"storylines" poems
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
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
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?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******** 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
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:43 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
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.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
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
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
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.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
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.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 9:41 AM UTC
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
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
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
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:08 AM UTC
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.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
Pitch black storylines
Ink painted former forest
Fire wrote a book here
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
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)
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
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
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC
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...
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
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.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
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.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
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?
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
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
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:09 AM UTC
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.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
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.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
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 *******
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery slope,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:
*Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com
and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text*
I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’
Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.
In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).
In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
.
.
(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris**
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 11:40 AM UTC