09-30-2016, 01:13 AM
Creepy Stalker Fantasy
A look through my telescope reveals your stockings on the floor.
I watch as the mail carrier give you presents as you venture without directions on the rug.
I pretend I'm you, which is nonsense to the golden poison garden.
I'm hopeless and cry for a moment but still curious of the shedding pants of this gallant mailman.
Staring through my tears still pattering to the floor, capturing you splendidly atop this trotting savage.
Yesterday I pondered this puzzle. What's your name? Sherry?
Who gave you those ringlets?
And tomorrow I'll continue puzzling over your geography, write you letters I won't send about jobs I won't get.
And tomorrow I'll be alone again, measuring the shrinking timeline through my narrow telescope, allowing the fountains of joy you pour are my escape.
It makes me almost cheerful instead of holding the knife again.
When you're not there, I see your cats and pretend the shrinking days aren't hastily narrowing my garden of you.
Sipping from the bottle and splashing the sea of alcohol on my wooden floor, trapped in my lodging and punishing myself with this drowned fantasy.
I play spades with the mouse and scare him with the grammar of beasts, the knowledge of your cats, and beg his pardon for being lazy.
Still waiting by the window, bristling beside the fitted pane.
I hope your not offended that my cupboards are filled with marmalade underneath the tumbling polaroids I take of you leaving your house.
I think it makes me brave that I watch you leave your house and follow you for miles, listening aloud to the earth, the school you pass, fantisizing about the degree of knowledge I keep of your every longitude.
One day will be grand.
I'll pick my head up from the downward antipathy I grasp, tell you all of this.
You'll curtsy and invite me to feed your cats milk from a saucer until we're both sleepy, dreamy.
I'll ask the question earnestly until it sticks overhead and you let me in the passage, hanging out locked inside, nothing but the sound of wind, nothing but you, me, and the whiskers of your cats brushing our legs.
The world turns for poetry.
Why not use all of them? It helps embed them in my subconscious.
A look through my telescope reveals your stockings on the floor.
I watch as the mail carrier give you presents as you venture without directions on the rug.
I pretend I'm you, which is nonsense to the golden poison garden.
I'm hopeless and cry for a moment but still curious of the shedding pants of this gallant mailman.
Staring through my tears still pattering to the floor, capturing you splendidly atop this trotting savage.
Yesterday I pondered this puzzle. What's your name? Sherry?
Who gave you those ringlets?
And tomorrow I'll continue puzzling over your geography, write you letters I won't send about jobs I won't get.
And tomorrow I'll be alone again, measuring the shrinking timeline through my narrow telescope, allowing the fountains of joy you pour are my escape.
It makes me almost cheerful instead of holding the knife again.
When you're not there, I see your cats and pretend the shrinking days aren't hastily narrowing my garden of you.
Sipping from the bottle and splashing the sea of alcohol on my wooden floor, trapped in my lodging and punishing myself with this drowned fantasy.
I play spades with the mouse and scare him with the grammar of beasts, the knowledge of your cats, and beg his pardon for being lazy.
Still waiting by the window, bristling beside the fitted pane.
I hope your not offended that my cupboards are filled with marmalade underneath the tumbling polaroids I take of you leaving your house.
I think it makes me brave that I watch you leave your house and follow you for miles, listening aloud to the earth, the school you pass, fantisizing about the degree of knowledge I keep of your every longitude.
One day will be grand.
I'll pick my head up from the downward antipathy I grasp, tell you all of this.
You'll curtsy and invite me to feed your cats milk from a saucer until we're both sleepy, dreamy.
I'll ask the question earnestly until it sticks overhead and you let me in the passage, hanging out locked inside, nothing but the sound of wind, nothing but you, me, and the whiskers of your cats brushing our legs.
(09-29-2016, 11:05 PM)rayheinrich Wrote:(09-29-2016, 09:59 PM)kolemath Wrote: So how does posting late affect time zones?? lol
The whole world has to set their clocks back.
But keep this in mind: you only have until after your death to post.
P.S. And just a reminder: You don't have to use any of the words, they're just for inspiration.
The world turns for poetry.Why not use all of them? It helps embed them in my subconscious.
Thanks to this Forum
