Poetry

Hey, this is going to be a page filled with poetry that I’ve done… don’t expect a lot, this is pretty much what I’ve done over the course of 2 years.

I prefer writing novel-type fiction, but occasionally I get thrown into a bid of madness that encourages me to write poetry, and so I do, and then look back at it and am like “meh, it isn’t Horrible…”

Newest poems posted will be at the top, not the bottom, so if x years later you start reading this and notice that the quality changes as you go down the page, please comment so I know if I was awesome in my youth, or if I just sucked back in the day.

—-

Oh Snop We’re Going On A Rompage (June 6/2011)

Snop is a snooping Smurf,

Some kind of simple blue dog I’d imagine,

Instead of an onomatopoeia gone splat

Due to my multiple mishearing of things.

Dogs are nicer than friction induced flaps of fingers,

Anyway, able to amble and romp

Out of reach of a game of Get Away.

Gone on a rompage ‘round a field,

For lack of the remembered word.

But Rompage is better than rampage anyhow,

So suck it up my dear Snop,

We’re going on a Rompage.

—-

Exclusion

I’m out

The unspoken request

Demand

I hear it

Do you?

Can anyone else?

I’m out

With anyone else?

Of course not

Just me

Why me?

Because

I’m out

Fine

—-

Nothing

Game show host

Curtains slide back

A cheesy romance novel, turned movie

Ridiculously happy

Bleached hair

Fake smile

Forcefully cheerful

Directing attention

Ignore all else

Subliminally

“You could have this!”

See how happy, above all else

Pearly white teeth

Drills holes

No plot

Curtains close slowly

Bedazzled crowd

Chattering incessantly

Even down the streets

Verbally

“We could have this!”

Smoke and mirrors

Attention misdirected

Falsely cheerful

Shaky smile given

A mask

My mask

Just cracked

Mentally

“I don’t want this!”

Forgotten

Spindly legs

Hardly delicate

Blue fur

Of which I’m not allergic

A Zebra’s spots

You never explained

A hedgehog’s face

Always pointed to me

Long fingers

To direct me

Two extra joints

To hold my hand extra tight

A long monkey’s tail

To turn the pages

Large doe eyes

To see through everything

You could tell the time

Without looking

When I needed reassuring

You were there

Pointed nails

To hold my hand

Playing at school

Until another friend came

 You were invisible

Only in my sights

Only I could see you

Until you were blocked out

With all my other friends

And you were silent

Drifting away

Until even when you were there

In view

All I knew

My invisible friend

I couldn’t see you

P.S for this, you can read it in many ways (columns, various patterns, back and forth…)… I did this is one of my bright attempts to be uber creative, and felt very proud of myself afterwards for WEEKS (am still secretly proud of it too :D). This was just in case you were wondering about the wonky-ness of it.

Such is Life

It’s lucky

Most would consider

But I can hardly agree

Because in no small way it’s putting a strain

Pulling in both directions

Some hooks stronger than others

More attractive than others

Tempting me to just follow

Tempting me to stop and decide

But what if…?

That’s what stops me

One, I haven’t even been latched onto

Only a phantom of a promise

Glowing with recommendations from others

My first choice earlier

Before I got to know the other hook

Yet still on my mind

Tugging insistently like an impatient child

Wanting my full attention

But the other…

A well-trained dog on leash

Or a cat with its collar

Waiting on the other end

A connection already made

Ready for the follow through

But one small distraction and…

It would pull back and find another

Such is life, I suppose

But still I hold onto both

Straining in the middle

Both hoping and dreading

For the ghostly possibility to be brought to life

Adding a greater strain

Or to be exorcised from my life

Allowing my wounds to heal

A bittersweet treat

And yet…

So I wait, and hope, and fear, and try

To hold out against the strain

Of having yet more hooks catch,

Holding and tearing

At my head and my chest

And pray–though I’m wholly nonreligious–

That when the time comes

My decision

My choice to make

Won’t be one I’ll regret

1+(-1)

Relationships can be put to math

With negatives and positives,

Put to graphs to analyze…

Parabola’s, I find, simplify this.

Positive relationships are the minimum

You should accept, with

Nowhere to go but up. Yet negative

Are in the maximum, a

Backwards perception to fall from

If not perfectly balanced.

Yet I find it would be good,

Perhaps, if this concept

Would be twisted into eights,

So that only when your true love comes

And turns your mind on its side,

You will see that the possibilities

Are infinite.

—-

Cantebury Tales–Modern Physician’s Portrait

He’s changed his mind at least once a year

A lawyer, detective, perhaps an engineer,

Maybe one time, his thoughts were artistic

But since entering school, he’s grown pessimistic

His mind on jobs, his future to sketch

Never as some dog, to seek as said “Fetch!”

This time he says doctor, a physician for sooth

To heal others aches, whether flesh wound or tooth

So he works and he works, both outside and in school

First aid training and rescue, he hones himself a tool

Graduates first in his class, excelling in science

With visions of stitching up victims of violence

To university with honors’ is where he heads next

Upgrading his studies from hard to complex

Diagrams and charts of humans’ insides

So radically different, yet no change in tides

For life, he could tell, was always at ends

With comings and goings like good and bad friends

There were rarely consistencies, maladies made known

 So he worked to make sure he was the best doctor shown

Of all the other students, he was revealed as the best

Jobs offered in bulk, paychecks padding his chest

From anyone getting close and smudging his drawing

Because though many came close, he recognized the pawing

For his checkbook, his wealth, status gained as his ‘friend’

It all marked up his sketches, causing fine lines to blend

His contemporary picture, his up-to-date design

To something surreal, morphed by motives malign

So he sits at home, content with praise

No thoughts at all about changing his ways

For with life as it is, ending quickly and slowly

He was chary of expense as a priestess was holy

Thinking nothing as consistent as the figures in his banks

And no one ever spoke to him except in words of thanks

Perhaps one time, decades ago, he’d thought there must be more

But waves had carried off that notion, away to some distant shore

For life to him, so radically different, was not a change in tides

But a rock to sink and toss about, until the water subsides

—-

Word Vomit

It sprung from my lips before I could stop it

Though I thought it only fouled certain few

It wasn’t brought up from anything earlier

I was struck with a case of word vomit

Right around common sense

It barely did pause

Like many a drunk it wandered

Right through my mind

It tipped from my lips

No cord to keep it from falling

It’s over and done

There’s no taking it back

The words echo over and over

I laugh it off

Gaining chuckles from friends

Joking and teasing

Though I start to wonder

When,

Exactly,

It would again take me again under

—-

Forget It

I hate this

So friggin much

It’s right there

Right at the edge

Sitting there

Waiting for me to give up

I can practically grab it it’s so close

And sometimes someone will shove it forward

Oftentimes they don’t

And the point will be dropped

I’ll drop it—I will

Then it’ll wait a while longer

And then mosey on over

But my point is past

So the forgotten word doesn’t matter

—-

 Dates might get added to the more recent ones, and thank you for getting this far down :D Even if you scrolled down to leave a (hopefully positive) comment, or to see where this stupidly long page ends, THANK YOU!

Ciao for now

~Doodled93~

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