Poets is powered by Vocal creators. You support Ahmed N. Gretly by reading, sharing and tipping stories... more

Poets is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.

How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.

How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.

To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.

Show less

Home Invasion

Daydream #3

Oil on canvas by A. N. Gretly


And as I sit here at my old mahogany desk writing to you my innermost thoughts and musings while the acrid stench of smoke seeps from underneath the cracked door of this room that resides at the highest tower of my crumbing mind palace, I hear their battering rams go bang-bang against the main entrance in echoing reverberations that rattle and confuse whatever dreams that remain within. It is too late now, folks, it is far too late to save what is there to be saved. That is, if what is there to be saved wants to be saved in the first place. These things, you see, they scurry away, here and there. They scurry into cracks that should not be there. Twenty-seven years, but the structure is already falling to pieces. They just do not build them like they used to, or so they tell me. It is a home invasion, you see, but I am not so sure who is trespassing. Whoever it is, they should know this is still my house, and I can s-still do what I please. I wonder though, who is knocking, and how did we get here.

Listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to breathe now. It is all in your head, but that's okay. It's all okay.

And as I sit here waiting for the inevitable, I look around and see snapshots of past lives like building blocks of who I became. Some are vibrant and clear, and others are worn and cracked. Memories upon memories upon memories, yet I can never know the full truth. My mind has a mind of its own, and often, it likes to play games with me. It hides things, and distorts others, and I am left with photo-shopped images of my life. However, it does not change the fact that I have lived for too long. I am weary and old. I am desolate amidst these raging flames, but they continue to invade my palace. Enemy forces of the unknown with deformed faces, and ghastly aromas that waft and intertwine with my very soul. I lie, I lie, I know why they are here. They want to look inside; they want to understand. How foolish is that?

You inhale slowly, and hold your breath while flexing your muscles for fifteen seconds. Then you slowly exhale, and relax your muscles. This will help you calm down.

And as I sit here laughing my ass off, I cannot help but pity those who want to know. They always ask what fucked you up so bad. They are always curious about the how's and why's, but alas, it is a fruitless endeavor. You can look all you want, but all you will find are edited images. Memories that have been retouched so many times, no one can grasp what the original might have looked like. So, come on down, you with your mighty forces. Come on down, and knock my doors off their hinges. I will wait. I will give you an all-access tour, you poor, poor, motherfucker.

Now Reading
Home Invasion
Read Next
That Could Have Been Me