Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

These love songs they all sounds the same,
But when you  wrote those phrases on that little piece of paper dipped with your name,
I saw it as your blood soaking by the sheet ,
explaining somehow it's the truth and this is what I was looking for this while : in whosever and whatever I see,
Didn't excepted that there was a number feeling  inside,
Atleast you didn't hold it back didn't hide .
I wish i could repay the every bit of bit of bliss you made me feel every time.

Deep dive
No jump is ever too high
Don’t really care if I die
Can’t be worse than all my insides

Jumping
Up and down on my Boxspring
Hit the ceiling now I’m flailing
On the floor my blood is spilling

Deep breath
Get your cell and call an ambulance
Better yet hit up my therapist
Whosever willing to take care of this

i

I seeketh one, to not showeth me amour in parable's
I seeketh not one, to maketh me feeleth as if some variable;
I needeth one to behold me, forthwith in her humbled eye's
I needeth one whosever, mayest showeth me reality before I die.

ii

I hopeth anon, she shalt be here to hold this trembling hand
None tare's in mine romantic view, only a queen diamond glued;
Hither she'll cometh, and fall upon me into mine worried chest
I want to feeleth her head, upon mine pillow and bed, with rest.

iii

Thence to haveth a best friend, with a angel ring upon her finger
We'll sing and dance, sweet romance, whereupon our dinner;
Victuals of finest respect, fruit glassed to meet ourn fast needs
For a dove to landeth upon ourn rooftop, wherein serpahim sing.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

none if it was supposed to happen,
no wine spilling
from whosever glass heart
would hold it.
mine shattered, and it poured profusely,
condescension and hatred,
in good measure.

the lies were supposed to rest
on an old, dusty shelf
with books you no longer read,
forlorn, while warmer things
filled your heart.
only now that it's gone,
do you believe yourself the victim,
and pretend to care.
from what remains, no love of any kind
will ever echo for you again.

Yeah! It slows, the sleigh of 50 memories, my only guests
A toughened werebeast, countenance straight eternally
and the tears that weren't...
Before us remains the wicked lure in which everybody
writes for that laugh a day
However give me 20 of the sassy and 80 less of what you
Want it says our choice is to answer the top furthest,
brim of the cliff... from the fall in one's view
Thanks 'oh personal mystery, the actual writing, of which,
a friend currently claiming to be cool
Do the grounds create a game that leaves us
the means to never go again?
Or is that the duplicitous slop, of over reaching dreams
and fighting the inner self which aspires?
No! It's called ripped- been there - go there,
one more understood quest and food and a cure
I could watch the swaks of heaving formations, as hawks,
pleasing our marching roads of circles in the sky...
And dots below are but the identity of each of whom I protect,
but then you'd know!
So after that I'd have to **** you
There's fun in doing a rummage, old identity pages, instead it's more  common- eletrco fluster bluster of muted moments; typed, gaffed, well shed, separated, this is that and that's why
The thoughts brought on by an archon, her passes dogmatic, as she holds the joke while really thinks preponderance of the free choices that she might make
This tournament... you and your parents, teachers, canons might think by now the house of religious affirmations turned day to switching mosaics of sunsets
Alas their only call, the exiting by the visiting mob of picture viewing drone crowds
Our coaster slows, sleigh of memories... now jump! With any gifts! You must be in the right place, for it's as- amusement parks, they need verbs virtuality triggers, we're a likeness, drums that solo off into the air for commotions and war
Perhaps narrations, the story...a story you'd thought, books help god machines and zeroing in on cops, and floating autumn leaves a puff of happenstance, it all works out
Quenched occasionally through solutions but a triple take seeks mercy, to love and play- it has to hear of mountains
Whosever attempts to be a visitor, brings an equal  shut off valve for in reality wicked  statements burn while still the thirst for christ devil attacks... requisite,
To  land shorter than an idealist empire is tall

No one shows us who owns our journey for we have gifts for the truth in the daily complaint of life.. life  is...

You can cut it with a trick or dollop  or a sweater or garden cutters but your vigil remains a pitiful aftermath of society's battle, what else?

We're not done for, however, there be cheers, anymore, as a wolf eats meat and habanero fricassee cut with cloves smooths your voice...Yoo Hoo... you..who?

It's time for a tournament again, I fear, seek face masks and the foretold free shy and futureal unknowing robots that don't know to begin with... to begin with

Dearest ambition these thoughts though!?... Don't worry their over at stellar morbid factories waiting. lurking, aspiring  amidst the woe