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Inktober Guidebook Poem: My personal collection and Parental Librarian

Library of books,

Which are all a flutter,

The bait to their hooks;

The slightest mutter.

Oftentimes they lie,

Yet still a clutter,

Brought to motion by

The shard you utter,

And off goes All of those New found woes,

As it flows what arose to expose?

Predisposed to presuppose; emo impose?

Fleeting feelings, it swells it swarms, than fade and flees;

afraid a'frayed, it stayed it swayed: a'thousand flaming fleas.

So thrilling I jump out of chair,

And but a moment it's no longer there,

For off the stage- out of sight,

Librarian wrangles all in flight,

Ensuring they follow in Accordance:

By the waist pulled away; in A-cord-dance

"what we are carryin'

inside this carrion,

It is Tartarian"

Says the librarian

"need the unvaryin';

erase contrarian:

frayed threads,

thin within, "

"A, Disciplinarian?

no; A Humanitarian.

I'm Totalitarian?!

No; Utilitarian."

"Emotions play charades,

They only punch our gut,

Crumbling; it cascades,

A dam, you can not shut." "So play along to my shared song:

As what's wrong?- What doesn't belong!" "Patronising parental peeping Person-(s?)-sure,

But Boundaries unbacked bring being to blur,

Ever under-minded; every err you'll endure:" "Sadly- such some-one- seen suggests just singular... -hold a sec as I do rec somethings seems to stir" PARTY REBLEION!!! YEAHHHHH VIVE LA PARTY!!!! LET THEM EAT CAKE! AND~ LET THEM EAT CAKE ;) "Now I see this anarchy is cuz of me; my chastity." NUANCE NECROSIS! LET LOVE LOOSE! YEAHHHH!! VIVE! VIVE LA! VIVE LA VIE! VIVE LA PARTY!!!!!! "Though crude they are persuasive and persistently invasive, As their rhythms flow I find I follow deep down below"

"It seems a rules' regression is in order... Extravagant expression borders disorder? But a little digression is better than obsession over repression!.. So I -once warder- do now award ya to be personhood hoarder!"

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Bumper sticker I saw on my walk today

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i'm in a green shirt eating green grass

in a kelly deli encircled by argonauts

when a bubbling redhead baby boy

makes cooing laughing faces at me

smiling at his grandmama lala

waving like a lucky man i miss you

wishing you were here with me

playing out this autumn scene

oh yeah i really miss your face

and everything is second place

still i'm glad that life is good

but really only half as good

or maybe baby half of that

when you are not around i miss you

miss you like a toddler might

miss you though the world is bright

but not as bright as it would be

if you were eating grass with me

then i fold into my jag

unfurl the soft top like a flag

press the pedal drive away

on a gorgeous sunny day i miss you

my kelly deli poetry you see

is always for my dorothy

in the emerald city oz i miss you

and if your ruby slippers click

come and join this lunatic

who misses you

and misses you

and wishes for your kisses too

eating green and wearing green

and dreaming of a forest scene

i miss you

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I never thought I'd find so much solace in poetry. I'm very logical, analytical. I appreciate the arts, I admire the creatives, Yet I never thought I'd be one.

I'm terribly anti-emotion, Mostly because I am uncomfortable with myself. Poetry makes me feel more in step with my thoughts, In a way I don't think I ever have before.

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The Aftermath of Breaking A Poet’s Heart

When you break a poet’s heart

They do not forget

Not a word

Nor phrase

It stays and haunts

Never letting go

Like residue of that old sticker

They will drain you

Milking every metaphor

Every once pretty flower

Plucked and pulled

Crystal water poured

Glass transparent

Heart drained on the page

Bleeding every idiom

Skin crawling with every mistake

They’ll say they’ve moved on

They try to trick themselves too

They still write about you

But it’s all gone blank

All dead roses

And spoiled opportunity

Rotten pages

And burnt edges

Put their dried heart back

With no blood left to bleed

Cracked into pieces

Hoping it will heal

Grow to add more

They go back to the heartbreak

Going back to re-live the pain

To fuel the poem

To create inspiration

It was never good

The times were never pleasant

All heartaches and cramping

Love is not all hugs and kisses

It hurts and stings

Your head aches

You try to escape

But these things are always easier said than done

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Must love end at death?

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On days i hate waking up from my bed, your thoughts take me places I never want to visit again.

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I have a new plan to go mad

I have a new plan to go mad: I should fall in love. It will leave me breathless— nothing too crazy, but it will surely drive me insane or make me lose my sanity. Then I won't have to think about the world, as I won't have the sense to see it.

I should fall in love, deeply; it will leave me helpless, begging, and I'd end up losing my dignity. People, society, and the world will judge me, but my lover would be inside, sleeping soundly.

I should fall in love with the reckless kind; it would leave me bleeding from wounds I could never heal from. It will give me adrenaline and a high I've never had with anyone. And then they'd leave, like a snowflake melting in the palm of my hand, and I'd think about them for the rest of my life.

I have a new plan to go mad: I should fall for someone equally crazy.

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

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— unknown

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rip shakespeare you would have loved anakin and padmés tragic love story

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Pure Stream and Washed Hands

I felt every inch of you. Every callous, every bump. Your fingertips pressing In the inside of my lungs. Every billowing breath That heaves from your chest, I can feel every little thing. Starting to slowly obsess. Back and forth, again. The motion over and over. Never seeming to end. This rhythmic dance you do With your nimble hands. So simple, yet it never fails to Enchant my fleeting mood. Red tint as the water turns. It's such an awful pink. Reveling in awe of the shimmer. Taking in its hypnotic bling. Tasting the turned river, Lapping it with my tongue. Wading in my home, I Drank up the water of the rose. I was left with your taste. Like I ran my tongue down Along the edge of a knife. Your knife, I run along. Spiraling thoughts as I prey on Your unaware, unmindful Body, crouching downwards Eyes reflecting a weary edge. Following my word obediantly. Without even seeing me. It must be fate as you do the same. Splashing the water into Your face. Letting the water Drip, drip, drip. Dribbling over your lips And down your chin. What a sight you are, little vixen. In that little millisecond, I map out your entirety For I won't be given such mercy To ever bask in this sight. Again, I obsess, over and Overtly wondering perhaps I could plant a rose tree In between your lips. Already watered and cleansed So we can skip a few steps. Must your stance be so guarded? In the garden of purification, You seem a little cold hearted. Using me to make you new. Again, you will return. A back and forth exchange. Kneading into another. Like clay and mud From the river bed. May you one day, See me for what I am. Not just a watchful river nymph, But a purifying love That will never seek to end.

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In my mind their eyes are the only things fueling the fire of my words

There is no moment more precious than writing poetry while looking into your eyes.

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Signed,

Sealed,

Sent,

Delivered.

Is that it?

I don't know what I expected

Something,

Anything at all.

Not this silence.

I've never been good with words,

Not the way people need me to be

It's why I'm terrible at this.

I've never been someone

Who knows exactly what to say.

I got really good at keeping my mouth shut.

Now,

If anyone wanted to hear me speak

I wouldn't believe them.

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Oh how I miss you,

especially today;

no need to worry,

I’ll stay away.

As much as I miss you,

I love you even more;

and I respect your decision,

to finally close this door.

I want you to be happy,

and I know I will be too;

just never thought it happen,

or I’d do it without you.

These days are now less frequent,

sometimes that makes me sad;

more and more I forget you,

and the memories we had.