"storyline" poems
Two decades in and already swamped with memories
And only the desire to make new ones.
Walking to class or coming home
People ask me what I want to do,
What do I want to do with the rest of my life?
I can feel my throat constrict and my heart skid,
Don’t they understand how much of a commitment that is?
The rest of my life.
And what if it’s not something I want to do, but something I want to be?
I’m 20 years old and don’t ever have my head in this atmosphere,
So how can I ever hope to decide the rest of my life?
I want to write with the raindrops that kiss the grass
Or sleep on the waves of the ocean
And hold the stars in my hands.
I want to climb the highest tree or the highest mountain
Just so I can jump and call it flying.
I want to read the faces of others
And put them into stories.
But mostly I want to run,
Not literally,
But running still.
I want to catch time as it passes by
And go to all the places in the pictures
Enjoying adventure upon adventure
Until the end of my days,
Surrounded by the select few that I love.
I want to be nothing short of me,
And who I am isn’t a constant that can be applied to a formula,
It’s constantly changing, growing, fighting, loving.
How dare you ask me to define what I want to be,
When it’s plain that I don’t even know who I am?
I’m 20 years old and what I want to do for the rest of my life
Is nothing sort of a mystery, an adventure,
Like a storyline leading to an epic plot twist,
But it’s wrapped in uncertainty
And the only way to find out where it’s going
Is to keep reading the book.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back?
But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being.
But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways.
And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made.
What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me?
Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'"
Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store.
Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels.
It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words.
Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about.
They believe in it, they worship it.
As if it actually exists in an alternate universe.
The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more.
It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it.
And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept.
It's so fake, it's almost real.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.
Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;
The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.
A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.
And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown
And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.
Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
"I know it's cliche, but-"
You may stop right there
As, yes, cliches exist
And nobody cares
But life is cliche
We're all just living jokes
With stories told and lived
Since millennias ago.
Be as cliche as you wish,
You can't change what's done
And the way you express it
Or the need to tell someone
Wear your cliche with pride
Because, years before you, another did not
And it tore them inside
And now, in the earth, their body rots.
"I'm in so much pain, but none of it's physical
And god, that's so ******* cliche,"
But it's the only description you know
Your played out storyline's seen better days.
Because it's such a played out, worn out cliche
But it's unique because you hurt in your own way
And lord knows we're all dealing with the same thing
Living a cliche and fighting for something to change.
You smile, you laugh; you hurt, you cry
And I promise you another in the past
Laughed and cried at the exact same time
Right up until the day they died.
Because you may be something special
But don't ever think you're something new
You're life's been lived, been replayed
By hundreds, maybe thousands, before you.
So, yes, it's going to be a cliche.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
I understand that I'm not the first book you would pick up, that is if you were looking at the cover.
For there are so many books with alluring colors, and I am one dim color with a tattered binding.
But understand one thing; just because what your eyes see first isn't what your mind will interpret later on.
Yeah, an eye-catching outside layer is nice to look at, but what about the inside?
I promise you that even though I may not catch your eye, I have an unique story that has descriptive details that will over take you and your senses.
I will leave you breathless.
When you are finished with me and set me down, you will not be done with me.
You will refer to me about many things and one day my storyline may cross your mind.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
THEY broke into my storyline:
confections served were not so slight
still i missed out on YOU at first,
that trace YOU gave of sheer remorse
put that now in you head,
sweet THING!
my guilty pleasure feels like savoring.
a palate to transpire any doubts -
a skill of tiger on the prowl
it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then write YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down
it's been a while i had my click
with all the fluff i cared to think
i thought this time WE may never part,
but YOU are in the line with change of heart
it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss
i reread YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then rewrite YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 3:21 PM UTC
1.
Lovingly patting my hands
she sows goosebumps enough for two;
a rich harvest awaits our hearts.
2.
Corners of her dark eyes
doodle on my heart's canvas;
an art therapy apt, for the lovesick.
3.
Pretend, I am invisible,
ask him out, make me jealous,
frantic antics, just reversed, I understand.
4.
Movie runs on the screen,
your eyes on mine, see within,
what exquisite twists and turns
in the storyline of our secret love!
5.
Your short floral dress
loves to tango with the wind,
would I ever complain?
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
People seem to say, "Oh, it's totally fake!"
"Why would you believe anything you see them do?"
"It's all acting."
And that isn't entirely true, at all, but many people won't believe me.
Now, don't tell me I'm wrong, because this is my opinion.
I won't say you're right or wrong in thinking wrestling is fake.
All I'll say is, if you think it's completely fake, then I disagree.
And here's why.
I always ask those I talk to about this the same question.
I ask, "If wrestling is fake, then why do people actually get hurt?"
Then I say, "If wrestling wasn't real, then people would never get injuries that either cost them a few months, or force them to retire."
The reason why I always say this, is because wrestling isn't a joke.
I see people actually get hurt because they botch a move, or land wrong.
I've seen punches and kicks actually connect, and cause someone to get a concussion.
I've seen people get dislocations and broken bones, and wonder how long they'll be out for.
Sure, there are things that can be overexaggerated.
And I won't doubt that injuries can be purely storyline driven.
But, when the person is actually hurt, and needs surgery, how can you call that fake?
How is it fake if the injury causes someone to have to hang up their boots for a while, and go into physical therapy to recover?
How is it fake if it can cost people their careers, or their lives?
Remember what happened to Owen Hart?
He was supposed to come down from the ceiling, but the thing broke, and he fell all the way down to the ring.
People didn't know whether it was real or not, but he ended up dying from injuries sustained from that fall that same night.
Wrestling isn't fake, but it is scripted.
The storylines are scripted, I don't doubt that for a minute.
There are many wrestlers who have feuds on camera, but are friends behind the scenes.
There are people who act like heels, but are the nicest people you'll ever meet, or the other way around.
Mistakes are real, and the bumps they take will actually hurt.
There are things you can fake, and it does take acting in order to portray the right emotion.
But when someone breaks something while wrestling, and is out for a long period of time due to surgery and recovery, then it's hard for me to believe for a second that it's completely fake.
I prefer scripted, so that's what I call it.
Raw is on tonight, so I had this thought in my head, and decided to get it out.
Okay, that's my library post of the day.
I'll talk about something else tomorrow, or the same thing, I don't know.
I just write whatever I feel like, and I thought about this, so I wrote it.
See you tomorrow, bye!
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Second year at a new school
I should be accustomed to it
But the fact is, most of them are strangers.
Second year should mean a second chance
But her friendship ring is leaving its mark on my hand
And my young years are drifting away at the sand
It's high tide...
To resurrect my mind into this new time
But new is different and different is unknown
And the unknown is scary.
I don't know how to think beyond
Those who are now distant characters in my storyline.
I'm hesitating..
Because new is different and thus unknown..
And I'm not sure if I can trust what I don't know.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Self-inflicted distractions,
ingesting every possible stimulation the
world can afford me,
lost in peopleplacesandthings
abusing myself with every tangible
substance,
redirecting my mind away
from addiction,
but try my damnedest and still
there you are in the lyrics of a new song,
so I start to read and there
you are
in the character in my book,
turning on the TV and there you are
in the storyline,
stumbling into another man's bed and
he becomes you
when my eyes are
closed;
everywhere I run
my addiction finds me,
and sometimes I fear
I will never escape
you;
you are there
in all the places I go
in all the people I meet
in all the things I see;
I see you
I feel you
I taste you
I smell you
I hear you;
you are my five senses,
you have infiltrated my bodyheartandmind;
even without you,
you still control me,
you still catch me slipping,
my mind wandering to you
in my dreams, subconscious still stained
with your imperfect, incomplete, undeserving imprint;
in my attempts to forget you
your memory refuses to
let
me
g o.
I guess
once an addict,
always.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
In the distance, I see a Hound bus cruising down the country road
The stretched out Greyhound dog in front of the bus with look and behold
Now watch as numerous stories unfold
I hear a Greyhound Driver narrating his tail of his stories surrounding the hound bus
I will narrate a couple for you
Our story starts in Topeka, Kansas enroute to Kansas City, Kansas
The bus left on time during its usual run schedule
However, the weather started getting rough
Driving in the wind and rain made it really tough
A Tornado could be seen in the distance destroying everything in its path along the farmlands
Yet that Greyhound bus steadily kept moving
But the fierce violent winds were blowing
Suddenly, the Greyhound bus got a lift
Up in the funnel of the Tornado the Greyhound bus went far from any drift
However, a miracle took place, and the bus was slowly let down gently to the ground
The Greyhound bus remained in tacked and nothing but praises in God’s thanks was the sound
This is my account of another story
I was travelling from New York City to San Francisco, California
It was a vacation being a 4 days journey and New York City back
We had just crossed the Nevada state line being a rest stop
A Young Woman went into labor on the bus
The Driver was counting the contractions, but we all knew what was going to happen
This was supposed too be an 30 minute rest stop, but turned into a 2 hour rest stop
Luckily, the bus was near a major hospital nearby, and an ambulance was summoned
The EMS carried the Pregnant Woman on a stretcher off the bus and her Boyfriend (Husband) followed
Later, the bus pushed on, and I arrived at my final destination ahead of schedule into San Francisco
Another story tail
This time I was travelling to Los Angeles from New York City
We stopped in a Ghost town
There were tumbleweed flying everywhere and shutters were hitting all the houses along with wind blowing
Yet, there were no citizens in the town
Meanwhile, it was 6:00 AM in Arizona
Suddenly, all the passengers wondered who was coming aboard
But everyone was thinking thriller oh my Lord
A Male Passenger boarded, but spoke Spanish
He was drunk and wanted to sit with anyone, but passengers refused
So he had to go to the back of the bus where the restroom was
He talked from the time he boarded until we arrived in Los Angeles
So Greyhound is more than a ride, it became an adventure
Stories upon stories
Go Greyhound with its own storyline
The venture being the bus, but no need to fuss
Greyhound is the American Frontier and that involves us
What is your Greyhound traveling story?
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
I am a compound of knowledge
I accumulate stories of redemption to serve privilege.
My existence is portioned for a little while.
But i shall remain a kingdom not for this little while.
All my reign I've always became ones rebound; elevator. Their legs knowth no grounds.
I kept fearlessly hoping for much less
Ain't lesser than a new day.
And that was being brave anyway.
Clear blue eyes of my inhabitants statued high at me.
How courage and passion never stopped to be.
The storyline I had is still now a motif of endurance.
I gave up not, and show offered my perseverance.
Away, from my bitter overwhelming insight.
Wisdom is one great amigo, less than him I'm wiped.
Done so good to every heart, though I remained a bad part.
I opened all my doors to welcome each, keep my composure and listen to their preach.
My grounds grew a seed out of that; everyday. Their eyes tortured me to believe in what they say.
Direction sometimes looked clear on their paths,
Never knew success starts on a dark start.
I kept this in my sanctified upper room.
The future is bright, all flowers can bloom. And this is who I am; I'm a compound of knowledge. I accumulate stories of redemption to serve privilege.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
In the town of Forgotten
One might always forget
But our story unfolds surrounding King Hatchet
He was an evil and determined king
King Hatchet would often have thoughts being the one thing
“I am the King to whom you must respect otherwise, a very high torture sting”
The citizens of Forgotten weren’t surprised of the King’s words
The message echoed out, and it was heard?
But who would defy the king?
It was a man named Defender
He called out King Hatchet to come outside the castle
Now anybody who challenges the King is automatically put to death
But Defender was a skilled warrior, and reigned as a champion
However, King Hatchet knows all about Defender, but doesn’t care how skillful Defender is
But let the challenge begin
It will be death to the finish
Whoever is the victory will be distinguished
So King Hatchet and Defender picked up swords and commenced in the fight
There were cheers on both sides being sheer delight
Swords grasped together, and when Defender pierced the arm of king Hatchet, there a scar and some blood
Yet, it didn’t cause the blood the pour like a flood
However Defender was steadily swinging his sword in not missing a beat
It was determination in there not be a defeat
Suddenly King Hatchet felt to the ground, and Defender had his sword at King Hatchet’s throat
The message, “Defender was the greatest swordsmen throughout Forgotten”
But Defender let King Hatchet live, but only after announcing, “Defender had won”
Cheers from the crowd’s
The hourglass of victory
A chapter that prior could have been considered a mystery
Once upon a time, storyline far more than any book could ever tell
A moment in making a child’s heart’s swell
The closing chapter ended with dreams into the night
But for now good night, sleep tight, and don’t forget to turn off the light.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
We range from mindful decision to mindless diffusion
Marching in step to others' lives
Stray from the path and follow a new storyline
Write your book creating your own demise
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.
you will find yourself all alone.
you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself
{a story is nothing
without
a villain}
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
There is a chaos theory that is dominate in my mind,
one of proper thought that has gone array,
visions of violations to our fellow man,
and whispers amongst the thieves.
If there is no honor,
then the point will be to survive in anarchy,
groveling and scrounging in the night,
to feed the pains in our bellies,
In my eyes, I will **** to feed,
but there is others who will not allow it,
and the storyline will be "I will need to be fulfilled before you'
maybe I will commit another act of treason.
After the rapture, those who live will be wasted,
like it was since ever since,
there will be title fights for structure and hierarchy
but it will still be life after Armageddon.
What will hope do to mankind?
its remains to be seen.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.
Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.
Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
she whispers poetic metaphors
comprised of beautiful words
into thirsty ears
and watches as hungry eyes
become enveloped with stars
as they imagine the beauty
of her love
she tells them
¨he is the earth
and i am his moon
orbiting around him¨
orbiting for him
but
you see
an orbital´s path
is not paved by love
for she often asks herself
if she was really in love at all
or was it simply
his proximity
which so forcefully
pulled her in
for closeness
is what tore the moon
from her own established path
amongst the stars
when she encountered
the inescapable gravity
of another celestial body
the moon
diminutive and frail
in comparison
had no choice
but to succumb to the earth´s captivation
and redirect her path
to assume a new orbit
around a new focus
instead of progressing forward
she now knows nothing
but the same hideous loop
and like a scratched record
it repeats itself
over
and over
and over
and over
again
and every taste of freedom
simply brings her careening even quicker
around the next corner
until she becomes
all too familiar
with the same series of events
so she convinces herself
she's fallen in love
then that she's fallen
back out of it again
except
she hasn't really fallen anywhere
her mind simply adapts
a new narration
for the same spiral storyline
she never really loved him
for while they were close
momentum prevented their hearts
from ever truly touching
(for if the moon and the earth
drifted too close
they would collide)
and she will never know
now that she has become entranced
by a new planetary orbit
and as she tells the story
of how the moon
fell for the earth
the paradox of orbitals
was the perfect disguise
for her sinister love
x.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
Never Have I Ever (Slam Poem)
5/27/2014
Having a best friend makes you think of weird things.
Stuff like:
Getting slapped in the face with a fish is more about smell than texture.
13 nights in a row drinking isn't so bad if you save cash not using mixers.
A stranger hitting on you is a storyline for tomorrow's lunch.
Redecorating my room is just for you, nobody else will see it.
You asked me to go shop with you, are you saying I need new clothes?
Crushing Ritalin in a bathroom, because we stayed up 'til 6am before work.
Pooping is like extra time in the day set aside to call you on the phone.
Why do we play Never Have I Ever when we already know the ever's?
People think we constantly say inside jokes, but we're just telepathic.
I get into shape before you visit town, because you're my best wingman.
If we ever stop being friends, I really hope you don't blackmail me.
Can I designate you to speak at my wedding, babyshower, and funeral?
... or is it too soon to do that?
Losing friends can make you think of weird things, I imagine.
Stuff like:
1. I should stop ordering carne asada fries - I can't finish a whole portion.
2. I keep my curtains closed - I know your car won't randomly be outside.
3. Having lunch alone ***** - I shared a crazy story with the cashier today.
4. I take my poops with the stereo on now - I never could go in silence.
5. My voicemail inbox is full - I can't delete any when your voice pops up.
6. Maybe I should call you.
7. I need to talk to you.
8. I wish I could call you.
9. If only you'd come visit town.
10. Maybe I should go visit the cemetery.
11. I have a new least favorite Never Have I Ever.
12. Never Have I Ever had a best friend die.
And I hope I never ever will put that finger down.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
Remember, being young, you used to love those posters
We’d look at them for hours, got addicted to the game
Of trying to be the one, who found the most new details
We searched for all the features that none had seen before
And every next disclosure would shed a whole new light
On the storyline we thought had nothing new in store
Where along the way did you lose your sense of wonder?
What was it that blinded the eye for detail that you had?
Was it time that rusted your fixation on what’s known yet
Was it life that happened and robbed your curious mind?
‘Cause though still friends forever, the magic slowly faded
The picture got familiar as if holding no more surprise
Now just take a moment and imagine that we’re standing
Looking at that poster that you still know by heart
The one that tells the story of two best friends forever
And spells their lives out since the time that they were young
All the ties that bind them, the obstacles along the road
All the precious moments that gave colour to their lives
Imagine that this picture, etched inside you memory
Holds one little detail that you've never seen before
Would its revelation bring back your imagination
And hold the hidden power to change the story line?
Would the boy hidden inside accept the great adventure
That a few small brush strokes invite him to pursue?
This time, let me tell you the thing that you’ve been missing
The detail that’s been overlooked in all the years gone by
The painter of this story line that sketched our lives together
Signed this valued work of art with the truest signature
If you’d open up your eyes and see the artist’s message
You’d read there in my handwriting “please let me be yours”
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
~
Dear Nest made by golden strings,
Remarkable Guardian, dazzling Thunder,
I don’t want you to watch me burn.
but, I do know, that one way or another...
It will be in your arms that I will overturn.
Glide through those adorable winds.
Embellish that Sky with your finest colour.
She wafts well your powerful wings,
With real echoes as a celestial lover.
Dear immortal and treasured Valentine,
Irreplaceable you were and always will be.
Blissful new edges frost our noble Storyline,
Royal Blessings to you, New Melody.
~
© Christina Philipe
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
the present he gave me
represents himself in my eyes;
a storyline I've always wanted to read,
the mystery on each page
I've been dying to unfold,
and the love in every word
I've been wishing upon a star for
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
You're breaking on your camera hand. Haven't got a leg to stand on.
You tell me
you're making me a colour with your shorthand.
Dropping parts of your mind behind you and I can't pick them up, I can't follow you round anymore.
Kid, you're shaking on the stage again
explain that you can't write this down anymore
and that everything inside your head is a storm.
And I just can't tell you.
I don't have the guts to tell you
that I still smell him on my hair on days when I don't think about you now.
But I can't tell you what I'm thinking
like how you're so wrapped up in your own broken strings that you're not getting me right anymore.
You're not getting me right anymore.
These things I lost down in my chest:
how you made this body your chalkboard fourteen days before we even spoke,
and I don't know what you're leaving with. I can't find the words to leave you with.
Tornado hands. Texas lungs. How this world made you a storyline.
You're an underage drunk on a school night.
Stop dropping yourself I can't hold you up anymore.
This is not a hold up.
This is you forgetting to ask about yourself.
Here are all the letters I never sent you
take them out of me, stop making me write you down I can't write you down anymore please scratch yourself out.
You once asked me if I felt it when you woke up in the middle of the night across all those miles, I told you:
you're a church bell in a hurricane
stuck under all the folded over pages I left you with, and I'm leaving you on a Sunday,
just like all those characters you left sawn off.
And I just want to ask you how many times I have to break myself apart before I piece back whole, and I realise
that we've got nothing left going for us anymore.
Your chipped teeth under my tongue telling me "stop apologising for yourself,"
ripping the keys off a typewriter just take everything I've got.
You can have my apologies love.
You can have my best friend sitting on the tracks.
You can take me whole, take me home.
You're a boarded window, nothing disclosed,
"get away from me".
Candlelight through the gaps on a Saturday night in December.
We're home alone again.
Home alone again.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
Checking out seems easy compared to playing the cards life delt me with.
Take this sip and drink to the sadness im blessed with.
Kiss this **** thinking Im smiling for your kind lies or your rotten slices of "im your friend" pie.
Feed me the truth you choke on or the reality that made you shoot coke to forget.
Give me the lines that your heart cant beat
give me the music your feet cant seem to keep up with.
I want the ***** truth that gives you cavities to speak.
That mud storyline that locks you behind bars of judgement because I can no longet hear that bs the media tries to force into now dead ears.
No fears just through with the emotions that gave you power. face life liar this relationship
is no longer ours. This you and me has been sour no punch line just this I flushed ish like this now how bout you spoon feed yourself that.
Amuse someone with the facts, you tried beating my dreams down with hollow bats.
swallow that and choke on spite for this the last time, I'm over it.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC