Poetry - Lovelorn Diaries Vol.1

Pinks and Proses

As I wish to see you again, but maybe with a microphone– some music sheets and a set, and you should act as if you never knew any of it— Till it reaches the newspapers as the critics decode the cryptic messages that trail back to the reunion and that garden, this is madness so they— so call it then.

It's promising either he'll have a wife and kids— I'll still be daydreaming of him— Dare I'd break any promises knowing I'd see him smile once again—

And that brings me closure to what never began, A envisage-fictitious anecdote dotted by the memento's of friends— Of teenager's hyper-unfaltering psyche built in a fixed up bloodstained fabric dress and laced into the hoax of true life's recurial moments.

Or maybe I'll die dead, drowning in desire to fuel more fires that makes my life dire and destitute— I wed, and seek the church halls and the angelic songs far from fit in my head— but maybe that's all I'm in as is– The End?

No, you weren't the first, but you're the one who lasts beyond dreams and mystical seams, it would be nice to think of everything lively with some good lessons and internal fighting— I did to myself now,

As Being written or seen— in death and in writings, as before was all because of your very being and loss-of-seeing in me— foreign yet subfusc-in-sightings.

Even if he moves past the place where I saw him every day, it doesn't have to be kept on a chain nor a heart-written-gold case, As He'll forever be a fond memory who's face familiarity— handsome chirality leaks through day to day, And even if it's just my last three days even on ending-school-practices and plays—

I can't call it bittersweet as my actions and writings speak fondly as the rivers meet— the saltwater beach– As did haunting transmittal sheets.

I still live to tell the tale, I'll probably take off to Bail, when you in your likeness and pretty little faces reach my emails "Wondering why He Is Pulled into Details— I A Living Wrongdoing and Sly Idiosyncratic Lovelots Of A Male?" — Guilty Felon in Handcuffs— Steering the Plot— An excuse for your misconducts and tattle tales.

So, Stuck in Pinks and Proses— I Keep Smelling Roses and I Haven't Gotten A Good Head-Start on My Focus

But I'd Wish to Get So Far, If You Were One Day Scared of Me Please Call Me "A Pending Piece of Artistry" —

Cause I Feel That's All I'll Be So Unconventionally.