httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

My chest is tender I can see through the timber I'd like to live where summer is forever Give December depression a run for its money.

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May 7, 2018

May 7, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

Untitled

My chest is tender I can see through the timber I'd like to live where summer is forever Give December depression a run for its money.

4

"Visitational Voids" Your veins hold stardust and we have the beginning and ending of time within ourselves. I'm not looking for more time or untarnished love. I'd just like for a quiet to come over me as it does when we sink below a broken surface. Matter belonging to my ancestors and of my unborn children, I return to simplicity that's so pure and so dark, raining a timeless, stagnant glory. A temperatureless void in space where infinity contains answers. Where we wed to one another to exist in inevitable, unquestionable cohesiveness. Where fear isn’t scary. Where it comes uncaptured and intangible. Where what's tangible is our cosmos souls. Your human ego and mine, left behind, and the forever living that you and I do, conforms to the human theocracy about Big Bang. Our indivisible held hands expel so much passion, heat, human, lively things that we create new life. This is the quiet. Take me to space, where it's a hum of stars. We can waste away into rebirth and recycle elemental allocations of consciousness and moral sounds. -d.r 12.16.15

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:49 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

Visitational Voids

"Visitational Voids" Your veins hold stardust and we have the beginning and ending of time within ourselves. I'm not looking for more time or untarnished love. I'd just like for a quiet to come over me as it does when we sink below a broken surface. Matter belonging to my ancestors and of my unborn children, I return to simplicity that's so pure and so dark, raining a timeless, stagnant glory. A temperatureless void in space where infinity contains answers. Where we wed to one another to exist in inevitable, unquestionable cohesiveness. Where fear isn’t scary. Where it comes uncaptured and intangible. Where what's tangible is our cosmos souls. Your human ego and mine, left behind, and the forever living that you and I do, conforms to the human theocracy about Big Bang. Our indivisible held hands expel so much passion, heat, human, lively things that we create new life. This is the quiet. Take me to space, where it's a hum of stars. We can waste away into rebirth and recycle elemental allocations of consciousness and moral sounds. -d.r 12.16.15

3

Seven Hours November 14th is three months prior to Cupid’s Day. though we found Cupid long, long ago with your initials engraved in the golden tip that drew my love like blood. My ever changing initials stamped into a matching golden tip that struck you. Saturday was the preface to walking into a sanctuary of a relationship. I was enamored as Hell. Hammered by the rains of simple love that made me thrive. Saturday, November 14th, you gave me my virginity though some would say you took it. Doused by Eros, we fumbled over zippers, chasing after one another’s heat until, until we came across just what it was that got you & I here. To make me feel pure when all I’d ever been was ruined. Chameleon clouds to my skin, you sifted through the dead conversations, the aging and aching fantasies through the growing space between my legs. November 14th, a week before you’re old. A day where we undeniably grew through lives of careers and retirements as the hours passed us by. We became human in that room. Then into adults simultaneously imitating functions of infant brains as we came to find our place among one another. This is not tainted, distasteful obscenity. This is clean preaching. d.r. 11.17.15

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:42 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

Seven Hours

Seven Hours November 14th is three months prior to Cupid’s Day. though we found Cupid long, long ago with your initials engraved in the golden tip that drew my love like blood. My ever changing initials stamped into a matching golden tip that struck you. Saturday was the preface to walking into a sanctuary of a relationship. I was enamored as Hell. Hammered by the rains of simple love that made me thrive. Saturday, November 14th, you gave me my virginity though some would say you took it. Doused by Eros, we fumbled over zippers, chasing after one another’s heat until, until we came across just what it was that got you & I here. To make me feel pure when all I’d ever been was ruined. Chameleon clouds to my skin, you sifted through the dead conversations, the aging and aching fantasies through the growing space between my legs. November 14th, a week before you’re old. A day where we undeniably grew through lives of careers and retirements as the hours passed us by. We became human in that room. Then into adults simultaneously imitating functions of infant brains as we came to find our place among one another. This is not tainted, distasteful obscenity. This is clean preaching. d.r. 11.17.15

25

How can something change within an hour Uphold our future, breach my sensitive heart within the hour that I was asleep In fact, dreaming of our home in the forest. This love could be seen as a boomerang, tossed away into a desert mirage only to shatter the newfound solitary reflection of both. So I ask, How can something change within an hour? Within two years of playing hot potato with another's fundamental analysis of what companionship prerequisites are, you & I have changed within the hours of November. We were snail mail today... p.s. What am I. supposed to do? I'm so crazy in love with you & I'm scared out of my mind that we're not going to be together. Whatever I did, or said, I'm sorry. I want more than anything to be in the A frame on the Washington coast with you and pets and a nice fireplace and comfy bed and you. You. I miss you. -d.r.

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:39 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

We Were Snail Mail Today

How can something change within an hour Uphold our future, breach my sensitive heart within the hour that I was asleep In fact, dreaming of our home in the forest. This love could be seen as a boomerang, tossed away into a desert mirage only to shatter the newfound solitary reflection of both. So I ask, How can something change within an hour? Within two years of playing hot potato with another's fundamental analysis of what companionship prerequisites are, you & I have changed within the hours of November. We were snail mail today... p.s. What am I. supposed to do? I'm so crazy in love with you & I'm scared out of my mind that we're not going to be together. Whatever I did, or said, I'm sorry. I want more than anything to be in the A frame on the Washington coast with you and pets and a nice fireplace and comfy bed and you. You. I miss you. -d.r.

14

Falling isn’t hard. All that provokes falling, is imbalance. Though you may be rooted, the possibility of instability is constant. Saving yourself from falling is a different matter. Hurry to scrape the weight in your unconfessed shadows. Acknowledging such unsteadiness while my heart’s beat grows closer I’ll Attempt to alter my center of gravity. Gravity, is humanity’s ground opposed to religion Thus proving every one of us has sinned tradition. With failure follows triumph And with sin comes resurrection. Falling is inevitable, though rising is not. -d.r. 11.21.15

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

What it Takes to Fall

Falling isn’t hard. All that provokes falling, is imbalance. Though you may be rooted, the possibility of instability is constant. Saving yourself from falling is a different matter. Hurry to scrape the weight in your unconfessed shadows. Acknowledging such unsteadiness while my heart’s beat grows closer I’ll Attempt to alter my center of gravity. Gravity, is humanity’s ground opposed to religion Thus proving every one of us has sinned tradition. With failure follows triumph And with sin comes resurrection. Falling is inevitable, though rising is not. -d.r. 11.21.15

17

"On Holiday" Waking up in a half empty bed over three hundred and sixty five times within the year- it is no way to exist- pillows become men and women who’ve claimed a home in (t)his heart. Watch the bed fold as a map does, connecting sheet corners like state borders. A fullness, a security born in desire to lessen the space. While the man becomes engulfed to the realistically ghosted residents within (t)his heart, the three hundred and sixty five sunrises are seemingly the emptiest while on Holiday. d.r. 10.15.15

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:34 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

On Holiday

"On Holiday" Waking up in a half empty bed over three hundred and sixty five times within the year- it is no way to exist- pillows become men and women who’ve claimed a home in (t)his heart. Watch the bed fold as a map does, connecting sheet corners like state borders. A fullness, a security born in desire to lessen the space. While the man becomes engulfed to the realistically ghosted residents within (t)his heart, the three hundred and sixty five sunrises are seemingly the emptiest while on Holiday. d.r. 10.15.15

3

I am soupy mud-lukewarm rain. I am art rarely born in *** belonging. gender. identity. I am being more hazardous than a heartthrob, commitments which don’t owe. I am seemingly flawed acrobats where wars and rifts give purest windows into- I am diversity, unbiased observation without opinion This body is a cave to personal Aboriginality. With similar struggles, this body is February funerals Stumbling drunk Faulty wires Silence singing This body is masculinity sitting as knobs on my chest. 10 month T shot showing no faith in God likely hates me like This Body Is a two week alcoholic. I am some body. A temporary palace worthy of worshipping past open hours of service, I am this breath inside a masterpiece, losing pace and time of directions. I am skeletal, with you growing through rainfalls I want you to learn to dance with me I am putting on a face ‘pretty’ is a word fit to little girl’s dresses and marmalade eyes I am black lightning down her classroom arms. This feeling is ‘I think I want to wear makeup’ Who I can be Who can I be? Who was I This feeling is Who I was. Bogged down and banking on jawline horizons never seen, This feeling is what it is. This feeling is multiplying hearts for many individuals. This body is I think I’m aro ace all the way. I am thought to be nothing more than your constant in a dream.

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Mar 19, 2017

Mar 19, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC

httphellopoetryscruffy-boy

I'm A Body That's Feeling This

I am soupy mud-lukewarm rain. I am art rarely born in *** belonging. gender. identity. I am being more hazardous than a heartthrob, commitments which don’t owe. I am seemingly flawed acrobats where wars and rifts give purest windows into- I am diversity, unbiased observation without opinion This body is a cave to personal Aboriginality. With similar struggles, this body is February funerals Stumbling drunk Faulty wires Silence singing This body is masculinity sitting as knobs on my chest. 10 month T shot showing no faith in God likely hates me like This Body Is a two week alcoholic. I am some body. A temporary palace worthy of worshipping past open hours of service, I am this breath inside a masterpiece, losing pace and time of directions. I am skeletal, with you growing through rainfalls I want you to learn to dance with me I am putting on a face ‘pretty’ is a word fit to little girl’s dresses and marmalade eyes I am black lightning down her classroom arms. This feeling is ‘I think I want to wear makeup’ Who I can be Who can I be? Who was I This feeling is Who I was. Bogged down and banking on jawline horizons never seen, This feeling is what it is. This feeling is multiplying hearts for many individuals. This body is I think I’m aro ace all the way. I am thought to be nothing more than your constant in a dream.

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