"doodling" poems
Tomorrows Exam is Mathematics
loaded my head with unknown tricks
Doodling with numbers
Yes, teacher calls us dumbers
Too much problems, yet very lil, solutions
The long mountains of graphs
The Greek symbols alpha, beta omega
equations and formulas
Find height, depth use trigonometry
My answer a picture of a tree
infinite zeros in red
Sets, Relations, Geometry,
variables and algebra and Lines,
Its like stepping into a field of mines
All time me wondering why
reciprocal of zero undefined?
much of the time
In exam, I stay
undefined!
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
I think the scent of bug spray on my palms will now forever remind me of you and the late night (early morning) we spent sitting in your car, drawing awfully unskillful portraits on the back of each other’s hands in
dim light and 3 a.m. stillness. (I wonder if you could tell that doodling on your skin was just an excuse to touch you.) I wanted so badly to let my fingers find yours
as we laid back in our seats
and peeked out the rolled down
windows at the infinite stars scattered above us in the
early August night sky. I told you I wouldn’t kiss you,
because I know my heart and
how relentlessly it would
replay how your lips felt on mine, and how it would ache knowing
you couldn’t be mine,
so I let you kiss my cheek instead,
and the half a moment that I felt
your unshaven face brush mine in the middle of the street at five in the morning feels like a fake memory. When you looked at me, I wanted to hide, because I was too afraid to read what words might’ve been written in your eyes, but I felt so content listening to the
deep tone of your voice
mix with the obnoxiously loud crickets singing in the trees
surrounding us. I could’ve sat there with you till the stars disappeared and the sun took their place, but you walked me back home, and you left in the dark, and now I’m sitting in my bed thinking about how the hours between 2 and 5 a.m. have never felt so full.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
This society is plagued by the search for perfect things.
But as I sat there doodling with my finger on your spine,
I realized one of the most perfect things in the world
Is often the imperfect boy, with messy hair, asleep in your lap.
When you are afraid to move him
and to love him too much.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
Megan
my partner in crime
my bumble bee twin
my best friend
Best friends since second grade
that's.... what 15 years now? 16?
Sleepovers at eachothers homes
Pixie stick highs and slushy brain freezes
Trips to my grandmother's,
for a Harry Potter Marathon
Rocking out to Halestorm
Daughters of Darkness through and through
Foil art doodling and reading through the night
Did I mention the trip to Walmart?
ten at night just for a loaf of bread?
Screaming at eachother, throwing punches
Calling names so bad tears start to form
Saying we're through we're done mo more friendship
two minutes later laughing stupidly together
Our favorite place, Weedamo woods,
High Rock, queens of the world
I visit those memories in my dreams
I miss my soul sister my best friend for life
I miss being able to call you up and yell
*"YO ***** come get me I need to talk."*
You're still my bestie and you always will b
This separation don't forget is only temporary.
I'll move down there soon
and together we can rec havoc once more
until then please don't forget me
I know I haven't forgotten you.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
The city takes your soul block by block
While you sit on the curb in mismatched socks
Trying to retain your extremely weak but steadfast streak of being unique
Cities aren't 24-hour Christmas
The trick is to remain ambitious
Hands in your lap
No eye contact
Going tap tap tap on your Citizens app
While discreetly doodling a Sharpie spaceship on the subway seat
Hitting the street
With sick beats in your feet
Cuz thoughts of quotas and quarters won't quell a quintessential quest
To push the city to its limits and try your very best
To keep biting your nails behind elevator doors
Cuz no chewed-up hands are exactly like yours
A balancing act
Trying not to get trapped
Or smothered by facts
But undeniably
I love what's inside of me
My heart keeps me alive
But what I love makes me live
The city takes my soul
But I've got soul to give.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
Like modern day knights
we muster around a
table.
We don’t wear shiny armour
we wear suits that are 50% polyester
50% rayon.
Our jousting poles are have been
replaced with
nervously bitten biros,
and on a fuzzy screen the MD appears
speaking from a country where the currency is
colourful
but ultimately worthless.
His voice is delayed giving
and talks of mergers, leverage &
buy outs.
But I fade out like a ghost image in a propaganda film,
doodling hieroglyphics on a pad.
From the window I see workmen digging a
hole and I wonder will they ever reach China?
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.
Well. Lots of fantasy worlds.
My clothes were cooler
Voice smoother
Choices simpler.
You finish quests, unlock gods, Slay dragons
.
When my DnD group broke up I thought:
If I'm not the gnome bard or the elven ranger or the dwarven barbarian
Who am I?
The answer:
I'm the kid,
Who was doodling demons in the corners of classrooms.
Who didn't quite make it through the pacer test in one peice.
Who spoke up a little too loud about religion and not loud enough about being bullied.
Who didn't have party's to go to because he was to busy with his party of heroes.
Who will I be now?
I can write my charecter sheet however I want too.
Natural Twenty on my charisma
Critical hit my failures
Damage reduction on Haters.
In real life, I paint my face on blank canvas
I have one simple goal.
I want to levitate slightly off of the ground
While summoning an undead army and shooting fireballs from the sky.
I might not get there.
I'll be ****** though, if I don't roll for it.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
Doodling doodling
You keep on doodling
Why aren't you working?
Remember, you're not the king
Stealing minutes
Spreading inks
Overflowing wits
Can't lose this habit
~Unfinished~
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
As kids we were close,
Pushing each other on a swing during humid afternoons,
Scrapping over the biggest piece of cake,
Singing and strumming old rock songs on a video game,
Cheesing in the odd school picture together,
Hiding the family dog upstairs, cartoon shows on the tv,
Volume at its highest, all to drown the rows vibrating the walls
From downstairs,
It seemed back then we had each others back,
Sobbed for the same reasons at night,
Nervously bit at the skin around our nails over unknown noises,
Shook a knee with every thought of fleeing our hometown,
Yet now we don’t even know each other,
The distance runs thicker than blood,
He said she said infiltrating a possible recovery of a bond,
I often wonder how it can be, two people from
One home, both living on different planets,
Almost generations away from beliefs we once shared,
Pinching at each others emotions from another continent.
I found a journal from when I was my angsty teen self,
Words of fury coated most pages,
Some rhymes of regret,
Plenty of mischievous essays,
Page 94 had no explanation, just a date, some doodling
And one sentence,
“You were the first one to break my heart.”
As kids we were close,
But what do kids know.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 9:36 AM UTC
you came in from the cold dressed bold
under a black flag like isis on the road
to baghdad in a red ferrari going all john
le carré defecting with the little drummer
girl laurie in a deadly affair expecting
the honourable school boy when i'm used
to being a most wanted man -
now i'm no naïve and sentimental lover, baby
i'm the perfect spy and this ain't a small town
in germany but ich bin ein berliner, fraulein -
you better make this your last call for the dead
- it was (y)our kind of game playing
tinkering tailoring soldiering spying -
doodling smiley's people on the side
acting like absolute friends with fred
the constant gardener at the russia house
and red the tailor of panama
like a ***** with a straw up your nose
in the looking glass war
but if you do it again -
let me tell you a secret, pilgrim
i'll drop you where you lie -
it'll be a ****** of quality, baby
and that's a delicate truth
- you were our kind of traitor
on the blue mesa.
r ~ 11/14/14
i like john le carré
:)
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?
You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.
She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.
She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.
Never autobiographical
never the truth.
She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”
So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.
She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.
People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.
She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.
Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.
She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.
She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.
And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.
Remember her?
…of course you wouldn’t.
You would have her more like this:
That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.
He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -
- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.
There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.
You always pitted him.
silently.
Never out loud.
She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.
But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.
She didn’t even know she existed yet.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
Your fingertips
are icicles,
doodling
figures of eight
on my cheeks.
I see your breath
like little white clouds
of smoke
drift in the winter air
and vanish,
as if you didn't breathe
out at all.
The branches
of the nearby oak tree
sprayed
in whipped cream,
the ground sprinkled
with a vanilla ice cream-like
layer of snow.
And as it slowly
starts to melt
you lean in for a kiss,
the frosty blast
of mint
infecting my teeth.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
I was never good at tests
spending hours sitting in a chair
pretending to take notes, doodling and scribbling
daydreaming of places, places just not there
I was never good at tests
dodging bullies in the classroom, and halls
carrying books in a belt, my locker never worked
good at sports, basket and racquetball
I was never good at tests
lettering in architecture, wood and metal shop
not quite a geek, but definitely a nerd
boozing on school trips, and every resting stop
I was never good at tests
in retrospect I realize, the girls used to flirt
those were the days of my introvert
trying to stay unscathed and unhurt
I was never good, at tests
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC
A special day for some.
No more than a weekend for others.
Little girls with bubble gum,
Hiding from their mothers.
Church hymns being sang.
Video games being played.
Church bells rang,
Preachers attempting to persuade.
People saying grace.
Dancing to the stereo.
Sharpie's doodling on a pencil case,
Writers block on a scenario.
Sunday's special in its own way,
But not always for the same reason.
Not always to pray,
Just to enjoy a silly season.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.
You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.
She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.
Never autobiographical
never the truth.
She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”
So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.
She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.
People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.
She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.
She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.
Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.
She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.
She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.
And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.
Remember that chick?
...of course you don't.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. [Katherine] is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press "1" for more options. [Beep]
Katherine, please, pick up the phone. I'm sorry that I keep calling, I know you probably don't wanna talk to me, but please answer. I can't just sit on the sidelines anymore. I haven't seen you smile in weeks, and some days, I don't even see you. I can't approach you without you turning and walking away quickly. You're isolating yourself, and I'm really worried. Please, answer my calls, please talk to-
Are you still there? To end your message, press "1." To continue recording, press "2." To hear more- [Beep]
At the tone, please continue your message. [Beep]
Everyone's talking about it. I've seen posts on the internet, heard people gossiping about it, even the teachers have brought you up. It has felt wrong not having you around, not seeing you doodling in your notebook during class, or walking down the nature paths admiring the trees. Everyone else doesn't seem to feel the same way I do. They know, but they don't seem to care. Maybe that's what made you think that nobody cared.
God, I miss you so-
You will be disconnected in thirty seconds. [Beep]
The funeral was today. I was one of the few from our school who actually came. I tried to give your family my condolences, and I started to choke when your mother began to cry. God, the whole thing was hard; hearing family members tell stories, seeing you lay there motionless. I was happy they put you in a long sleeved dress. I didn't want everyone to see that part of you; not that it matters much, because everyone knows that is how you died.
Everyone left an hour ago. I've been sitting by your tombstone watching the sun fall into the ground. I keep hoping that you are somehow hearing these messages, that you'll call me back any minute. I'm not sure how the cell service is six feet underground, but I'm still hoping. I'll always be hoping. People will be moving on, but all I can do is choke on my words and I yell into a dead girls voice mail.
I'm sorry, Katherine. I'm so so-
You will now be disconnected. Goodbye. [Beep Beep Beep]
...
I'm sorry. This number is disconnected, or no longer in service. Goodbye. [Beep Beep Beep]
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC
She was the quiet girl
in the back of the classroom.
The girl who never paid much attention
because she was too absorbed into
doodling on the notes.
Despite her lack of attention,
she was the girl that made straight A's.
She was the one
with the secret.
Everyday after the last bell rang
she walked away from the school
toward a broken home. The second
her foot hit the door step
she began to run into the back bedroom.
She hid up there,
kept away
from the poisonous gas
used to wilt
away the flowers in her heart.
She was the girl that kept it all inside
until there was no more room
to store her secrets.
The safe doors blew open,
destroying the locks.
The girl that broke down
in the hallway in between
lunch and study hall.
She was the girl
with the purple hair and
bright green eyes.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Hunched spines slouched with an air of indifference against backs of rigid chairs
Anxious toes tapping on linoleum floors
A generation of Attention-Deficit-addled youth, subdued with medication because they think our eyes dart too quickly
Minds fluttering more rapid-fire than individual thought can account for
What is “unique” when everything stems from mimicry?
We think ourselves philosophers (only because we’re naïve enough to make assumptions like that)
All that our naked minds can bear is a sliver of the reality we suffocate in
We reject conformity by conforming
We discard typecast by creating stereotypes
We critique and self-doubt and are relentless in our own auto-denigration
Yet still, we see ourselves as infinitely superior
Because we’re the sum of earth’s 3 billion year journey
We’re the product of every galaxy and star-birth
We’re a shred of every molecule of humanity
We’re the chosen ones, we’re evolution.
We’re ragged, fraying edges
The living definition of a walking contradiction; hypocrisy in motion
Our pens are still doodling in the margins of our notebooks
We march to a syncopated beat with heads held high but eyes cast low as we count our steps and avoid stepping on cracks
Our heels drag with the showmanship of nonchalance but the eagerness in our fingertips betrays us
We’re all just kids caught in the purgatorial limbo of high school
We’re all just trying to pretend that we’re more than we are
We’re mostly hoping that someday we’ll prove our parents right
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
if time went into storage
wouldn’t that be great
all those moments that went adrift
just waiting to be claimed
like a ‘lost and found’ for time
sounds quite bizarre
it must be at its brim by now
bending out the walls
i must admit most of that time
is all because of me
those 10 minutes that I fell asleep
just because of bordem
queues I had endured
loitering through the streets
tangled between the sheets
lying down watching the fan
making patterns on my hand
doodling the armegoden
simple things, useless things
but most in vain
the time I spent
waiting for true love
pursuing those who’d disregard
someone like me
someone not worth their time
i suppose I wish
there was a way
to get back all that time
all that time I could’ve used
to waste another way.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
I hate it when people tell me
I'm not productive.
I am.
You don't understand.
'Boyfriends will hold you back.'
'Why aren't you taking harder courses?'
'Quit band. It's a waste of time.'
'Stop doodling. Art will get you nowhere.'
Being happy is productive too.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
Dark brown hair that matches her eyes
The girl in the woman who tries to survive
Amongst the concrete of grown ups and serious things
She looks to the sky and she wishes for wings
Notes of melodies pass the window
Of the office of the girl who sways to and fro
From the 53rd floor at her desk she does sit
Questioning, wondering, if this is it
Doodling flowers on figures and sheets
The woman is busy, the child incomplete
As the synthetic air blows in the office space
The polar opposite of a warm winds embrace
Clocks tick and bring a tune to her mind
So far in her life and yet she feels left behind
In a world of numbers and frivolous words
A girl in a woman just longs to be heard
Aspirations of princesses are miles away
Longing for daylight in a castle of grey
As business pushes on, so dreams still survive
The girl in the woman fights to stay alive
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:07 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
I started high school with grand intentions of grand friends and grand grades and boys would only be a street-side fruit stand to glance at while I cruised on by.
Intentions never quite work the way you plan.
My first class of the day, a boy with striking blue eyes, an awkward gaunt, and floppy hair sat down next to me and started talking about Pokemon. He had seen my Pokeball pin on my backpack and had singled me out as the person to vilify him the least. I was uncomfortable and unsure, horrified by his brashness. The seat had been meant for my best friend, Cathy.
But the second his mouth opened the teen awkwardness faded from his face and he become bright exuberance. Stunned and flustered, I stared as he passionately smiled and seemed to revel in our one-sided conversation.
This happened for weeks and I eventually became comfortable enough to talk back. His smile widened as he seemed pleased to find another person who was willing to be a little weird. I didn't know nearly as much as him, but I learned because I loved to watch him beam.
Right before the homecoming dance, he asked me out with a poster that said, "I choose you! Do you want to choose me too?" I blushed and said yes, and we coordinated red for our first dance as high school freshmen.
At the dance, though, my blue eyed beamer was someone anew. He was dorky and the way he danced was flamboyant but terrifying. He often ditched me for his marching band friends, and I felt more humiliated and uncomfortable around him than the bright admiration I had felt before.
When he took me home that night, he tried to kiss me and at the last second I ducked away and gave him a hug before running inside. Those lips weren't nearly as enticing anymore when they weren't beaming at me.
The next week in class, he sat next to a different person. A guy from his science class, I heard from my friends. I shrugged and went on doodling on my notebook. At least I learned now what a Gardevoir was.
There we were, back to square one. Guess it takes more than a semi-mutual interest and a beautiful smile to maintain a relationship. And there I was, back to grand intentions and great expectations, but this time I knew things won't ever go quite exactly as you plan.
He ended up dating Cathy later, and he and I are close friends now. He's actually pretty fun when he bothers pays attention.
But this was the end of our love story.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
If you ever see me staring off in the distance,
See me doodling, or playing with my hair.
Wondering if I'm just tired or just daydreaming
Or just sad or just bored.
Or not even wondering at all…
But the truth is my mind is in a thousand places
I pray no one else ever has to goes to.
(j.j)
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC