"doodles" poems
*I'm smiling --
but at the back of my mind...
Oh wait,
I don't have my own mind.
My sanity is replaced with lunacy.
Ecstatic.
Packs of delusional facades.
Illusions and charades.
Dreaming of nightmares within a daydream.
Detoriating senses.
*Everything started to fall apart.
I am lost for words.
For you had taken my heart,
The day you walked that direction, opposite to what i'd took.
One final look.
Without any goodbye.
I started to cry.
And cry.
Until it drowned all that was left of me--*
Your memories.
*My world crumbles.
I cannot think of any word that would best describe this feeling..
These feelings..
But I cannot contain it. Not anymore.
I cannot escape.*
*So I will just fill these pages with--
Random letters..
Doodles.
Semantics.
Figures of speech.
Metaphors and similes.
Something only your heart could understand.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Math
Numbers
The only things everyone
And everything have in common
You can find mathematical proofs written
In between the stars
Numerical sequences hiding beneath a fern
That unfurls to reach the heavens
No one can deny, one will always equal one
And the sum of two numbers will never change
Truths remain truths no matter the language
I can't see how my friends can say 'I hate math'
Or how people say 'numbers are stupid'
Numbers and math comprise the essence of life
On another planet the number pi and
Sierpinski's triangle may have different names
But their rules remain the same
Math and numbers make up geometry
Which is full of tesselations, and fractals
And beautiful diagrams and principles
How can you not love something like the
Golden Ratio, or the Fibonacci sequence?
They provide the curl of a fern, the twist of
A snail's shell, the spiral of a pineapple
And rotation of axial leaves
Such a beautiful, never changing system
That appears in so so many forms
Why be bored when you can play with fractal-y
Tesselating doodles?
And don't even get me started on science...
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
You make me smile so easily
almost as easy as the breeze on a fall day,
Effortless,
Knowing it's the least you can expect.
You let me write doodles on you,
Words that usually hurt,
Words about my former heartbreak,
But with you it doesn't hurt.
You call me your friend,
And I try and explain I can't be your friend
I'll like you,
Oops,
Too late for that.
Every time you laugh I see your dimples,
Indented so deep into your face,
I love them,
They draw the perfect amount of attention to your face,
Those gorgeous dimples help me see your lush lips,
Perhaps they'd like to meet mine one day.
Your one of the few people that aren't afraid to be seen with me,
To be seen talking and laughing with me,
Apparently to some I'm shameful,
But you just continue on making jokes,
Making me laugh.
Each moment I spend with you
I like you a little more,
Liking you has grown easy,
Your the kind of person that can make me happy,
I think your the only one that can make this loneliness fade,
So you should do me a favor and just stay,
Stay and keep the loneliness away.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 8:27 PM UTC
1997, 13 AUGUST, THURSDAY
You were laid in your mother’s arms,
All soft black hair and little eyes,
You took your first cry.
2014, 13 AUGUST, WEDNESDAY
Today’s your birthday,
The austere sun is burning,
Like an orange Cyclops-eye.
It’s as if Mother Nature knew
That today’s a special day.
Let the rapture abound and
Your day shall be decked with
Gold and
You shall find bliss in your
Dreams.
Orange is your colour,
Isn’t it?
Was your first shirt orange?
Fire is orange,
And you have fire inside you.
You are the fiery one who’s
Man enough to just be
Silly,
Instead of
Tough.
Your goofy stories
Never fail to tickle our funny bones.
Your adorable doodles
Capture the hearts of all.
But most importantly,
Your endearing laugh
Will stay forever etched in the mind.
Even though I’ve only known you for
114 days,
I regard you as
One of my greatest friends.
Just remember that when you’re feeling down,
Or ‘cb what is there nice in me sia’,
Look a little longer
Stare a little harder into yourself
And you’ll see,
There are some nice things
That you never noticed about yourself.
So in the noblest way,
I wish happy birthday to the one,
Who makes me laugh,
Because he can.
Hope all your wishes come true,
And your birthday cake is as sweet as you.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
like
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.
So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.
I realized,
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
$2.50 pencil,
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.
So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.
I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
drawing // a.s.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
Over the blank pages
She dotted down the words
She had not courage to speak
She drew her feelings
On the empty sheet of her notebook.
One day she ran out of pages
So she drew along her hands
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
The doodles of how it used to be
While the breeze gently touched her hair
The beat of a song flowing through her ears.
And then one day she ran out of hands.
So she wrote daily encouragements along her arms and legs
Her mama yelled and told her she was silly, she would get poisoned.
And she just kept writing.
Until one day she ran out of arms and legs.
So she started to doodle down her chest and on her face.
But then she realized she was doing it all wrong.
Scribble Scrabble Scratch.
She washed her hands, and her arms, and legs, and chest, and face.
She then picked up a phone and started calling various companies.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
There she was, at her autobiography book signing.
She put down her pen she got from her father at the age of 4,
And held up the book that had her face plastered across it.
She smiled and held her book up I'm triumph.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Stencils and pencils
Sharpener mishaps
Doodles, scribbles
Scrambling shades
Blending sketches
Running axis points
Spherical shadows
Tinting hints and hues
Pencilled portraits
Cruel crooked eyes
The bendy nose
Philosophical muse
Artistically inspired
Shading and fading
Realistically amused
Fused within reality
Surreal tuned vices
Meet-ups and sit ups
Outlines freakily patched
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Alright no one here leaves
Until I get back my monkey
He was right here beside me
When we sat down at the bar
He got up to use the restroom
Cause my monkey is not uncouth
I KNOW he didn't just drive off
I still have the keys to the car
We were having the best of times
Telling jokes and making up zoological rhymes
He even passed around that picture
You know the one with the orangutan in that embarrassing position
That's the last time I saw him
My monkey...my best friend
Will somebody help me look please
These tears have all but blurred my vision
I've now checked every zoo on the East coast
Every circus that I know
Thinking perhaps he was monkeynapped
By some clown or zoological freak
I haven't seen hide nor hair
Of a clean shaven monkey in underwear
I told you he wasn't uncouth
My monkey learned that from me
These days I cry in my beer
Since my monkey's no longer here
I guess Doodles had better things
To do with his life
If my monkey, Doodles you ever do see
Will you tell him I miss him oodles for me
And that I've accepted the fact that he's not coming back
And that I'll be alright...
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Here we are again.
Lying on my side,
You running your nonexistant nails
Down the curves of my bare back.
"I can't tell what you're writing."
"I'm not writing, stupid.
I'm drawing."
And I lay there
Reveling for 10 minutes,
Not at the comfort of being touched,
But because it's your fingertips
Tracing your silly doddles
Across my bare skin.
I'm not sure how we got here.
From crab rangoons and redbull,
To sushi and back scratches;
From best friends to this,
This thing so out of touch
With any sensical title.
I'm too much of a ****
To even begin to act like I notice,
To show that I'm more aware than I seem.
Time for a new distraction.
"Meet Virginia" is on, time to tease you.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
My feet are so cold to lay on yours
Your hands busy chasing my curves
Paddled in cuddles, pebbles carved
Doodles dwindles all over my body
Tinkering hands as they reach a ******
Ripples twisting blossoming bosoms
Rage the sleeping animated power
Break your wings as the rod erects
Alas! The touch disappears in thin air
Feet warmed in the damning chamber
The perpendicular collapses in angle
Sailed to dally in uncensored snores
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Daisy May, dear Daisy May,
Always sweet as apple pie.
She never seemed to frown,
And would never harm a fly.
Under her spell, the boys would fall
At the bat of just one eye.
Straight A’s in school,
Never broke a rule.
Her parents can’t complain.
Bright blue eyes, and flowing hair,
And a smile as convincing as a dare.
But alone she sits at lunch,
And alone she is all day.
This is the sad story
Of the girl named Daisy May.
Under a mask, she did hide
Every part of her that did not abide,
With her fake facade of content and glee,
And everything she did not want to be.
She hated how alone she felt.
She hated how she looked.
She hated how she could memorize every word inside a book,
But the one thing that she wanted was too far outside her nook.
Everything came to easy to Daisy May,
But her plastic shell was slowly cracking,
As she pretended everyday.
She was always praised for her work,
But all she wanted was a friend.
And in the end nothing matters,
Not grades, awards or anything she read.
“Daisy May has Run Away” all the local papers said.
But after this point, no one ever mentioned her again.
No one cared to look for her,
And no one ever would.
She had tried with all her might,
She tried as hard she could.
To hid behind a pen, behind a book, behind a smile.
But that plastic grin could only last for such a little while.
Ten years later, in a tree, near the outskirts of the town,
Some kids found a journal that was worn and beaten down.
The pages were filled with lists and doodles, with poems and fears,
Every page stained so deep, as if it had been cried in for years.
On the very last page, in deep red ink,
A rhyme was written, so potent the words seemed to stink:
“Daisy May is Dead.
She’s hanging from a thread.
All I ever wanted was a friend.”
They never did find the corpse of Daisy May,
But some say she still haunts the tree,
Where she sat alone,
Shed her mask and cried in secret,
Each and every day.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC
after years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor i think i finally understand why the face staring back at me in the mirror is so unfamiliar
i am not my dark eyes, i am not my crooked nose, i am not my thin lips, i am not my rosy cheeks
no, i am the hairstyle that my mother taught me how to do before middle school started so that i could take care of myself
i am the love poems that run through my head all day because language is so wonderful and you are so wonderful and sometimes i can't help but experience certain compositions as many times as possible
i am the friendship bracelet that i wear on my wrist that matches with my best friend who would never wear a bracelet in a million years but did it for me
i am the whirlpool of love that exists behind my eyes that shy glances and awkward eye contact put there
i see myself in my fingers mindlessly tapping out rhythms from my favorite songs, not in my tears, but
i see myself in everything i mourn for
i see myself in the money i saved from my grandmother's funeral three years ago because i am too attached to part from it, not in my smile, but
i see myself in my inability to keep a straight face when someone laughs at my jokes
the years of pondering in musty libraries and public bathrooms and on my bedroom floor was worth it because i see myself in those too, more doodles in the margins of the storybook of my life
in the end, i became who i am because of you
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 10:05 PM UTC
when i sleep, i don’t dream of you
i’m sorry
but it’s true
i don’t dream of you, i don’t see you
i barely ever hear from you
the polaroids on my bunk walls are gone
i covered them with pressed flowers and rotting leaves
i covered them with doodles of daydreams
of open skies and crooked wings
i gave myself some air to
breathe & forget
and i’m sorry love
i didn’t mean to
i swear
my lips turned blue when the ground turned white
i loved you more each day,
but you lie about where you go at night
and i lay my **** bare
so i’m sorry love
i didn’t mean to
i swear
..but also, i think, i'm only pretending to care...
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
*plastic
tables and chairs
pinks
blues
yellows*
leftovers lie on the table
paper plates stained with chocolate syrup
beside the foam
fossil of a milkshake
brown
fingertips and corners of lips
dinosaurs and tiaras
table napkins wipe away
giggles and smiles
*wooden table
little words etched in
hearts, crosses and names
jagged lines through the middle
random doodles
curse words*
stained with grease, an empty pizza box
soda bottles all over the sticky floor
a single can
of beer, empty
touching a hundred lips
curious little sips
awkward conversations,
air thick with secrets and lies
confidence and cockiness
*clean white table cloths
long-stemmed flowers
crystal wine glasses
silverware*
no one quite fits into these
knees always banging
and cutlery always clanging
no one quite fits into these
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
someday you will find the person to call you princess
see it radiate through the blush of your cheeks
your hushed laughter muffled by your hand
the way your hair disobeys your constant tucks and twists
behind your delicate ears
the gravel in your voice that never shifts
the way clothes drape on your curves; never cling.
Princess will be your name,
the way your match describes your smirks
and the way you twirl the jewelry around your joints
how you write your names together
and the doodles you do in the margin
the way you play with broken nails
and stroke your forehead when you're going to weep,
your lover will look longingly at you
and your perfect regal ways
will leave him thinking
my,
oh my,
oh my.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
I used to think
the heart was only a piece of
paper.
What else?
While you go through the motions,
he and him leave pencil marks.
Scrawls and doodles, just
hasty mutterings in the marginalia.
You know,
those little hearts with
those little initials
you find in little girls' maths books?
Your eyes don't stray from these scribbles,
ever, no, never,
but
you vow to yourself that one day there'll be
ink
scrawled across that paper.
Black or blue
heart-stamp.
Vivid.
And nothing else would matter anymore.
What the fairytale should really say is
once upon a day
he'll walk in and grab that sheet of
paper.
It'll disappear into his coat pocket forever.
And you won't even know it
until
that paper will crumple,
black and blue, black and blue,
out, out, out of his coat
that he's left behind in the closet.
A souvenir,
a lost cause.
That is your heart,
that is your heart.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
the favorite stuffed animal
from a now-grown child
lies
in a pile of mud
soaked through with rain
after one of the dogs got ahold of it
and forgot
to bring it back inside
the baby bird makes a running
leap
and tries to lift her wings
to surprise her mother
with the gift of flight
before she comes home with dinner
total failure
lying fifteen feet
from her nest
with a broken wing
and a voice thats too small
her mother will never
notice
the baby bird will decompose
and become one
with the earth
the blank journal
which was purchased
over a year ago
lies
collecting dust
under piles of
never-to-be-used school supplies
hopes of confessions
or doodles
or even notes
are lost
as it has been forgotten
no one even
remembers
that it exists at all
everything
is exactly the same
as it's always been
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
He takes photos.
His books are filled
With spilled coffee.
Wavy sun ray hair
Lime green citrus eyes
Sturdy safe shoulders
Rich, melted dark chocolate voice
Pouty peony puckers
Stolen lenses
Quirky movies
Oversized sweaters to cover his quivering hands when he cautiously holds hers.
He reminds me of a child's desk
That was personalized by doodles dinged and carved into it over the years
The desk that his parents probably adore.
He is a collage of all the things he photographs.
He takes pictures of anything and everything
To make himself whole.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
There are so many traces of you left
The scent of you on my favorite sweater
that lead me to think of the movie we watched together
The doodles on my notes when you weren't paying attention
all drawn in my favorite pink pen
The things that remind me of you
hurt the most when I think of them
And I do realize, how much I miss you
and all the traces you left for me to find
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
*a butterfly-garden on a hill
behind the wall
of
your par-need*
who fills the tank
and pays the bills?
it's not ur car..
who rots away in a meeting
while trailing mind-tunnels out
doodles to escape tedium..
who feels despair on the shoulder
and tries to **** it up
while hearing the ocean's call..
who sees the stark-brilliance
right before unbelievably blind-eyes
casting pearls before swine..
hey..
**** off, man!
*we see only what we want to see
why can nobody see
the rare butterflies
right here
in our midst?*
S T - 10 octagon 2013
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
Place mats covered in doodles
have defined all of my outings with
friends and loved ones.
With pen and the blank spaces
around the adverts
I will push a new world into
this tired realm.
Here are people without
their hands chained to the
baggage of their lives.
Here are perfect people.
I wonder if they have belly buttons.
I wonder sometimes if I
have any control over them at all.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 9:10 AM UTC
we're friends right? no we are strained acquaintances we are yin yan
g with nine colors we are tv static on all night when you're too tired to
get up and turn it off we are doodles in the margins of a very importa
nt research paper you are lost in everyone forgetting that my middle
name is freedom i am putting on metaphorical makeup to mask my
emotional blemishes we are sour candy and ginger ale we are obscu
re genres of music shoegaze my ****** valentine we are a waterco
lor clusterfuck bleeding together like an amateur blood drive read b
etween the lines we are biodegradable plastic half covered in the soil
untouched for two years we are sunshine and chill bumps I hate you
for the same reasons I hate myself we are nostalgia and anxiety we a
re insomniacs who only want each other between the hours of 8 pm
and 6 am we are avoiding eye contact in the halls
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
My voice falls limp,
carried reluctantly
across synapse-space,
landing upon the deaf brick
and insulation. Even this,
this inanimate audience
breathes fog of indifference,
into the speech
I call my song.
They trace shapes,
doodles and musings.
Anything to amuse above
these listless words,
this dead-pan circuitry
of sound, of chorus,
of rote strings, broken chord
and the misery of
unachieved catharsis.
Still, in humble melody,
I mumble through another verse,
fingers rolling in bands of
forever, walking up and
down the root notes,
as if scales were naught but
a busy mind, stilling orbit,
thawing memories
in the motion of music.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Blueberry lip balm
And strawberry gum
The chorus of a love song
These are a few
Of my favourite things
Smiling out loud
And the hum of quiet
Watering plants
And waving hello
Chunky monkey
Ben and Jerry's ice cream
Walking in the rain
Tetris and snake is the game
Writing on fogged up windows
I like anything that glows
Daddies pushing prams
And old couples holding hands
Rolling down hills
Christmas lights
Shining so bright
Lighting up the night
Blowing out candles
And making wishes
Smiley faces
In all of my texts
Cloud watching
Puddle splashing
Jumping down steps
Swinging at the park
Counting stars after dark
Mindless doodles
Ballerina twirls
Fast cars
And shooting stars
Family get togethers
And child curiosity
Day dreaming
Butterflies
And rainbow colours
These are a few of my favourite things
What are yours?
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC