Poetry - Lovelorn Diaries Vol.1

Memoirs- Rolling in Deep.

Maybe all these papers will be for nothing– My yearning for my invisible lover whose perpetually true— Yet without their demeanor picture-perfect— No ninny would be to deny it blue, By the likened see Romeo and Juliet seems to farfetched to me, I'll be Jane Eyre running from it you'll forsee—

And If writing poetry about a stranger who seemed unvexed by the effects of my longing-forth-thunders— if they decide to look for their haven– Choose admirers or advance steps in their liabilities and deepen my blunder— I talk brazen knowing If you're four walls closer to finding your adjacent centerpiece– Or If your index finger is found of a gold ring and became the reason why one continues to keep on breathing in the age of blood and exuberance–

The abrasions of my love forcibly-able can barely sever the strongest feelings— Even in the most childish of fables.

And when I don't hear the voices still running, I wake from my sleep all worried and pining, As I've grown cold in destiny in the middle of May— was found laying alone on twelve past day— On the lower bunk bed with the light still dead— As the lights shaded from the blinds from the living room pierces my head, How one desires to ignore all the reds— In waves they blind– marks the darkest in my mind— forth ways I cannot expect— eternal stop in the traffic lights time stood for a moment.

My heart still aching from your footsteps— prominent petals and roses, while mine are still covered in ivy, all childish and whiny— it feels like I'm being condemned to an eternal promise— filled with self-induced grudges and cobwebs, how can one descend— past seenights come again.

And I'll make myself your enemy, so you can't find the weakest point of the alchemy– And alter brain chemistry, as it is not just to hyperfix the poetry I wrote about your face and every day's—

And put it on a banner and call my name, as your friends did to their love written senders— throwing parties and praising all their splendors, it wasn't solemnly-splittable on who was to frame for their demeanor— write it out and blur their names and make believe it a memoir.

Though all were guilty as I read through the play-script, Yet I Already sent it down and it made it on year-ending A-lists, it scored number one's yet it doesn't feel safer nor replacement— to a hothouse— take it all out it— might wilter with no doubt not safe from the downpour nor a maelstrom—

One feels I'm a dweller who's scared of his own skin laying out as the pavement– small cracks and broken smiles as I skipped on them, It crumbled behind all my footsteps and heavy burdens– He was preparing to live a life most lived by faking and avoiding contracts— one fall closest from breaking— whom speaks in cryptic tongues, In sharpness and in grunts, memoirs came rolling in the deepest of graves— I couldn't say my name.