You should have been the soul that Edgar Allen Poe loved,
So that he wouldn't have died miserable and alone,
You are the Morticia to my Gomez; deadly in love,
We would make a quirky Addams family, bar none,

I love the nerds in us and the banter of annoyance,
I love the moments of radiant love and our nature of being different,
'Cause we did meet exceptionally over persistence,
And we accept each other regardless of difference,

I wish that our love will remain eternal,
Narrated by Obi-Wan,
With a theme song by John Williams,
Directed by Lucas, nah, we don't need direction,
I do know, we need a Queen, and that's you my puddin'!
Leia to my Solo,
A Queen-B-lovin'-Quinn to my Joker,
A die-hard Drake lover with a heart for the Dark Side,
This Vader loves his Amidala, xoxoxo,
We would revel on any side but the holy!
May this love never fade, and be full of surprises,
But not the kind where there is nasi lemak with no ikan bilis!
But you make the best **** nasi lemak, sigh,
I'm forever grateful for my Babloo
I'm forever grateful that you're by my side,
My Annabel Lee, I'm grateful Poe never met you,
'Cause you're all mine!

Upon their quivering wings,* (Fairy-Land by Edgar Allen Poe)

*small hands grasping too big stems.

little laughter carried on the wind

to beckon you inside.

tall trees fall in, collapsing.

trapped underneath the layers of sea foam green.

breathing in sun dropped laughter,

blindly stumbling through a lilac haze of unsureness.

left to the elements

and lost to the darkness of day time.

jabs left and right prevent the chance,

of wandering in the right direction.

flashes of blue wings and lithe bodies

in front of you,

just out of reach.

and their laughter is drowning you,

slipping into a sleep of the undead but not quite living.

fighting the drowsiness with the only source of strength left,

golden sun slipping through the cracks.

surfacing from the depths of insanity,

their laughter tumbling from your lungs,

able to breath again.

Shh, listen.
Did you hear it?

Its disturbing echo
inching down your spine.
Its chilling breath at the
nape of your neck.  

Snaking through my mind,
creeping in like fog.
Seeping through the floor,
spilling secrets like blood.  

Sounds of a clock
muffled by cotton.
Cloaked, it hammers
growing louder.  

Can’t you hear it?
The thumping it emits.
Shuddering through my frame,
suffocation, blame!  

It’s growing louder!
Uttering secrets only I know.
Acute are the senses
that hear its woe.  

Pounding away all thoughts,
persistent, Its haunts.
Shattering midnight it stalks,
nightmarish pillow talk.  

It grows, my skin pales.
louder and louder it wales!
A dead man’s heart yells,
telling its tale.  

Say that I am mad, do you?
If only you knew,
I hear things in hell, it’s true.
Don’t you hear it too?

Let this trend please, like it, share it, send it to collections, its Edgar allen poe.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=08_cqtFLQ3c

Please watch the more views I get the better chance I have to win the 1500$ prize, or audience choice, I hope I can at least be a finalist and walk away with 200$ because this is one of my favorite poems, and Its Edgar allen poe so this is related enough to share, also If I am the winner audience choice or finalist I will get featured on larger poetry sites, for my video but that can also help with my poems and soon to come movement. So please do me a favor!  

if your into making videos check out www.projected.com because winning prizes are 1000$ or more, and finalist get 200$ so why not even try if you're just getting into the video making thing, you could earn money for equipment and other stuff you may need. its also all about getting people to read again, so they do have poetry challenges for more money because for the obvious reason those are more important than books.

The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.

Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.

The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.

She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.

In the deathly silence of the calm, I feel the clamming of my palms
As I lay awake in the dead of night, so often as I’ve done before
One thought echoes out, as I begin to be filled with doubt
How these feeling come about, about someone lingering past my door
But, I know I’m all alone and no one stands outside my door
Just my imagination, and nothing more

From the dead of night, a sound pierces ever slight
My ears perk up and my mind begins to explore
Where the faint noise comes from, while my body lays numb
In the darkness of the slum, this hum I can’t ignore
A heed or warning, resonating past my enclosed door
The sound rings out “Falling For”

Who is this trickster, trader, inside my home, a dangerous invader?
Calling out to me from beyond my hardwood floor
In the dead of night, amidst four walls void of light
If I scream, will foreign ears here my plight? Or will I be no more?
Has my time come to pass for all the wrongs I must answer for?
As the whisper calls out “Falling For”

My thoughts begin to carry, how I should be more wary
Am I being tricked? True meaning behind this “Falling For”
This devilish trickster, whether Ma’am or a Mister
Swindled me in a twister, my wealth and name I can’t restore
Unaware of this chaos looming, the loosing of the war
Is this what I’m “Falling For”

Or maybe love, my damsel calling, perhaps my heart is what’s falling
To the one that I so eagerly adore
Thoughts of grandeur fill my head, for a prospect to join my bed
Where stars and sky, the mind has read, finally the weary sailor arrives ashore
Greeted by his enduring spouse to whom long ago he swore.
That she, and only her was the one he’d Fallen For

In the dead of night my mind still racing, for the sound my ears still chasing
The whisper ever so slight of “Falling For”
Kept me up all night and going crazy, my thoughts once clear now are hazy
In the deafening silence, my body lazy, to venture out past my enclosed door
I struggled battling for the meaning my mind telling me folks of lore
Of this destined fate of “Falling For”


In the dead of night, rang out a murmur, ever so slight, the noise got firmer
Beyond the walls outside the enclosed door
Down the hall in another room, a forgotten token within a tomb
Where the noise began to resume, a music box within a drawer
Broken saying the same two words kept replaying,  “Falling For”
For it was this, and nothing more