"poring" poems
Knights clad in paper armor
Draw their pen-shaped swords
In preparation for battle
Against the dragon named Algebra
All year they've trained for this day
Poring over musty tomes
Filled with archaic battle plans
Entire armies have been lost
In the dangerous search
For the elusive variable called X
The informants A and B
Have consistently given
Inconsistent information
And the number line
Has completely deserted them
The numbers taunt the knights
Mocking their puny calculators
Confident in their unanswerable status
Yet one by one
The polynomials fall
The dragon bows it's head
The Knights have won the day.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Saved by the Sunflower
A very strong storm was arriving,
there were large black clouds coming from the east,
strong gusting turbulent winds threating to snap everything,
severe down poring of flooding rain,
as if the clouds were crying out in pain,
it did not seem there would be anyway to save the flower garden,
nothing could survive this unannounced exploding of nature,
this seemingly uncontrollable outburst,
something, maybe everything was going to be destroyed,
this day turned in to this night of hell,
the rain, the wind, the flashes of lightning,
this violent death would not be stopped this time,
then a small voice could barely be heard,
at first it was ignored, flicked away like a mosquito,
the voice did not give up though, once again it cried out,
once again it was ignored, brushed aside,
the voice continued gaining strength, it refused to be shut down,
the creator of the storm suddenly took a step back,
looking down to see where this voice was coming from,
it was emanating from this one lone sunflower,
it was the sunflower that had been given the name Perly,
Perly would not, could not be denied as she screamed out,
leave this garden oh evil storm, I will not except the outcome,
the outcome that you predict will occur, we are fighters,
we will never give in to your senseless urges,
please wake up and hear my plea for sanity,
the storm started to weaken, slowly at first, but continued
gaining momentum loosing it's grip on this act of violence
until finally secumbing to this cry of desperation from
the little sunflower. Gradually, the wind stopped blowing,
the rain stopped falling, the sun began peaking thru the clouds.
Perly Sunflower had saved the lives of all the other flowers
in the garden, and the life of gardens caretaker.
A plaque is now erected on this spot proclaiming the
bravery of this little sunflower that would not give in,
would not accept, would not cower away.
The caretaker of the garden professes eternal gratitude
and love for this brave creature of Gods doing.
Thank you Perly sunflower
Gomer LePoet..
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 9:50 PM UTC
By Arcassin B
Tell me,
tell me that your home safe asleep,
in your bed,
sometimes you would call me
just to come over instead,
maybe if it was settled then
me and you could hit the movies,
doing what teenagers do,
poring organic fuse,
driving those stylish cars,
doing things we can't refuse,
i swear to god i love you,
if you wasnt so beautiful i'd braid it,
knowing you,
probably hate it,
but i said it once before,
we go greatly together,
for what we have in store,
she puts all of that together,
this night was so glorious,
think i mite live another one,
promise that your social insecurities,
wont lend me none,
you made my life go astray,
like becoming a non-virgin,
didnt think that over anyway,
at least my cell phone still workin'.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
**Casting the line over glass like waters,
Float coming to rest on the unseen bond of air.
The lure of the insect so irresistible,
we watch with a fisherman's stare.
Hour upon hour sitting and staring into space,
Umbrella positioned strategically over head.
The rain mercilessly poring onto the water,
Soaks the fisherman he wonders why he is not in bed.
The line moves; slowly jerking ,
Then more as the fish takes a bite.
The fisherman takes a strong hold,
He is ready for the fight.
The spool whizzes round and round,
Faster And faster as it spins and takes it's toll .
The fisherman holds; and pulls in the line,
As the fish really takes control.
At last the fisherman lands him,
A ten pound-er really, "for sure"
His buddies in the pub do believe him,
As his tiddler flounders on the shore.**
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
The Ravens
On a rainy night so boring
I heard Munin soundly snoring,
I grew tired of my poring
Perched above Valhalla’s door.
“Munin!”, screeched I to the ceiling,
Sending the poor fellow reeling,
“Let’s deal out a joke to Odin,
One that he’ll be falling for -
Just one joke, and nothing more.”
After barrow ghosts-invoking
Odin entered, wet and soaking,
And I started with my croaking
From the dark above the door:
“I’m the first and oldest Volva!
All my secrets I could tell ya,
For the right price I might sell, yeah”,
And I cawed, “Would you know more?”
(He is crazy about lore.)
“What!”, cried Odin, “Quick, be talking!
At the price I won’t be balking.
Searching wisdom, I’ve been walking
Wandering from door to door.
Let my need for knowledge reach you,
All my own skills I would teach you;
Tell me all now, I beseech you!”
Quoth I grinning, “Nevermore!”
(Just a jest, and nothing more.)
Odin with frustration sputtering,
Munin laughing, wildly fluttering,
I was dead-pan and kept uttering
Nonsense about hidden lore.
For his need he found no quelling,
All Valhall woke from his yelling –
Oh, the fun to keep on telling
Him that one word, “Nevermore!”
(We thought it was a joke, no more.)
In the morning ceased his raving,
But that did not end his craving,
And we saw our master waving
To our roost above the door.
“Friends”, he said, “Now I will ride out;
Over Midgard you shall glide out:
Seek the Volva in her hideout!”
- Then it felt a joke no more.
(And Munin, to this day, is sore.)
Every day we must keep flying,
Always for that “Volva” spying,
Acting as though we were trying;
Well, the joke’s on us, for sho…
To escape a rightful chiding,
To this day the truth we’re hiding;
By this tale we are abiding,
And we’ll tell you nothing more!
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
I'm poring over your words...
Sophistication beyond compare
I can only savour in gulps
Such fantastic fare
•••••
Your stars are sculpted out of porcelain
Whilst mine, white washed vinyl
Your haloed moon, commands immediate attention
Mine only hovers...
As elliptical paint over stencil
Oceans of yours brim full
Catching the shards from the noon day sun
When mine suffer from receding tides
Turning into stagnant estuaries
where water hardly runs
Myriad views from snow swept mountains
You paint perfect with delicate pairings
Stuck with a view from a porthole
Sometimes all I see,
are the vast expanses of tumultuous endings
•••••
Still poring over all of your words
They all weigh much
but soar like feathers on birds
Artform fit for gods beyond compare
Drowning in the magic...
Of your incredible fare
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Do you...
Imagine my ****** expressions that match the nuances in my voice
Tell me of all the attention you get from other boys
Take deep trembling breaths just to hold back the tears
Feel the angry tides as you swallow your fears
Clutch your pillow tight and pretend that it's me
Let it soak up the drops as you sob quietly
Look at the moon adoringly as I do
Knowing that I see the same one too
Replay the words you heard me say
Read my words over and over, to get through your day
Cringe at the idea that we both have to hide
When really we want to spread our wings and glide
Sigh with despair when it all seems to fall apart
Pick on life's lashing when they start to smart
Picture me before sleep in bed as you lay
Let me run till slumber takes you away
Well up every time you miss
Close your eyes shut every time we kiss
Pace up and down as we share days' events
Try to be strong hearing each others' laments
Cover your face when you cry?
Grieve over time spent apart that fly on by
Take breaths in between words or in between sentences
Sigh deeply poring over our wild pretences
Blush red when sweet nothings you hear
Bite your lip when you need me near
Sing in your heart when you hear my voice
Dance secretly with me as your choice
Always think of different ways to sweep me off my feet
Rush of blood with the quickening of your heartbeat
Imagine the way I am as I do you
Get breathless when you say I love you
Feel a stab when we argue about nothing
Wasted words when much more needed saying
Weaken in the knees when for you I'd sing
Find catching yourself to stop yourself from buckling
Sit on the bathroom floor,
Only to let the shower pour
As you hug your knees to your chest
Assuring yourself that it's all for the best
Wish for a second just so you could see
With naked eyes and not imaginatively
Do you?
Because I do...
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
Swimming in our own corruption as we Play then we pray Oh Heavenly Father you gave your son to us in Sacrifice so we can be repeatedly forgiven for our ways, but yet our days are numbered one by one. Sorry your rules are boring we've read your story now were snoring Christ blood is poring flesh torn by the thorn of our own mockery by sweet sin we put ourselves in. Though some sins of others affect our way. Time to blame you for them. How could you let it be? Again some blame their brothers so no one will see there trickery. We haven't lost faith just your place. Of course some have. For you not being tangible sometimes our life is not manageable. We Play for fun, careless for the heart. Please forgive us we fell apart. In our own playground of sin testing others to come in. We're too lazy to stand upright. We don't care you see, it's easier to take and fake then make or pay our own way. Yes we lie to get by our fellows. Why should we care life's not fair it's too short Dog we mean God. Just want to Play in any way through our short existence. Forget the busters they dont know its ok, to continue go this way. All I have to do is say sorry so sorry and everything will be ok. Thanks for your Son we just want to have fun!!!!!
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
(To Ellen Terry)
As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?
And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
2.1k
It's true that they belong together
Freedom is just another word for fetter
To have it all and have no better
That is life's eternal weather.
It's true that meaning is lost in translation
Because no one cares to hear your explanation
As they hear the words that befits your station
And you've learned to speak as befits your subordination
It's true that there is nothing to thought
Poring out without a clot
Yet will never reach the point it ought
Instead used and swayed as they are bought
It's true that pain is just a stern friend
While hope just leaves you in the end
Pain's **** is the advice he'll lend
Which you should heed or another he'll send
It's true that there is fault in truth
Like beauty blunted by its youth
The horror of it was its proof
While a fraction of it still lies aloof.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Not a day goes by where I don't wonder
What you'll be doing days from now
You'll be in a far away land
Charming everyone you meet with a shy smile and softly spoken words
Will they know of your strength too?
I'm sure they will
When I'm sitting in class,
Poring over polymers and systems and figures
Will you be by the harbor,
With paint stained fingers?
Maybe when I get home
And you're on your own,
We'll both pick up our guitars,
Different and yet alike
And strum an old Beatles tune
In perfect harmony
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
There is no doubt about it:
You have always loved me.
A leonine love.
A love that swells in the womb and the heart
From the very first twinkle in the eye.
Hit play.
Your eyes are swampish,
Mistrustful and marinated in cheap wine,
Shot through with blood, preserved in your own saltwater.
Those alligator eyes
That watch your girls,
Watch your girls board a train and draw away
Into the rest of their lives.
Leaving you stewing in twelve years’ worth of regret.
Years ago,
I used to pinch your forearms -
Watch the skin crepe up
Between my four year old fingers.
Thin blood. Tired skin.
Silently you eat your breakfast of pills and toast at the kitchen counter.
Throw in a horrid hacking cough to remind us you’re still here.
You always write everything down.
As if to tattoo it into your memory.
If you’ve locked the door behind you, it’ll be alright.
If you’ve got half a bottle left.
If you’ve left no trace on the bathroom carpet.
If you’ve woken up in the morning.
You can feel my eyes watching you.
You spend your days watching
Daytime TV, eating salad cream sandwiches and
Hit the bottle at a safe distance from noon.
Safe enough.
Your lipsticks have gone stale,
Now it’s porous skin, sweat stains, grey hair.
I find you poring over bank statements and local newspapers.
Scouring for a job, you say,
And clippings of your daughters
At school functions, clasping exam results.
You keep them in a cereal box that we covered in paint
Age five. We’re in double figures now.
I get drunk on weeknights.
Rewind.
Hold me.
Ball of flesh and screams
And you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
Closed doors
Opened windows
Curtains overflowing
Rain poring down
A gust of wind blowing up
Leaves falling off
Flowers
Blooming
❁
Peace
❁
Love
❁
Joy
❁
Inside
The
Door
of
My
❁Heart❁
Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
He had a hole in his had
That thing that is dead
Grandad use to wake him up by pinching his toes
But no one knows that he is a demon
Waiting for you to fall asleep
And close your eyes
That beautiful creature in the night
Cut out his eyes
Sliced off his nose
His lips were already gone
He could talk to grandad no more
He lives in the scary
But he can see clearly in the dark
He blows out the candles to make himself feel better
Hell cut off your toes and make himself some clothes
That's what happens when there's a blanket over your head
He killed your dad and now he's dead
Where's mom
Eek
He's behind
Her shadow
He's getting her now too
And there's blood poring from her shoes
You are barely breathing and your color is draining
Outside its raining to wash away the blood
In the morning there'll be bags and bodies and a crowd
But right now
Shows over and your feet are mangled over the bed they dangle
Now he can see them from a better angle
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)
“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford
<><>><>
you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait
this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time
who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure
over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases
your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
i will scream until my throat falls in on itself
falls on all the leftover "I Love You"s and galaxies and the words to our favourite songs
piece by piece my body continues to disintegrate, to implode,
and all i can see is your eyes when you laugh
and the only feeling i can grasp onto is when you kissed me;
how it felt like you were giving me your world.
a world i thought i was living in,
a world i thought i could understand
when in reality, i was sitting on the moon looking down on it,
never able to adjust to your atmosphere/
your face is laced to the back of my eyelids;
even the salt water that rushes behind them
refuses to eat it away.
**** you, science./
Baby, all I want for Christmas is a blade inscribed with
"Give me Freedom or Give me Death,"
delivered with a Big Red Bow and
the Scent of Your Cologne.
Liberty is a synonym for Demise and I think
that if you stabbed me through The Heart
it will never hurt as much as when I ripped
It out For You myself.
You tried to place It back in,
but once It's removed,
It will Never Beat
the same way again.
Sprinkle My Blood in the snow
and call it Decorating For Christmas.
running out of feeling can be so relieving
sometimes becoming completely numb is comforting
ive gone through every emotion in the past 24 hours
and i think now i am dead.
dead until another memory jolts me back to reality.
there i am again, sliding my heart under the table to you
but you dont even look up
you dont look at all
you let it fall to the floor
"i broke a glass
thats all mum
im sorry"
im sorry
im so sorry
why wasnt i enough
inadequate
marginalized
who am i
im a ghost with a cigarette heart
i gave it to you
you tasted it
i guess you didnt like the love it was laced with
and you blew it back into my sky
it's true what they say,
never to fall in love with a writer
youll live forever
suffering eternal eyes poring over your
lapses
the way you touch
the way you feel
the way you smell
the way you ---
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
This song is written on my heart.
Each note hangs in the air before turning to smoke
and we inhale it here in your little bed,
breathe it in as we have most nights since you were born.
Not so long ago
I was someone else
Who was not your mother.
You don’t know her,
the Me who spent months of her young life poring over the sheet music.
I still have it, teenage pencil scratch covering the entire first movement.
“Sticky top notes” and “written when he was going deaf!” and rows of chord forms,
glyphs,
a cipher.
(Did you know:
Beethoven was dead when Ludwig Rellstab compared the famous first movement of his Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor to moonlight shining on a lake?
The sonata previously entitled “Quasi una fantasia.” Almost a fantasy.
The sonata written in blood from a broken body and a broken heart.
Poor dead Beethoven. Our art is truly not our own).
It strikes me odd
that a song such as this one
has become what it has become.
Radiance in despair, I suppose,
is universal in its bright raw frankness.
We stare. It stares back.
Tonight, blessedly,
that chasm of grief alive still and forever in the delicate weaving vines of plaintive melody stemming darkly from it
is far from your door.
Your breaths are slow and even now.
The song closes,
as it always does,
trying and failing to claw out of the darkness.
But you don’t know that.
Tonight it’s just a beautiful song.
And I am no one else
but your mother.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 1:25 AM UTC
THIS is where Thoreau sat
after he awoke from a night of dreaming,
His smart phone screaming in his ear-
WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
He sat right here after putting on his neoprene boots,
Poring his hot cup of coffee and allowing the dog to do its duty.
He sat right here after listening to the news,
gathering bits of worry and panic-
Thank God he didn't like to work
Or he might be late in traffic.
He sat right here
reading on his half charged nook
hoping that the batteries didn't run out
before he had a chance to get to the good part,
Realizing the irony of electronic books is that even they,
Are putting you on a time limit.
This very spot is where he stood,
Wearing his tee shirt with a large moustache printed across the front,
Replaying songs from his iPOD
"Call me maybe..."
I'm sure the beauty of Walden captured him,
so in effort to share he'd snap pictures for Instagram and hope that enough people "liked" it to send his photo viral, like the howl of the midnight owl who hangs out in his yard.
This is where he sat
after taking his ****** and securing his door from his neighbor
This is where he sat
when he returned home
from a job he didn't even want
This is where he sat
soaking up the heat flashes and solar flares
Watching comets pass by like a common sight
I'm sure that this,
Is where he'd sit-
And this,
Would be his reason to go to the woods.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
Should I wait sometime
to tell her how I feel for her? If so,
when does the coral reef know
when to spawn? They say on the fifth night
after the November full moon. Her birthday
is too far away to see from here; her eyes:
two flashes of light on the horizon.
My mother and sister mentioned I stay still
12 weeks, Lao Tzu said until my mud settles.
Tamia and Charmaine insisted now. I looked
to Rumi, and he smiled back patience.
A patient person does not have to ask how long?
And here I am: counting
the minutes between her texts,
on her replies as breaths;
poring over
the pictures of her - in my hand, in my mind.
One moment she feels close, the next
she is the grain of sand I try to keep in my palm.
Patience is praise, says Rumi.
In it the right action will arise, added Lao Tzu.
That is where I must be, whispers my heart.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
Once there was laughter and then came the tears
memories that haunt him that he cannot rid
heart full of resentment, a head full of fears
He lives with himself a ghost living in pain
tragedy struck with out a thought out plan
he finds comfort alone in the cold dark rain
A terrible crime that is tearing him apart
his queen of darkness visits his nightly slumber
her whispers are calm and soft with a knife in her heart
She torments him at the stroke of the midnight hour
he feels cold shivers up his spine when she appears
she comes to him poring a black rose petal shower
Her expression is vacant, her face the color of Irish white
her lips red, her eyes blue tears fall on his neck
burns him like acid, he tell him self it will be over at first light
He awakes to a burning sensation on his skin he does feel
knowing his queen of darkness had made her appearance
on his chest lays rose petals he knows this was all to real
He cant sleep once again for the clock will strike its hour
the days turn in to night so quickly it seems
she will come once again showering him with her favorite flower
Night after night the torment repeats itself for he cannot escape
confused in a horrible state of mind for hes about to lose
his queen of darkness whispers "for eternity you are my soul mate"
His cries and screams of the nightly terror leaves him insane
her job not yet completed she leaves another mark
night after night she visits him in his house on Ivy Lane
To endure one more night he wishes not to go through
the scars left upon him he wants this to come to an end
in his bed he ponders not knowing what to do
The gates of agony she unleashed on him like flood
his queen of darkness stands over him showing no emotion
then she smiles at him with a knife in his heart laying in a pool of blood.
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 8:26 AM UTC
WSQF:
a pond can be tranquility
and hold the secrets you can't see
beneath the surface lying deep
are all the fantasies you keep.....
AB:
Desires leak ,
Upon the stream,
No self control it tainted me,
My eyes are Grey,
The sky is blue,
The grass is green,
Come follow me,
I need sense of serenity,
WSQF:
then idle here upon my surface
surely your life has higher purpose
within the mystic water , calm
swim the warm pleasures, silent storm
AB:
Poring out desperate feelings,
From gold containers,
Evening high noon mornings,
When it thickens,
It becomes a figment of your imagination,
WSQF:
but what vessel to carry
the wrath of discontent?
for as we ride or die in life
from whence we came is where we went
AB:
Learning all you teachings of how you react,
It pays to have respect,
And if there's no respect,
In due time you wont get it back,
They paid the way for that,
WSQF:
and still water runs deep, the game is set
pay as you go, find no regret
the streets are fine, the streets are cool
but this pond of life ...can brand a fool
AB:
Like the fountain of youth,
But a little more clear,
Having you subdued,
Mixed with drunken chandeliers,
WSQF:
but the dance goes on
and if you down with it
then the fountains spew
all the love to spin it
AB:
Inadequate to regret,
Having the water for a pet,
In your dreams will you forget,
All of the times that we spent,
WSQF:
and yet as we embrace
this life, this human waste
we love, and become fond
still waters, this mystic pond.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Sad eyed men, inebriated by pain, unshaven
eyes swollen, red faced, sleepless at night
loneliness perpetual haunting them like
the ghosts of days dead, in single minded pursuit
perturbed by pains of every imaginable kind
in a devine trance one with dark frightening silence
pouring out their heart in blood dripping details,
tears mingle with words' firepower,molten lava gushes
A fiery woman, though,weak,meek and looks frail,
writes in a fierce frenzy,as if it's her life or death game
there are nail marks all over her emaciated body
as if a famished tiger has badly mauled her.
No trainer of beasts she ever was....
All the living witnesses, her suffering,festering wounds,
a derailed mind,her companion,once in insane anger gifted!
See weeping woman,men in anguish
in the fear of losing long cherished love,
poring out the lava of fear,anguish and pain,
Wounded men and women with an orchestral precision
write seeking happiness,but in words couched in pain.
And then there is this one;eyes fixed at the moon,
getting his fix for the day and the fuel for poetic pen!
All of them poets were in a world each of their own.
"Not sane or insane,wildly ecstatic, still in inescapable pain"
the caresses of poetry's fingers result in that,
And look those children running after butterflies!
poems, they would be thinking are colorful wings and feathers.
song,dance,mirth and celebration, alas! it isn't!
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
How is it
that I all too frequently find myself
poring over contemplations and fantasies to conjure my passion for you into writing,
that I have an entire section of poems, memoirs, and undelivered letters addressed
to you, for you, of you,
that I hurl myself into the vast, ever-encompassing depth of my loyal infatuation in the name of upholding and preserving
that special love
we discovered inside one another,
that I would gladly spend another nine (plus) hours hiding in my room if it meant I could reserve exclusively that time for you,
and you haven't even written that song for me like you promised?
The haikus are nice, my lovely,
but all too brief and it isn't even like you spend much time on those measly seventeen syllables of cheese anyway;
you don't make me feel significant enough and I'm just
pining quietly for you
while standing in the shadow casted by my affectionate regards of who you are and who I wish I could
dedicate my life to.
I may be just being too bold, too brash, too needy... But it isn't like I haven't tried to distract myself
from this eager, burning drive
to spend every conscious (or otherwise) moment wishing myself to be transported into the safe house that is your arms and chest and heartbeat...
I try.
Still, as I write to you, I am trying.
But my heart forbids I forget lest it tries to rip itself up again, and I'm not strong enough to call its masochistic, suicidal bluff.
All of this fluffed and heart-shaped confetti,
all of this gift-wrapped, glittery dedication,
all of this sugar-coated and caramel-dipped sentiment...
All of this, all of this, all of this,
and still
You haven't even written that song for me like you promised.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
In the Shadows you are enraged
Wrath is poring through your veins
As demented as your thoughts to be insane
Hearing them call you by your name
Plotting about their pain
You can see it through your eyes
Peeling skin with your nails
Feeling the blood ooze as it drains
The taste of revenge is on your lips
Snapping bones between your hands
There screams of terror help burn your flame
Brighter hotter it draws on
As you laugh as they cry
You can see it in their dying eyes
That you truly are insane
It's over at their final Breath
As you breathe in the sweet revenge
That's when you ask
What have i done
But its to LATE
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC