands out of sight,
You close your eyes and pray
You’ll make it through the night.
You say it never happened,
You swear you made it up,
But the house knows every hour
You hid and never loved,
It’s a secret with no ending,
A bruise you never show—
You say it never happened,
But the house will always know.
Give me the next horror. Or tell me where you want the pain to go.
You wanted a nightmare with a pulse and teeth. You got it—long, sharp, nothing soft, nothing wasted.
Title keeps its mask on—no fluff, no sugar, no closure, and no Hallmark shit.
Poem first. Then the song.
Buckle in.
Crimson in the Clover
Rabbit tracks in the mud, tangled with broken glass and cigarette butts,
Children’s voices echo in the weeds behind the old trailer park,
A flash of white fur at the edge of the vacant lot, red eyes glinting,
Every nightmare you ever had about bunnies chewing through your nerves and gnawing the edge of your sleep,
A whimper, a giggle, then something else—teeth on bone,
The fence line shakes, the grass parts, claws slick with last night’s rain,
Somebody’s little brother went missing at dusk,
Mother screams into the field, her voice ragged as rust,
But the dirt keeps secrets, and so do the soft, hollow tunnels where they pull you under by the ankles.
Don’t talk about Easter, don’t say cute,
You’ve never seen these fuckers drag a dog under the porch and strip it in the dark,
You don’t remember what the missing cats smelled like after a week,
You try not to look at the twitch in the grass, or the way your own heartbeat skips,
Kids dare each other to spend a night outside,
Try it once, nobody tries again,
You hear something crunching just outside your tent,
A shape that sits up on its haunches,
Ears black with dried blood, nose twitching for your fear,
It waits for your breath to hitch,
It waits for the shiver, the scent, the hope that you’ll call out for help—
But you know better than to beg in this town,
You learned that here.
Midnight and every shadow flickers with the memory of a pet that never came home,
A brother that vanished, a sister that screamed,
An uncle’s shotgun left by the back door,
Nobody talks about it,
Nobody ever buries what the earth refuses to swallow,
Just more holes in the yard, more hollow places in the family tree.
You wake up in the weeds, knees scraped,
Blood under your fingernails, your socks gone, your mouth dry,
You tell your mother it was nothing, but you watch her check your skin for bite marks,
She’s seen them before—knows when to keep quiet,
Knows which wounds heal and which ones only fester,
Every burrow in this yard is a mouth waiting to swallow the smallest piece of you.
At dawn, the dew is slick with fur,
You pretend it’s grass, pretend it’s just the season,
But you walk quick past every shadow,
You run when you hear the soft, rhythmic thump,
Every hop in this place is a countdown,
Every childhood memory is teeth in the dark.
Nobody leaves this town without scars,
And nobody, not once, ever brings home a rabbit’s foot for luck.
Midnight in the trailer park, dirt full of holes,
White fur in the moonlight, crimson on the knolls,
Kids dare each other, but the dares turn cold,
Something hungry’s watching,
And it never grows old.
Mama screams at the field, shotgun on the stoop,
Cats go missing, dogs too, bones in a loop,
Whispers in the weeds, something under the floor,
You pray in your blanket,
But you don’t pray anymore.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Blood on your pillow, fur in the dew,
You lie to your mother,
But the bites bleed through,
Everyone’s got scars here,
No one asks why,
And nobody brings home rabbit’s feet—
You just learn to hide.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
You hear the thumping in the dark,
A twitch, a shiver, a hungry spark,
Don’t close your eyes, don’t make a sound,
If you’re lucky,
They’ll leave you above ground.
Crimson in the clover,
Nightmare on the lawn,
Every hop gets closer,
By the time you blink, you’re gone.
Digging under fences,
Dragging you inside,
There’s a heartbeat in the burrow—
Hop-hop-homicide.
Here’s your long, sharp nightmare.
Every line its own wound. No limp fragments, no closure, no mercy.
Title is not the prompt.
Poem first. Song follows.
Let’s fucking drag them into the dark and show them what gets exposed when it rains.