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Scribbles99
F/Egypt    Scribbles of a dreamy teenager. :)
Scribbles
East sussex    I came on here for some good poems to include in my book, on schizophrenia and psychosis, feel free to message me would be great ...

Poems

Rex Cox  Jan 2018
"Scribbles"
Rex Cox Jan 2018
Scribbles-
These words,
These words,
These lines-
They're my scribbles:
But as far as scribbles-
These scribbles-
It just goes to show,
Not all the mad are inside: You know?

So you slide,
I slide,
We slide...

Oh, troubled soul!

And yet how I know,
I cannot disappoint those- Yes? / No?

No! No! No!
For I must remember
Like in Bedlam of old,
How they, the mad-
Were forced to wear ghost clothes...

And so like a carnival ride:

The whole world,
It slowly begins to slide...

It slides! It slides! It slides!

Proving as I've already said,
Not all the mad are only inside:

And that's not even counting
The ones that are dead...

Oh, no, no, no, no:

But-
These lines,
These lines,
These words-
Are scribbles:

My scribbles-

These scribbles-

My scribbles-

These scribbles-

Scribbles.

Scribbles.

Scribbles.
Melody Oct 2011
I sit and I scribble,

With black ink pens,

Black ink pens and scribbles,

I scribble and I ribble my single given life away.

And when I shower,

I wash the ink off my hands,

and clean the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

It stings and it rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers

And beating heart.


She sits at a desk

with black ink pens and scribbles.

Black ink pens and scribbles.

She scribbles and ribbles her single given life away.

And when she showers,

She washes the ink off her hands,

And cleans the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

She stings and she rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers


And beating heart.


I sit and I scribble,

With black ink pens,

Black ink pens and scribbles,

I scribble and I ribble my single given life away.

And when I shower,

I was the ink off my hands,

And clean the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

It stings and it rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers

And beating heart.


I die with this pen in my hand,

And my book of scribbles below my head.

She dies with her pen in her hand,

And her book of scribbles below her head.


I die with this pen in my hand,

And my book of scribbles below my head.
She looses her mind on a daily basis
Leaving it behind in a formation of scribbles.
She carries stories woven in the dark
Like uncoordinated patterns of light.
Sounds that move as graceful figures
Simple symbols, nothing but scribbles.

Endorsed across these hollow lines
All you interpret are scribbles.

But these "scribbles" are her aim
Her far aspiration; everyday devotion.

Do you not see the avidity, when she takes creation?
Are you that ignorant towards these "scribbles"?

DEAR, THIS IS SOMETHING BEYOND THAT!
You see, words are a weapon against those you resemble.
You see, this ink is her weapon, and how she adores it.
You'll be aghast! When her passion, her "scribbles"
Prevail.