"scrambles" poems
Is there a difference,
give us a reference,
between a stalker,
and a pokemon.
The monger hits news,
game spots and toss,
time lost and chaos,
with a pokemon.
In Canada......
The rule breakers,
cross the borders,
an inadvertently walk,
for a pokemon.
In Guatemala city .......
The teenage boy,
under the wizard,
die in the cause,
for a pokemon.
In London.......
The go players,
ambushed in public,
and robbed by trees,
all for pokemon.
In Africa.....
The rumble,
then scrambles,
to get the last,
the dusts of pokeman.
In Asia...........
No signs too,
they tire and wait,
for the nostalgia,
all for pokeman.
In New York.....
It's a no, no,
for *** offenders,
or become criminals,
All for pokeman.
Poke me man,
NO SOD OFF!
It's all crazy,
the apocalypse,
of freaks and creatures!
Poke me man!
I DARE YOU NOT!
Go find old cards,
a bank of more funds,
all for pokemon.
Poke me man!
I POCKET YOU!
As phones hide,
their lunch hunt,
the herd of pokemon.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.
Here at the small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the ****
ing surf,
and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.
Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.
10.8k
you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?
- m.f.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
five pm, mid-winter
i thank Sky for taking sweet time.
Sky sets her thumb on the light-switch of the land.
she stands still, she waits.
for the hour, she meditates
on her day.
Sky hopes her skin
becomes verdigris the next day, not grey, but
verdigris to clothe **** trees. Or perhaps she will
hurt soon— Sky scars in
rainbows. Her change of thought: the small folks who have traveled
through her this day. She wonders where
they all
go.
Open your eyes,
do you hear Sky’s mute call?
in her meditation, hour of magic, all
wakes.
on the earth, photographers peer from their windows,
then rush through their doors to catch Sky’s dancing gleams,
beams flash through the tip-top’s of the Sugar Maple family,
their shadows splatter onto pot-hole streets.
Sky brushes her grass and her roads with paint of a gold hue,
fresh Rorschach tests while her thoughts try to rest.
i spot a leaf sleeping in the street, deep wine and apricot,
twisted from months away from its Mother
the wind levitates the leaf—lightly—and the sun
creates a squirrel of it, he climbs the tree, and scrambles over
to me. in short squeaks, he explains his political theory,
“why do you let your peep el let a few rich folks control
all others? why don’t you follow me
into the woods?”
he grabs my skirt with his sweet little paws
but i look up and notice the darkness,
i look down and see only a leaf again.
Sky’s savasana has ended,
candles ignite in the houses, Sky and Sun crawl into bed.
i’ll wait now for the selenian Sun, but i can’t rest my eyes. soon
i will escape with my new friend.
bittersweet magic: “the moment” lost in the sock drawer.
five pm, midwinter
the afternoon is reaching an end,
Lady Sky decides when she wants to change for us.
as the sun sets, she meditates.
some call it the “magic hour”
but how can you truly tell magic from reality?
go outside and see.
radiant beams do the tango on the trees
(a leaf in the street becomes a squirrel as my eye blinks)
a squirrel who runs straight up to me.
“get outta the system while you can!”
he squeaks, then nods at me to follow his path, another blink
the sky darkens, the squirrel disappears.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Words,
Like lightning, ripping its way through my heart, jolting me violently as I struggle to compose myself.
"They're just words."
The trembling earth parts to reveal a smile, weak, fake, hiding the needle like pain the words you say cause me.
"No, it doesn't bother me."
I bite my lip, white bricks indenting into a plush garden, as the ocean threatens to overtake the beach with only my eyelashes to hold back the waves.
"Yeah, it is funny isn't it?"
You laugh about my imperfections, and I laugh with you,
hard, forced, hot air exhaling from my lungs as I blink and my mind scrambles to find ways to better myself.
"Totally, stretch marks are so gross."
Pink vines of ivy run their way across my body, and I wonder if I can find a way to hide the lighting on my thighs, my *******
"But you're still pretty though."
Your words force the air out of my lungs and I nod reassuringly, because I'm still pretty, despite all the things you say are wrong with me. Things that make me who I am, but to you are marks against me as a person, but its ok, because I'm still pretty.
They're just words, but they can make you choke, and cry, and want to change yourself, just so someone can tell you that you're still pretty.
But pretty is just a word, and I'm so much more than your definition of what makes me worthy in your eyes.
Words.
Lava building up inside me and finally getting the courage to force its way to the top, to pour out of me and cover my body in molten rock, encasing me in protection in the form of letters and confidence.
"I know."
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
it became a perpetual motion
a dance
someone hands the card, another lights
the amount of aching discolored grazed fingers was immense
put your finger on the flint wheel
press it down
karen thought we should make a sign
the scrambles of bruised fingers for a piece of cardboard
my fingers throbbed as i scratched our message on the board
i kept the pink flower locked in the crease of my hand
and threw them in air
“draft card burning here”
it was 7 00 in the morning
october 21 1967
i was only 17
my brother jeffrey was flying a plane over dien bien phu
a friend richard was screaming in the trenches of xuan loc
a lover michael treading through a swamp in mui bai ****
i stepped up to The Police.
The. Men. In. Suits. Stared. At. Me
Blank. Faces. And. No. Expression.
I picked up my Pink Daisy, and brought it up to their bayonets
this is for Jeffrey, for Richard, and for Michael
the men in suits stared at me
in a world of chaos and confusion
all I heard was
Silence.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Butterflies do stammer
on first dates.
Thinking of what,
What to say.
My head rambles.
My breath abates.
My voice scrambles.
My face straight.
I throw smiles of my youth
Tell stories wide and bright
My subtle lies of clean truth
With utter hopes to placate
My eyes dart, my breath aghast
This moment to be
of our future's past
This moment to be
of our first date.
We meet
We greet
We hide our anxiety
Wading through tension
Behind smiles and drinks
We tread lightly
With humorous winks
Passing off stories of our past
Sitting composed at full attention
I listen intently
But you catch me stare
Hmmm, with each soft word
We calm the air.
Anticipating discovery
I peek into you.
Opening myself
To reveal what's new.
You smile freely
Clenching fingers tight
Butterflies take flight.
Hoping what might
You peek into me
Saying no to what could be.
My head disappears.
My eyes dream.
My shiny veneer
Begins to hear.
A flutter begins flight
As I seek your light.
My chest slowly warms
To glows of moonbeams.
My heart slowly endears
As I faintly hear
My butterfly's subtle screams.
We attract hints of passion
By sharing what's true.
For all this fragile effort
I hope for date number two.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
The blue honda pulls up to the curb. A strange lingering fog is tinged purple. He steps out of the car, and looks around. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it in a moment of awe. What meets his bleared city eyes is a sight like no other. Looming in front of him is green woods, seemingly taking shallow breaths in the mist. Then, shadowy swirls form into tentacle-like wraiths. He stood frozen for what seemed like forever. Then a shadow slowly crawled onwards him, slithering on the gravel. It tentatively touches the tip of his shoe and he scrambles back into his car and locks the door, trying to steady himself. After telling himself repeatedly that it was just his imagination. Not real. Not real. Not real. Feeling better, he picks up his phone and calls his wife back. The phone rings, and the normal sound brings him back to the present. He looks towards the woods. He quietly scoffs to himself, what an idiot he was, it was only his imagination. Something catches his eye.He doesn’t see anything. Looking towards his phone something catches his eye again. Upon a second inspection he looks and finds nothing. He looks down on his phone, why can’t his wife pick up already? Something catches his eye a third time and he looks, there is no mistaking the shadows leaking towards his car. he hangs up desperately and attempts to call again.It rings once and the shadows seem to leak into his car, it rings twice, and the shadows seep into the open window, it rings four times, and she finally picks up.
Her lone voice rings out
Hello?
…
Are you there?
…
Honey, are you ok?
...
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
This morning, between two branches of a tree
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.
I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.
Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,
And then the geese will go, and then one day
The little garden birds will not be here.
See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.
Change is continuous on the seamless web,
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;
When like the spider waiting on the web
You know the intricate dependencies
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
I perch distantly
not as a stalking panther shrouded in night
but in exile
society is welcoming as I chose my solitude
internally enforced diaspora
I claimed it was to marvel the awful expanse
a view of unabridged artistry
authentic beauty
however here
truth's firm grasp scrambles for a grip
but fingers could only ever scrape a void
I gazed across a projection
my utopia
a wish upon a whim
I walk the world with starlight in my eyes
to blind myself from the otherwise unavoidable darkness
I stride not at the center of galaxies
but in the emptiness of space forgotten
knowing resolution is inevitable
and I will either become a part of it
or its mirror
I will be whipped from the universe
an absent thought
lost in tumbling amnesia
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
I am aggravated ether
in the moment
so I can't sleep on it
enigma dramatic
bathed in acid & oil
& all the clouds in the sky
are mostly smoke
blown in consoling faces
dole full in the wasteland.
dam & sire fanning the fire
in the furnace
lighted up for days.
they didn't know it could
turn around & burn us.
oh but,
I'm not learned enough.
all the **** while I'm
taking it all in.
three sixty, panorama.
light a ******* candle
& put me up on the mantle
when the mainframe scrambles
&don;'t let me down til
they've figured out time travel.
I won't have any of this.
still in my soul I am savagery.
& these bad *** habits
are all tragedies
considering the fact
that I can make magic
if I see it fitting
to the situation.
which doesn't clique
with certain niches,
they get kinda ******
...they shouldn't.
it's all ******** anyway.
sun slivers.
new day.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
And the shadows are away from the day.
I wonder about my pessimistic ways
And will I ever get out of this phase.
A phase where my mind is in a haze,
Bound and trapped in a cage.
In the cage is a bird that sings
Songs of mental freedom, peace, love and other things
That helps bring the joy that life brings.
On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
My mind scrambles to find the right way
Like a mouse in a maze.
My soul is ablaze
And on these days
I can feel the gaze of God
And his eternal adversary.
It makes me daring and wary
Of the demons that haunt me
When my visions of success
Are right before me.
Displays that leave me in daze.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like
When my demons leave me at night
And arrive strapped like medieval knights
On overcast days.
On overcast days
When the clouds block my sun rays
I stare at the sky all day.
Wondering if the Angels
Partied the **** night away
And these clouds are the aftermath
Of their mass party.
Probably celebrating the coming
Of the end of mankind.
While I'm here stuck on earth
In a mind different from other minds.
With recycled souls brainwashed and blind
That has lost all sense of time.
Where will we go
When this speck of time
Ceases to exist and these words
No longer rhyme in a design
To speak to you?
I have hope when the sky is blue
And feel lost when it is grey.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like.
This is what it's like
When my demons leave me at night
And arrive strapped like medieval knights
On overcast days.
When and if it rains
I hope it washes away the pain
Of this strange stage
And give me hope
To keep my head up
Through these wicked times
And overcast days.
This is what it's like
On overcast days.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
She enjoys the confined space
and the long lonely hours
spent inhaling day old hot dog fumes
underneath flickering florescent lights;
With pen in hand and pad nearby
she scrambles to invent new lives
for strange passerby's
as they buy their coffee
and expired chocolate candy bars
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
I usually write a poem before the title.
Like a book full of stories before they named it “The Bible”.
Phase 1:
I wrote my name and didn’t consider it as a gamble.
One out of many as my identity scrambles.
It’s a possibility that we met just on different channels.
All game shows are the same just different panels
Phase 2:
Let’s meet and greet, then after enjoy my defeat.
I’ll laugh on the inside trying to keep it discreet.
Then again, I could be the loser.
I tend to always jinx my own future.
No smile on my face, I don’t see the humor.
Lost in the game and laughed by the viewers
No money in my pockets, just more for the producers.
Good Game I guess!
Phase 3:
Am I a living contestant gambling with my life?
Out to find a better version of me trying to survive.
Money spent with confidence and carrying my pride.
I play to win, aware of consequence, yet I’m still staying alive.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC
Nighttime session, the troops gathered in the barracks
I am the early bird waiting while I think of words
See the sorry *** in the glass start to mutate
My face scrambles in a madman’s flash of brilliance
I shake in disbelief, making my supposed normal return
The last of many flashbacks to a freaky fungus festival
My companions enter the stomping ground unaware
A trace of spasm in my body, of light refraction in my gaze
Within ten seconds I went from stagnant and stationary
To drunkenly wobbling, blind-deaf-mute-terrified
My vision was the first, flooding steadily with snowy diamonds
I noticed a distinct detachment from myself and my location
Head began to throb and ears shot jets of sound
Like a pulsar detectable to keen eye on rampage
Bright white light, increasingly suffocated by diamonds blinding
Sick and driven to escape, my face drained of all color
My surprise became overwhelming and unbearable to me
I made a hopeless barge through blurry barrier
Dive into the bed that will bring me sane comfort
Curl in ball, pathetic and fetal, waiting for the war to end
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
When the aqua blue fades into a bubble gum pink,
They make a satin violet that dazzles the evening sky.
And as the sun goes down, it kisses the clouds,
Leaving a trace of amber lipstick around its edges.
The sun melts into the horizon, spilling it's liquid gold everywhere.
It scrambles to pick up the beautiful mess it's created.
But it knows time is running out,
Before it is invaded with the purest black.
And like a curtain that has been drawn one to many,
Light shows through the tattered cloth,
Shining.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
The simplest of shapes are losing their form.
The sun will blend in with the shade at this rate
I can't stand up in this storm.
No safety in numbers, but death by swarm.
Winds of change whelp under gravity's weight.
The simplest of shapes are losing their form.
Chaos cracks its knuckles 'fore sacking the norm
then squashes infinity- not one line's left straight.
I can't stand up in this storm.
Providence whimpers as fate's left forlorn.
Pandemic obscurity greedily takes
the simplest of shapes and scrambles their form.
Hurled into reverse, things once dead are born.
The simplest of forms are losing their shape.
I can't stand up in this storm.
Lives flash before me- things start to go warm.
Time left for prayer, but I fear it's too late.
The simplest of shapes are losing their form
I can't stand up in this storm.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
In my fingerprint, the thirteenth groove from the nail,
The one that curves neatly, until it breaks
(A scar, I think)
That's you.
There is a braincell in my skull that is red, not grey:
Red for love; red for anger; red for that STOP light that made me stall
(The kind of complete stop that scrambles up your nerves)
That's you.
Every eighteenth heartbeat is you.
Every flex of my left hand little finger is you.
Every wish on a lost eyelash, carried away by salty currents, is you.
Every swiftly sheared blade of grass is you.
Every nerve ending in my lower lip is you.
Every cell of oxygen is you.
You are
Every
Hope
Every
Fear
Every
Dream
I ever had.
Put simply into words that in the end, are nothing;
You are everything to me.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I would rather be
A star swirling in unconscious ecstasy, or
The air captivated by gravity, or
One single wave as it shies from the shore, or
A pebble cemented into the sidewalk path underneath a leaf
as it’s cracked and crushed under the heedless, preoccupied nature of man, or
A humble crease of a sick rose’s petal, or
One coffee ground stuck to the bottom of a yellowed, chipped mug,
Because it doesn’t matter, it does not matter.
Nothing truly matters.
Whether you’re privileged or impoverished,
Content or depressed, dispassionate or obsessed,
A ****** or a giant, timid or defiant,
Powerful,
Crippled,
Insane,
Naïve,
Whether you’re green with jealousy or environmental tendencies,
Whether you Fight,
Fight for world peace,
Fight to end, to **** Hunger,
It will not matter.
Because Man is addicted to conflict.
War is on the pedestal.
Hatred, envy, greed, lust, and hunger all
FIGHT
To ensure its power.
With every hand that scrambles for control,
With every eye that narrows to aim,
With every breath held for stability,
That pedestal heightens and heightens.
You might as well sigh for the butterfly who killed all those damaged, but innocent individuals.
Its gentle wings, essential to its survival, are to blame.
So you might as well accuse that abusive husband in New Jersey for the Iraqi War,
And that fisherman in the ****** Islands for global warming,
Or that little boy who's crying for the emasculated, shrunken, pathetic homeless man muttering,
“Hope is hope because hope is never hope. Hope like a rabbit, hope hope hope.”
Can you not see?
Can you even Be?
I can only hope for an escape, an exploitation of no conflict or aggravation.
just one wisp of matter with no conscious mind.
I can only point at all inconsistence with determination to prove that the only consistency in this entire universe is simply
ILLUSION.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
*hellopoetry.com/collection/20186/years/
A few hours pass with the boy still there,
Drawn to his body like he's tethered.
A few more and he's floating in moonlight
But no sleep will bring him comfort.
A small fish catches his restless eye,
A quick shadow against the current's silver.
Closer, the boy sees sharp teeth bared.
The fish eyes his corpse like its dinner.
A desperate NO escapes his throat
As he scrambles to stop the scavenger.
He cannot, and he cries out in frustration,
His sobs joining the sounds of nature.
Ethereal tears fall on ethereal hands
As despair morphs into very real anger.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
I've never write a song,
That scrambles the light to dark,
A song that lift ups the humble,
A song that sings all praise,
'till the day I met you,
You are a tune of a song to me,
We are scrambled light and darkness,
that lift ups all humble songs of praise.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC
The Prince of Heaven rotates the truth.
Stacked in whispers
hush words scrambles the floor,
arcane winds blame the new;
preservation lusts moribund moonlight
as magic circles catch the Sun.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
You turn my blood into flames,
like forest fires racing through my veins.
You create the beauty of natural disasters within my skin.
I just can't help but let you in.
But, I've learned that with the beauty comes the destruction.
My brain scrambles when I look into your eyes,
Your words flow like sand cascading through my hands.
Your words are not lies.
They cannot be lies.
These words must be the sweetest corruption I've ever tasted.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC
the gold ring and chain piercing my
nostril is tied to Your starry reins
I stand quite diaphanous and transparent
in the shivering frost-bitten scrutiny
as inanimate and suspended
as the fossilized rocks
and vacant shells entombed beneath
my bare feet
this loneliness that climbs, scrambles
mindless ivy,
up and down forlorn ivory towers
lost lighthouses clinging to abandoned
coastlines where the sea foams at the mouth
and maya lurks like rodents and beachcombers
littering with her perishable bag of goodies
where is my conch?
my heart hurts
am I too deaf ...too far gone...
to hear Your mighty blast?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC