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Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the edge, the living earth
dared to mimic Queen Fathima's worth,
the Queen of Heaven's grace and poise,
her footsteps, a blessed path of choice.
This way bedewed with divine light,
a numinous destination of sight,
graced by thousands of prophets of God,
a sacred path that all should trod.

In Allah's name, she descended,
on the Night of Ascension, her path transcended.
from the Night of Measures, she came,
her frame, heaven's dark matter, a mystery untamed.
A divine dot in terra incognita,
a fondly-folded bud where time doth bloom.
If one can see up to where it rose,
Paradise sways towards this uncharted way
the only guide, oft is a glimpse of Queen Fathima's eye!

The only asymmetrical golden ratio,
steps forth amidst the symmetrical prophet flock.
The earth makes way for her in awe,
as she moves in sequence with the golden lock.
Cloaked in mystery, she reveals
her unique, divine relation to the divine.
Makes measured moves at the forefront,
shining the light ever drawing closure to God.

She is so pretty and classy, a paragon of art,
a sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty is a burning fire in her shadow,
she is 'Zahra,' pure light, a luminary dynamo.
The only woman in heaven and earth with no shadow!

The great flock of women mirrors the earth,
following each atom on that angled girth,
aligned perfectly under the waxing full moon's worth.
As they approach the behemoth's might,
atoms beneath their skin explode in their finest sway,
and beneath Fathima's feet, vibrations take flight.

The ocean billows up, floating with the clouds,
Like choreographed dewdrops hanging low on the rose,
Ready to shower down on that hot spot like honey-drops.

Even the Moon on the horizon follows suit,
Ah, the lunar punter rows down, loves to sip in a drop.
the sleeping beauty wakes amidst the moonlit night,
silver dances in her eyes on every star in sight,
as the Moon sails down from its celestial height.
The seven seas sing out in the dark,
bubbling with exuberant fireflies' spark,
who gleefully rock the moonlit boat,
towards the cup of that pretty little drop.

Poetry in motion, the sea on the ground
a beauty reflected in the Moon on high
the storylines jump and dance around.
Painting the colors of the winds in the sky
over the shady grove, the rhythm goes on
rains down from the sky on that sweet spot
singing the sweetest of all title songs.

Never before was a woman a prophet of God,
but for the primitive woman, the leading lady,
the sharpest cut above the rest, the leader of the pack.
Sayeedatun Nessa, Queen Fathima,
Heaven holds no secrets, always an open mirror!

Secret is Fathima touched the bottom of the earth first
it's in her elements a pure unique one otherworldly love
the womankind scores that only entering paradise!
"There is no night, only déjà vu moonlight
the pious homemakers, these veiled tuberoses,
were hidden gems to the sublunary fireflies
who will be open moons in heaven's secret skies."
The Huris gaze upon mesmerizing beauty,
but their eyes turn to the real McCoy:
the women in paradise!

The universe debuts a primitive water dew,
Big Bang, soon Fathima drops in it her two hairs duo
enkindles the inner dark energy in the dark matter mole.
Absolutely pure, nature wakes up get the building rock
nothing like it never seen before, treasures in Earth's core.

The Queen's first impression hooks on
the motionless earth in the dew makes the first move
polished golden spiral is in bloom expanding ever more
the last thing the sun can't do can't take its eyes off
after the Big Bang big fireworks still (Ratqan) a black mole
thicker than the black moon, gravitates the cosmos! 

Walking in the dark ahead of the sun and the moonlight
one step up on that shady way the Queen cemented on,
perfectly circle pi-locks, the earth takes a Ma pause.
Until God willing Fathima's locks shall finally bottom in  
the long haul of time squeezing out paradise upside for good,
the heavenly Queen shines the light in the secret end of God!

The planetary ebb and flow are on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only steppingstone.
No matter how many times they try on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one, the original woman,
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Dots connect in her presence
the nadir and the zenith perfectly intersect
once for all that shall mingle in her perfect circle
without a labyrinth gap in the whole
making ‘As above, so below’ pure Scientia scenario.

Where the Queen stands on
heaven will open its grand door!
No more reverse engineering the original
God willing Fathima will step on
on the last turned stone.
From the very one greatest woman
paradise starts from there on
from beneath the mother’s foot!

She is so pretty and classy, a paragon of art,
a sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty is a burning fire in her shadow,
she is 'Zahra,' pure light, a luminary dynamo.
The only woman in heaven and earth with no shadow!

The great women flock mirror the earth
treading across every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode, on approaching the behemoth,
the vibration beneath the otherworldly Fathima’s feet!

The ocean billows up floats with the clouds
like choreographed dew droops hanging low on the rose
just to shower down on that hot spot like honey drops.

Even the Moon on the horizon follows suit
ah, the lunar punter rows down loves to sip in a drop.
The sleeping beauty wakes up amidst the moonlight
silver dances eye on every star in the night
the Moon is sailing down.
The seven seas sing out in the dark
bubbling with exuberant fireflies
that would gleefully rock the moonlight boat
over to the cup of that pretty little drop.  

Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
for the primitive woman the leading lady
the acute cut above the rest, the leader of the pack.
'Sayeedatun Nessa' Queen Fathima
heaven is no secret always an open mirror!
Secret is Fathima touched the bottom of the earth first
it's in her elements a pure unique one otherworldly love
the womankind scores that only entering paradise!
There is no night only Deja vu moonlight
the pious homemakers these veiled tuberoses
were the hidden gems to the sublunary fireflies
shall be the open moons in the heaven's secret skies!
Huris look on mesmerising beautiful
eyes on the real McCoy the woman in paradise!

The universe debuts a primitive water dew,
Big Bang, soon Fathima drops in it her two hairs duo
enkindles the inner dark energy in the dark matter mole.
Absolutely pure, nature wakes up get the building rock
nothing like it never seen before, treasures in Earth's core.
The Queen's first impression hooks on
the motionless earth in the dew makes the first move
polished golden spiral is in bloom expanding ever more
the last thing the sun can't do can't take its eyes off
after the Big Bang big fireworks still (Ratqan) a black mole
thicker than the black moon, gravitates the cosmos! 

Walking in the dark ahead of the sun and the moonlight
one step up on that shady way the Queen cemented on,
perfectly circle pi-locks, the earth takes a Ma pause.
Until God willing Fathima's locks shall finally bottom in  
the long haul of time squeezing out paradise upside for good,
the heavenly Queen shines the light in the secret end of God!

The planetary ebb and flow are on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only steppingstone.
No matter how many times they try on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one, the original woman,
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Dots connect in her presence
the nadir and the zenith perfectly intersect
once for all that shall mingle in her perfect circle
without a labyrinth gap in the whole
making ‘As above, so below’ pure Scientia scenario.

Where the Queen stands on
heaven will open its grand door!
No more reverse engineering the original
God willing Fathima will step on
on the last turned stone.
From the very one greatest woman
paradise starts from there on
from beneath the mother’s foot!
I don't know how anyone would feel about this.
I bet they would stop reading me if I do this.
But this is one of the things that I really love.
And I'd be able to write about it for hours.
So if you are a wrestling fan, then keep reading.
If you're not, the you might wanna stop.

Alright, if you are still reading this, thank you.
Now I can get started and tell you what I know.
I know what a bunch of the moves are called.
And I can tell you who my favorite wrestlers are.
I can even tell you what my favorite storylines are.
I have a variety of wrestlers that I like to watch.
There are some that I don't, but I like the music.
You know, the music they use when they come out.
Anyway, the wrestlers that I like to watch are:
Jeff Hardy, Shawn Michaels, Triple H, John Cena,
The Bella Twins, Kelly Kelly, Mickey James, AJ Lee,
The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Santino Marella,
Trish Stratus, and Brie Bella (on her own).
I love these wrestlers for a lot of reasons.
And if you want, I'll make a separate thing for each.
Just like this if you want me to, and I will.
Anyway, the wrestlers that I like the music to are:
Randy Orton, Edge, RVD, Christian, Eve Torres,
Brie Bella, Trish Stratus, The Rock, Jeff Hardy,
Kelly Kelly, Shawn Michaels,  and Mickie James.
Alright. the names are practically the same.
But that's because the music is very catchy.
My favorite storylines are the following:
Shawn Michaels and JBL (late 08 - early 09)
Brie and Nikki Bella (Happening right now)
Jeff and Matt Hardy (2009)
Shawn Michaels and Chris Jericho (2008)
Triple H and Randy Orton (Mid 2009)
The Rock and CM Punk (2012)
Jeff Hardy and CM Punk (2010)
And I'm sure that there are more.
I just can't recall them at the moment.
But I think that this will do for now.
I hope you liked this.
Please give it a like you want me to get
into more detail about the wrestlers.
And if you want me to get into more
detail about the storylines.
I don't know how many of you watch Monday Night Raw, Smackdown, or TNA Impact Wrestling. But if you do and you like this. Then like it and I will get into detail one by one of the people I like and the storylines I like. Thanks for reading. Bye!
Fish The Pig Jan 2015
livin in a big big house
alone all the time
no lights
sittin in the dark
electric light
reflecting in my dead eyes
watchin Dexter claim his next victim
falling in love
with ugly scary monsters
because I understand them
and they make me feel safe
and nobody else understands that
they're the only thing that makes me feel okay
nasty nasty
cruel things
storylines so sad
heroes so broken
but the horrificality of it
makes me sing
ringin in my ears
playin on my fears
shivers up my spine
this is how I like to spend my time
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2018
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!

Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.

Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.

What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.

What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Sylhet is regarded as the spiritual capital of Bangladesh.
Shofi Ahmed Sep 2017
The silent moon  
is still in the listening mode
since Adam in Eden voiced
his divine prose!

Ambling speechless over
the ocean it won’t touch it,
nor will the billowy water
neither will it jump over.
Therein the ever polished gap
our storylines find the jump!
Ashly Kocher Dec 2017
Using your words
Expressing your feelings
Searching for the meaning of life
Unraveling the mystery
Through ones own eyes
Surprising how you look at the whole picture
Will bring attention to detail
Sharing ones own storylines to their lives
Kristin Dec 2020
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck

I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter

Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question

I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s

I am
I am what I will be

I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light

I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies

I am
I am what I will be

Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"

Choosing well
choosing better

Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully

Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
Korey Miller Mar 2013
the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******-up storylines, oh,
i
am more than
the gristle and bone
the fibers interwoven through my arms
my lily-white striped clavicle
this corpse is my throne

i am not simply a ******
i am a ****** with a history
i am mauve valleys' majesty,
i am more than just my regrets
and my atrophies
and if it's not commendable, well, at least it's a story.

i,
simply because of my condition,
have lived through more than you could imagine
i have burned down in the depths with fire-skinned demons-
with messes deeper than your credit-card sins-
and i
have managed to get through it

these are my battle scars
i've fought ******* wars
and yet you shun me as if i'm not a hero
as if i'm not honorable for just making it
but i know you simply don't possess the tenacity
or the strength of wit
to deal with my ****
there's no reason to reproach
the type of behavior which keeps me alive
when i've done greater things than you ever will

stop staring
like i'm some sort of reject
like i'm something to pity
like i'm something worth nothing
like i can't recover
this is just a bad habit
and though you may find it disgusting i know i
can find worse dirt staining your mind

even if i leave this life
without a square inch of me unscarred
i have never backstabbed
i have not given in
while your inky secrets stay unspoken,
mine are imprinted upon my skin
and darling, that's all there is

if i am hateful, i will show you so
i have nothing to hide
my mouth isn't lipsticked shut

so what
if i cut
i'm still a good person
and though my battle is visible
there is nothing more around the corner
i am here to stay
so are my scars
and that's all there is to say
/rant
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!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
it just so happened to be one of those
afternoons...
   making lunch for a sick woman...
slices of brioche dipped in beaten egg
(pinch of salt, pinch of pepper
and a pinch of cinnamon)...
               then fried in butter...
she requested one slice and with jam,
i made two, but couldn't find
any jam... so out came a dollop of
crème fraîche and runny honey to finish
the lunch off...
  then: i can't remember the last
time i watched a movie from beginning to end...
i'm starting to think that
the only movies i'll be able to watch
are european, foreign language movies...
then again, prior to watching
            the swedish movie that gripped
me, i got to watching
                  X500...
       what's with me starting to mature into
subtitled movies?
   maybe a steady diet of music and books...
but then this swedish movie came along
i had saved from two weeks prior...
         foreign cinema is like ***:
      you have to be in the moon,
a mutually reciprocated mood between
you and the movie...
      it can't be like ******* american cinema,
even if woody allen makes a movie...
to "smart-***" for me, plus the high levels
of saturation, aren't exactly helping:
a film industry that writes predictable
   storylines where the person can gain
   a "prophetic" insight and see the future twists
in the plot? nausea: one word answer.
so... this swedish -
  efterskalv - i.e. the here after...
  wow...
             so little dialogue...
       but still so poignant -
                     perfect reading material -
now i'm getting the feel for these sub-titled film,
then again, it's swedish cinema,
  probably the best in the world -
    there's a still about them,
  sometimes the camera peers into the canvas
like a shy child...
                very edward hopperesque -
i.e. trying to capture a stillness,
  like eddie tried capturing light (esp. in rooms)...
first date i was ever on?
   well... it was the 2004 tate modern exhibition
of eddie's works... i'm pretty sure nighthawks
was there... unlike the edvard munch exhibiton
i went to solo: hey! where's the scream?!
oh yeah... d'uh some saudi arabian sheikh
         owns it, all i get it a ******* postcard;
back to swedish cinema -
       actually, all the best films i ever managed
to see were swedish,
          like i said, modern swedish is very
hopperesque... but also among the stillness come
grand outbursts of energy -
    the very essential human presence -
the kind that shatters the presence of a roaring
lion with man's potential: shooting a rifle;
everything about efterskalv was so brutally
simplistic - i have to admit,
   american cinema is saturated with
strobe-light juxtapositions i'm sometimes starting
to think i'll enter an epileptic fit
with some many darting camera angels -
                 the a.d.h.d. in cinema...
plus... i'm getting bored with this special effects
competitiveness...
     oh yeah... another thing -
irony of saying: stripping down to the basics
of cinema... well in this film you get to see
the full adam...
                           i like that...
                          in america there's plenty of
the pure eve, but at least in swedish cinema
you can easily see not only a full eve,
             but also a full adam -
the one americans don't see without
                             sherlock limpy looking for
viagara;
  and after i finished that movie,
i started making cottage pie,
    served with mint-and-lemon infused mushy
peas, and a simple salad (rocket and some
other greens) having drizzled it with
balcamic vinegar and chilli infused olive oil.
a day well spent, i guess.
Yaz Dincer Jan 2015
I keep on writing and writing,
In a space before trying to make sense of the words. And then reread to explore which are my subconscious keywords.

On and on and on it goes,
spilling wondrous colours from within the doors of my inside walls.
Never-ending storylines and mystery, what is truelly deep within,
and under the surface lingering.

Trying to better understand me.
Exploring depths beneath my breath
It should be normal to for us to sit and contemplate death.

Our minds are too active to be a bore, theres just so much you could explore. The marvelous thoughts it stumbles upon and creates to entertain, theres so many things you cannot properly comprehend.

Sometimes we write something in a fleeting instant. This one only manifested in just this moment. Othertimes we sit and wonder why theres no flow, perhaps thats for another poem to explore.
Mitch Nihilist Sep 2015
fixation forces your
nails to carve my back into
an abstract painting of
the way your breath
holds my face in it’s grasp,
the way your
legs tighten up as they
clash to mine.
your eyes tell stories
of how your
hair wrapped to my
fingertips pulls your head
back with eyes
blank, storylines
consisting of
the surfaced portions
screaming a crimson
cry to the hands that
caress your throat,
bearing the heat
of the constant
conflict between
your skin and mine.
whispered screams of
wanted foreshadowing
allows for bodies to
convulse at signs of
complete puncture,
vocal chords tear at
points of ******,
a sudden ******
shudder bringing vibrations
to the very being pushing
your walls
to a sexually climaxed halt.
teeth tear a chest to a skins
stretching point,
the blood
dripping down
forefront is
the morning dew
falling off an abandoned
bed frame,
tangible exhales
hit the walls,
the walls that house
the sweaty palms of
your hands as the consistent
tremors vibrate
the bed posts, expelling
tedious creeks.
waves of warmth
clash to the walls as
my fingernails
find a homaged
home amidst the
warmth of your arms
followed by nothing more
than a shared laugh and
sudden heavy breathing
...
something different
something seldom
...
Leah Anne Aug 2015
These mental movies playing in subdued technicolor;
An entrapment that seduces my entire consciousness like a glimmering silverware under the sun.
It has kept me enthralled, convinced me to strip myself out of my worn out realism,
Then lead me through a journey that is neither truth nor a dream.
These constructed storylines which overpower my will to resist,
Leaving me no choice but to surrender upon its bittersweet, artificial melody.
How tempting and dangerously self-depreciating it is to let myself be consumed by an illusion's thorn-filled embrace,
Emphasizing in persistent bold letters the cruel honesty that it projects.
...
August 14, 2015. 10:47 am
Kate Browning Nov 2011
Straining your neck to get a second look
At distant locks
Shaking "I tried"
Turning door knobs inside out

Anxious patterns spinning ties
Sweating for warmth
Stepping into socks, enclosed travels
You're too cold to exist

Grabbing anything you can grab in sight
Twisting your mind
To escape living ecstasy
Dreams of you and me

The moon falls upward
The sky falls below while the cars fly
Like a limousine to me
You used to be considered fancy

Six feet under, in my mind
Forgotten parts of cringing discoveries
Lost and found inside miscellaneous medicines
Remodeling harsh eyes

Confused expressions set on autopilot
Degrading, regenerating
Organs and miles of dusted feet
Lost between them that are you

Emotions trample your face
Tracking slush in the cracks of your flaws
Where is the army fleeing?
Desire to feel them burn

Spines form to given foam
But as you lose yourself they trade for former homes
Laying themselves down, unaligned
In different storylines

Dictionaries have answers to everything known
Owning all meanings, meaning nothing at all
Labeling individuals and all things
From avalanches to eruption of mankind

Fix my eyes on you
Scribble languages on napkins
To bring education from there to near
Forget this just to remember.
Elena Clair May 2014
Today the Singaporean sun shines
Down, to the commuters at the bus stop
Each with unique human storylines
It casts their shadows long, past coffee shops

Through, the window panes of old high-rise flats
And trees: branches, flowers, leaves. Shades shifting
Freely, on abandoned park benches and alley cats
Comfortably, filling forms consistently prancing

Beautifully, as it turns the sky pink
And the urban landscape is coated in gold
Simply, more so, than one would think
From the days of our youth, to the time we grow old
Parker Aug 2018
Straight out of a book, her life crafts pages
The lover who waits until the leaves fall off the trees
and all the people go home, leaving the streets as empty
as the box buried under her porch with all the places
she's never been
Why does the sky spell your name once the candle's burnt out
and lust becomes a taunting game?
The shallow part of the soul has a hole in it
and every time I try to mend it, it gets bigger
Bigger like the stories of love that fill her head
A romance that dances with the stars but will leave you
as fast as the wind will blow that plastic bag into the sky
When you touch fire, the burn never disappears
She will though
Off to the next novel with different storylines but similar endings
Off to the next heart she can dive into and tell a story about the girl
who was looking for something deeper
Something that's worth keeping you awake at night
Something, at one point, I thought we had
My chapter was different though, I believe
My burn never healed
and the years dripped away until our worlds were striped of paint
and all of life was brushed up and tossed into that box under her porch, with just enough space to add something more
I hear a whisper in the wind telling me the depths of life is
consumed by a portrait that doesn't exist yet
and time is only relevant to those who aren't searching deeper
I hear you
and feel your heart
pounding under the silence left in me from the night I realized you
weren't coming home
and my love was kept in a glass heart that she now uses to keep her books straight
Though every once in awhile, you hold it and think of the boy
who's heart was just enough to last until the end
To last until you closed the book and start writing again
Megan Anne Dec 2011
If life is a book, then these words that I’ve written
Of dreams and of wishes and of places I’ve visited
Mean nothing when there is no reason for living
So I’ll scatter the pages, indecipherable now
Stand by and watch as the clouds cry down
The ink sliding past, creating blurred lines
Until totally clean is this story of mine
I will start over new, an attempt to cheat time
I’ll rewrite the past, sketch new storylines
A careful redraft, but I’ll make sure this time
That instead of hers, you are mine.
AW Aug 2015
Pitch black storylines
Ink painted former forest
Fire wrote a book here
If all great things are done by a series of small things put together, then great lives are created by a series of small moments put together, most of which we miss out on because we’re writing the synopsis rather than the paragraphs of the chapters.

It’s as though we live to write our eulogies. We get degrees and desire storylines and unfolding fates that make sense and flow well and ultimately to write beautiful and admirable stories, but only ones that we will ever tell ourselves. We’re never actually remembered for more than who we were and who we loved and how we lived in a moment-to-moment sense. The rest — the big, overarching, milestone-kind-of-things don’t matter, and maybe they never did.

We miss the moments because we’re distracted. Distracted by the one person we search for in a crowd, fearing they’re there, even when they’re hours and states and other impossibilities away. By the someone who is always on our minds when we’re writing or creating or choosing or riding the train or falling asleep — and we behave as though they are with us, and narrate our lives by what they’d say and feel and think if they were with us, though we know we’d never know that.

There’s always one daunting task, always one to-do list that fails to include anything surrounding what we actually want to do. Not for work, not for the attention, not out of responsibility, but just because we want to be happy. Always one more step, one more move, one more great love to find before we can be happy.

But we aren’t. We don’t choose. We don’t think we deserve it. We keep searching, and we keep narrating, and we keep living as though we have a tomorrow to live out all these grand fantasies and promises to ourselves when the reality is that unless we stop today we’ll live forever on the promise of tomorrow. These are daydreams. They’re visions and hopes and issues that don’t exist. The minute you start thinking of the past or future realize that it’s only a thought of a thing, a thought that’s happening in a now. A now that we’re missing.

Tomorrow never changes us. Our moves never change us. Our relationships don’t, either. Our problems change as the things in our lives do. The issues we take are reflections of what’s wrong with us, the people we hate reflections of our insecurities. No matter how many things come and go, we take the same issues, and hate the same people for the same reasons, and never stop to realize that it’s not them that we hate, it’s the parts of us they force us to recognize.

You have to stop living for how other people will remember you. Stop living by telling yourself the story that you think other people will be happy reading. Because it’s an empty and lifeless one, and it robs you of the thing you’re most seeking when you do it. The most important thing is that you do what makes you happy — and that you understand that your happiness is your choice, and your responsibility alone. It is not a day or a job or a relationship or a change away, it’s right now. The only work to do is to remove the blocks that prevent you from living it out. The only change that has to happen is to you.

The untold millions of little moments are what matter. It’s not about having a job, it’s about having a life that you want to live. It’s not about having a degree, it’s about the nights you finally felt the opposite of loneliness. It’s not about having a relationship, it’s about being in one, and it’s not about living a life that other people can sum up comfortably, it’s about having a life wherein those millions of moments build and corroborate with one another — and you follow them — and have more. You won’t be there to hear the stories and eulogies they tell of you — you’re only here to know them now.
Mariel Ramirez Sep 2013
i'm trying to be my own hero

whispering "it's okay"

out to the cold night and in

to the chill

that seems to line my veins nowadays
                                                                          

"it's alright"                                                
                                                    

holding in the sighs

shying away from eyes

how many times have i

told myself "you'll be fine"
                                                                          

"it's okay to cry"                                                


but i drench my pillow every

night, and beyond the eighth-

floor window is a world

separate from

here (consider the fall)


"smile"

i do smile,

my own hero,

remember?


(well, only fairytales have

happy endings;

and twisted storylines

are beyond saving)
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
I could write an epic novel,
pen volumes of scriptures,
scribe an entire
set of encyclopedias
about her.
She makes
the theory of relativity
look like voodoo science.

And with all those words,
those complex-descriptions
& intricate storylines,
she'd still be a mystery
to the universe.

It's a great thing
I'm such a prolific writer,
I'm going to enjoy
her discovery,
much.
JAK AL TARBS Aug 2013
Oh my goodness gracious me oh!**

Oh, can't you see it
That new, New boyfriend
Oh no, DID you hear that
Their fairytale had ended

People talk and talk and talk
They say things they don't know about
I try to hide all the lies
But they bring it up
Every single time

Hey boy, are you blind
Can you not realise
This treasure you've found

Hey boy, could you wait for me
After school, coz I need to talk
To you
To you

Mouth to ear
It's all over here
.I'm shocked bamboozled
Never know you'd do it

Listen to all the storylines
They differ from each person

Did you hear the news
They went outta town

They had to get outta here
Away from all this
Articles and stones
MAY break my bones
But you will never
Hurry me with your lies

It's time to bury the skeletons
Of my old past
Lock the door
Throw the key away
I don't want you near me

Yeah, all this happens coz
People talk and talk and talk...
Firstly this poem is dedicated to all the gospels and pumped and snitches of the world, as I carry on I speak of hope these hipsters start to turn innocent truths into hurtful rumours and then I speak of how a girl would want to impress this boy she's been liking for a long time, but the rumours begin to ruin the relationship.just to clear their heads they leave for a while to get a rest and think things through.when they come to a decision they decide to end up just as friends realising that a relationship would just complicate things, and I the end, her crush, longterm crush, just got friend zoned...epic sadness
Ella Aug 2017
Writing is like magic

In reality all your doing is putting ink on a piece of paper.

But in your head so much more is happening

Your creating worlds, histories,storylines.
You create characters with relationships, ambitions, hopes and dreams.

Writing gives you the power to create a universe for others to escape into.

I guess that's why we love to read.

To escape into the magic.
Emma Apr 2019
Salut—welcome to Madam’s little fortune shop
Where you can see your own fate within an incense drop
My horns shimmer with necklaces that defeats all hexes
And my weapon is a skull of luck for both of the sexes
Now come and rest your left palm on this pentagram
I assure you that this is not a satanic scam
Cards shall give out a tale born from your consequences
As well as the horoscope that’ll mess with all five senses
I can pin a previous life and death within a single scar
I can name all your relatives as far as ones in alcazar
Withdraws are The Sun, The Moon, The Lovers, The Fool,
Listen to the revelations of storylines on your stool
With the Debut of Temperance, The Devil, the Hierophant,
Listen to the ways to avoid a man who is a sycophant
Pick a number from any of my twelve golden coins
To reveal a former lover that one day you shall rejoin
Now kindly look past the glimmers of my crystal ball
And you’ll see just how much your fortune can rise or fall
Last month, I asked a few artists if I could make poems based off their work, but I never got the chance...Until now. This poem is based on this lovely stockwork mashed up by Jasminira from DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/jasminira/art/Predictor-785894696. I think this might be the best poem I've ever written, even more than Stringed Girl, tbh. Hope you guys enjoyed this.
Joseph Childress Sep 2010
My record
Reflects some aspects
Of my character
Not all
At all
At all costs
I spin
When I face faults
I skip through
Scratched melodies
Like the cracks in the street
The new sound is ground-
Breaking
Breath taking
And painstakingly made

However
Its a bit worn
And prone
To wear and tear
Easily offended
If not handled
With care

Snap
Out of thin air
Music is not made
But strained
By the heart
And trained
To be felt
Though the mood
May not always
Fit the setting
I'm letting
My soul do the telling

Whether wrong
Or right
The song
Tells truth
A human being
As flawed
As his record
My storylines
Along with time
Improves
The soundtrack
To my life
Played beautifully
By the maker
Suzanne Penn Feb 2021
My older eyes
have been searching lately
through the crowds of people tearing up
My city

I understand
protesting
Hell...
I have protested a bit myself

I understand...
pushing hard
personally
I hate to be ignored

I myself have experienced
quite a bit of
prejudice myself
most of my life

And before anyone pops off
and tries to tell. me thats its different
and trivializes
my experiences

Consider this...
I identify as a an old (60)
Fat (long before it was trendy)
Gay (came out same year as AIDS)

My whole life has centered around
alternative lifestyles
that have not r will or ethical

I have never been able to blend
keep any kind of filter on my opinions
nor conform to authorities
just because...

All that being said...
you should also know
That I am loyal to a fault
and a fixer, maker, creator...

My belief system
is simple
I believe in Good and Bad
and Right and Wrong

occasionally, it becomes necessary
to cross over to the Bad and Wrong side
but as soon as possible return
to where you belong

I believe we are all born
knowing the difference
and how a person handles that
defines them

I have spent most of my life
helping those
who were considered "less than"
by the powers that be

my first real epiphany in life
taught me that fear
was the greatest motivating factor
in most peoples bad behaviour

my second one taught me
that manners , wit, persistence and patience
could head off 95% of those behaviours

my third was a difficult one
it made me quit using the wrongs done to me
as excuses for milking a situation
instead of processing thro them

When I gave birth
I knew innately
that my child was my one chance
to build a person as I believed they should be

That last thing I was going to do
was install "untruths"
pertaining to our behaviors
or perceived inherent rights

You see, moving so much taught me
that facts can change
but truth  is always the same
Yet, perspective is everything  

Now as I was saying
my old eyes
have been searchin the crowds...
And listening to the storylines

Unfortunately...
the majority are near misses
right ideas
wrong techniques

For instance...
how does one bring about
equality and inclusion
by separating and  blaming

I understand the anger
remember Gay bashing
was (is) a daily danger
yes Black lives matter
but so do all the others

I love my hometown Portland
a beautiful diverse conglomeration
of geeks, tweeks and freaks
with a sprinkling of weirdos ,wackos
and tightly wound wikinuts
add to that a high tolerance
for  the" to each his own"
school of thought

Micro beers and green ****
have fueled grand discussions
and deep conspiracy theories
but we haven"t decided yet

So  if you have the wear with all
to riot violently and demand attention
why is it that when you finally do
have the  worlds attention
why do you not make your point?

And clean up after your selves!
you trashed my home town
and scared the locals into submission
just to say nothing ,
walk away undramatically
and leave my home trashed in your wake

I've thought long and hard
and watched in the wings
for the golden hour to emerge
and have concluded this:

The time is right
The issues are right
The places are right
the leaders have yet to fully develop

it not enough
to see the problems
we must be able to visualize the solutions
and put down  the need to be right
while picking up the need to do right

Take the descriptive language
out of the for front
quit insisting we revisit old wounds
let them heal
All lives matter...period

Also make the rules
we are expected to abide be universal
in no ones world should it be ok
to **** some one because they don"t stop
when you tell them to and if you do **** someone
expect to pay dearly for it,

Just like when we were kids...
just because you can beat someone
doesn"t make you right
it makes you a bully

And finally one last item..
equalize leadership ideals!
Money does not make a hero
courage to stand up for rights does

Re-think our priorities... please!
Quit instilling  $$$$ as a value or ethic
it is merely a vehicle in which we travel
the actual destination is the goal
(ps)-( hint) it's much less fun alone

Keep in mind ... your manners
will get you further
than your mouth ever will
but what we need to be thinking about is  when the dust settles and we arrived at our destination
will we like  the place and people that are here too?

One last epiphany to mention
remember the pendulum
once things are stirred up and more easily rearranged
clean up the mess and set things down in a place that allows them to become common place.
because really our ultimate goal is to become a non-issue
Only when the issues are not even brought up
will it be successful
he"s not a gay man across the street
he just a man
only when we become willing
to be bland and "just another"
will we approach  balance
and  ultimate nirvana
Just an old gals personal opinion after a lifetime of fighting the good fight
Alexis May 2018
Do you ever wonder what the message that I never sent said?
The message that from your side could only see it pending, while I read it back to myself over and over, hesitant to click send because I knew that depending on one small movement of my index finger, my world could either burst with colour and become complete or drain to grays and crash down, never to be rebuilt as sturdy again.
The message that pulled me away from society and slowed time while I was trapped in my subconscious, unaware of the events unfolding around me because the only thing that mattered were all the different storylines that could become my life in a matter of seconds depending on if you read that one message.
The message that was so carefully phrased and forged through a mixture of sudden confidence, the truth of how I felt for you, and my desperation for change; to change the way that I spend every night alone longing for your love, and to replace my sadness and tears with the solace knowing that you desire and care about me.
The message that I ended up losing faith in and erased, for I was too scared to risk it all, because if it hit me that my fears were now my reality, it would have been the one blow that shattered my cold, cracked heart into millions of shards so sharp, anyone who tried to put them back together would just end up damaging themselves too.
So in those moments where I let my mind drift, the question that will forever lack an answer often resurfaces;
Do you ever wonder what the message that I never sent said?
Pauline Celerio Jun 2016
In the riddles of my rhymes
Are hidden storylines
Of love and goodbyes.

In the inkless writing pieces
Are my heart's deepest secrets
Unearthed.
Deana Luna Jul 2015
it starts with a love potion/a rose tincture.
she says slowly feel it trickle down your throat. melting your heart. [blocks][of][ice]
i am locked in this-
thank you for being my angel of the night.
a resounding hum echoes into your guitar. bounces its way back to us.
we discuss new ways of playing instruments.
we smear raspberries on our bruises to sweeten the pain. to soften its bitter blows.
you carve teeth marks into my shoulder as a distraction.
i cry **** into your pillow instead of crying.
(this dull grief)
you talk about your dead cat. i make sure not to mention how i feel like
dead w e i g h t.
mountain moons painting themselves into storylines across my forehead
you read **** instead of *******.
Gigi Tiji Nov 2014
I want to know your dreams

I want to memorize every fiber of your being,
your every bone and every muscle, your
every word and every story

I nuzzle my nose in the nape of your neck,
tickled by silky soft hair, and
breathe you in deeply.

My lips are learning you

I marvel at your existence for uncounted and
seemingly nonexistent amounts of time

I can have a conversation with you
by looking in your eyes

We needn't say anything
but show, see and
understand
to feel

You're a glorious piece of music and
I want to learn every nuance of your essence.
I want to remember the feeling on the pads
of my fingers before I sound each string.
Glorious

I trace your skin with my fingertips to
learn every dynamic of your body
from forte to pianissimo

I bask in your kind eyes and swim in your smiles.
I shiver at your electric caress and melt in your loving embrace.
Divine excellence...

At green diamond tenth
in the hustle bustle jungle,

time brought sunsets, tall buildings,
relative heat waves and adventures,
it brought love and delicious food
with interwoven fingers
and storylines stampeding
through the streets, seen
from the landing of
our first kiss

then snow and a hat-scarf,
your name embroidered with
threads of love by the hands
of your grandmother,
and mittens that turn
into fingerless gloves

We walked past my car twice
just because we enjoyed walking with each other,
or maybe I'm just directionally challenged
and occasionally oblivious,
but it's definitely both

We never put our pens to the page
but we snuggled like a puzzle and
painted poetry in our smiles

You make me feel so comfortable
I could melt into you like honey on a
fresh piece of toast before a walk in
the snow to a four hour train ride to
another chapter of your book

We were together nearly 18 hours
and it felt like forever and a second
at the same time and

I'm still tingling...
Falling in the depths of projected storylines; it all seemed too beautiful to comprehend.

My tongue was enslaved by butterflies and my lips were sealed by sap.

I didn't give it any thought while wondering on the rocky sphere chasing after the moon and the Sun as they took turns winning 24 hour races.

I've chanted the words that gave me a chance to look behind the illusions that blinded everybody else.

Our lives have became novels, our lives have been in shame far too long; we go so far in history just to be remembered for the beautiful things that were carried out in life.

I only ask that I'll be remembered for my soul wanting to love everybody.

My path is loaded with encounters... There's nothing that I can do.

By: Leory Sanatana Dawn
Alyanne Cooper Nov 2014
When I was a kid
It was so easy
To get lost
In the depths
Of my overactive imagination.
I dreamed up worlds
Of saturated colors
In arching storylines
With characters I knew better
Than I knew myself.
They were my escape.
There were "Kristen" and "Melanie",
The sisters who loved unconditionally
In a southern style home
Transplanted to the landscape
Of the Pacific Northwest.
There were "Tadgh" and "Samantha"
Who wrote melodic masterpieces
To match the turbulent serenity
That threatened to pull them apart
With every corner turn in life.
There were so many others
That I poured my time into,
Creating a universe
I so desperately wanted
To permanently live in.
Though I was their creator,
Their molder and former,
I was also a mere visitor,
Just pressing my nose against the glass.

Now sometimes I wonder
Whatever became of those characters.
Did their stories turn into the fairytales
Everyone hiddenly desires for themselves?
Did they wind up finding love
And family and happiness and peace?
Did they struggle and fail and lose at life?

Some say I could go back,
Find the threads of their unfinished tales.
But that isn't possible.
It isn't possible because I've grown up,
And the door in the back of the wardrobe
Has become a flat panel of wood.
And I'm left with my nose
Pressed up against the glass of memory.
Ryan Galloway Feb 2017
I am spaced out, distant, bored.
The teacher is running on and on,
while I am lost in some other world
tracing storylines of heroes, kings,
princesses, knights, jesters, and queens.
Writing romance beyond any I could ever wish for myself.
My pen is running across the paper,
writing down my thoughts and figures,
hoping it may somehow make it more real,
like if I poured enough of myself into these scratchings
they may leap from the page into the air
and bring my narrative to life.
I would not go as far as to call myself a writer, a poet, a dreamer,
but I do write and I do dream, and I put more of my emotion on a page
than I do into anybody or anything.
I lose myself to worlds, in which I only visit,
yet they are more home to me than any I know.
I come to with the ringing of a bell, and find that I had spent
the past hour staring at this beautiful girl,
ethereal and wrapped in light from the barred over windows,
long blonde hair, brown eyes, and earphones perched in her ears.
Thinking I may still be daydreaming, I blink a few times and time starts to still.
She smiles bashfully, knowing I had realized my mistake, and gathers her things.
Leaving me to think, maybe the story I’m living isn’t that bad,
and perhaps dreams are even better when they are real.
Skye Jan 2018
It wasn't the course material, I understand it still,
But I'm having frightening thoughts about ropes and knives and pills.

Counselling doesn't mitigate my anxiety or depression,
Although I've been to many different appointments in succession.

I've driven away my friends by withdrawing into myself,
I've lost half my teenage years, forgotten like the books upon my shelf.

I remember writing fiction, creating lands of mirror-men,
Today I can't imagine any unique storylines to pen.

I'm just a useless ******* dropout and that's all I'll ever be,
I used to get straight A's and now I barely scrape a C.
Eh. Infantile rhyming scheme but the content of the poem is more important than its structure.
nivek Sep 2014
fingers and thumbs
made for gripping
storylines
Tammy Boehm Oct 2014
There are moments sacred
in that predawn sanctuary of your arms
I still drift away
Serene in the ebb and flow of light.
Quiet blue eyes that see only me
And the vision is enough
Your voice as you pray.
Distant drumming thunder
I dance
Hands outstretched
Fingertips wet with remembrance of the rain.
You are love without shame.
Embrace me with weathered hands
And I am safe
Tracing scars and storylines
Little boy laughter and airplane rides
Newborn pups cupped in your palms
So many tears wiped clean
From my cheeks
When the deluge in my heart crashes through....
I find sanctuary
Iin the rise and fall of your chest
As you sleep wrapped around me
And there are moments sacred
When chaos fades
And you are all I see…
TL Boehm
08/24/10

For my husband - with love....

— The End —