"scramming" poems
can any one hear me that my heart is screaming out
for the one that i love that im in love with
and yet i fell like im on the edge of a ledge scramming
and now one can hear me
they can see but they cant hear it and dont care that i am
and i dont understand why people wont let me be happy and
be in love and do what i want? i dont understand it
my heart wants him what about him? does his heart want me?
does he want me? does he think about me as much as i do? does he
want me? does he think about us as much as i do?
what is he doing? i am so much in love with him.
i sleep on words around him i cant think around him i cant say what i want
my hands sweet and i cant breath around him
its like the lights go dime and everyone around goes a way and its just us and
us only
thats how he makes me feel and i trust him and respect him and i am calm around him and i melt o god i melt and i mean that from from my heart
my heart skips a beet w him i just love being around him
i love him sooooo....... much i dont know what to do i love him if hes not hear
or ever leaves i dont wanna be here anymore and i MEAN THAT he is my HEART IF HES GONE SO IM I
I MEAN THAT FROM MY HEART
<3 ~ DANIEL ROBERT EALR I LOVE YOU SO MUCH TILL DEATH ~ <3
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
What business does this posing Lotus have in staring at me?
The swirl of petals inflowing to a dark eye so Cyclops.
Lotus, you aren’t multitudes like me, but you mock the lie.
You’re the depths I want you to be; the erratic pet for my wall.
Leave me to my blossoming, Lotus The Mirror, and I’ll be your scramming house guest.
There isn’t a soul that had to learn how to love you; like there are for me.
Lotus, you are the multitudes of Why.
Let’s keep things that way.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
I am from the past, who didn’t quite know when to grow.
From locked doors to the grassland below.
I am from the barrier that guards dangerously.
But within, carelessly.
I am from the smears,
that obtain memories
within a frame.
Where these lay on the shelves of revival,
containing hope for the unknown prospective
that we yet to see.
I am from broken flesh,
mourning to be stabilized.
I am from colours, aimlessly falling from virtuosity,
controlled by ferocity.
Where fanfares erupt into paradise,
and hallucinations rupture.
Where I’m from, emotions get merged into blackness,
struggling to reach the vivid axis.
Now, I embrace my differences,
letting go of references,
grasping to the importance of life itself.
Where I'm from,
none of this occurred.
I now cross the line,
that never was yet to make,
and find ambition within the space.
It's my calling to surrender the actuality
to the mentality.
To unchain the affliction
from the prediction
all teens are held to.
Where I'm from, makes me who I am,
without the destruction,
and the scramming effect.
I am from a war,
that has just conquered love.
In this exact moment,
my quest has not been completed.
The revision of the universe
still holds within my time slot,
gradually fading away
with every step I take.
On my wall,
I clasp to the movement
that wasn’t fully satisfied.
Swinging from the clothespins,
clinching to what was left behind.
I am from these callings,
yelling to break the norms,
that my past had inforced.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
in my words,
they found solace
an uproot
purge of wild-powers
why can't I
be walking on ceilings
Rage Rage Rage
tricked to think
the float is insanity
and finally a contact
from my beloved
invisible, unsuspected
desires of virtue
whilst entailed
with sister tremors,
you cross, draw on me,
make translucent hearts
of my wrists
for how long shall
your marks not rinse
in my dreams I am you
and you me
repair my lucidity
as the damp ornate
sacrilege overcomes
all that we've forever
rarely been
every semblance is lost,
scramming towards dust
maybe there I'll
be able to scream
play my tempered,
vicious songs
to earn distaste,
a glance from strangers
fuzzy teenaged tendency
of trailing a
finger on walls
why do they
despise of the essence?
that won't ever reach,
merit a place
at the bottom precious
my box
filled of nick-nacks
and for fewer decaying
fevers and marvels
of eternity,
when keeping sanity
as a raid
against truth-telling
but it won't matter when
the world forgets
and would-be birds
still sing profanities
in echoes of a symphony
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 8:47 PM UTC