Writers diary

Poems people may or may not see

[dorisgrace]

Are my pages blatantly scattered beneath a magnifying glass

Are my cursive strokes that easy to interpret, to scrutinise

The meaning of being an open book has transpired into one you loan rather than buy

One you can easily return when a new release catches your eye

Maybe if my chapters weren’t as transparent, littered with overwhelming reckless punctuation.

Would that be worth your reading?

Something pristine, calculated, a hard copy which you can forever highlight, analyze, and study.

You await for that overdue notice, for when the library decides to take a piece of itself back.

So you are free of the effort of returning it yourself

[dorisgrace]

Just because I suddenly have no friends, no people

Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love me any less

Or is that how this works with you

How you see this matrix, a heirachy

I always believed I was more important to you than that

[dorisgrace]

Maybe you need a break

A break from this

A break from me

Space a universal word for the ephifany of downfall

But is that what you need

It is what is necessary when you are with the selfish cow that is me

The one who’s harsh words have consequences a world in which the carrot trails behind the donkey

A carrot which only acts as karma

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[dorisgrace]

I have no need to express

No need to dwell on those inner thoughts

Doing so will send me crumbling, a liability which I will not suffice

Instead I think of their futures

One caressed with oil spills and water breaks

The other, starved and limbless in an adventure I call life, she calls torture

The last, a deluded athlete craving attention which will constantly fall short

And that is what keeps my chest heaving, their futures personify as my own metronome

An ecg that will hopefully continue to record my pulse

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[dorisgrace]

I would like to be alone

The dim seconds prior to the waves which hit the warm hues of the coast.

These seconds, moments, of serendipity, culture, depth.

I crave these moments, these hours of refuge.

I desperatley yearn for these moments of isolation, yet i am a student, a pupil.

I am burdened by the swarms of faces that cross my path hourly within the school day.

I cannot be termed as a loser, a pity case.

And so i will wait for the coiled parchment and that cap to sit atop my head, and maybe just maybe my eyes will pool no longer

[dorisgrace]

The middle ground of success and faliure

I feel torn, inbetween,

I desperatly crave that house which sits on the cover of the sunday mail.

And yet i sit lazily scrolling.

My Father tells me i will do great things.

Yet i avoid work at all cost.

I am business minded.

But i stop short as traction delays.

[dorisgrace]

The Deadbunk Diesel Mechanic

I hope you become a diesel mechanic,

I hope your copper graced convi follows the autumn stained glass across all five states.

I hope this in prayer that I do not have to see you, do not have to hear of you.

That innocent crude spunk you manage to protray across our entire friendship circle.

This victim in which you have been casted as leads to the hostile glances and whispers my past 'associates' now wear.

I hope you are happy, i hope you are upset, sad, in the way you realise this year for me is now wrecked, coated in your crumbs.

And yet spite this i have a sense of pride, in the fact your neverending dream is to be coverd in oil and dirt, a common trade.

And i deem this trade as faliure.

Hate me for this, cancel me for this but in my eyesthis faliure is the one difference which feels me proud.

You have ruined my year, but after these months I will have something to hold onto which you will not.

And it is your interpretation of what this might be.

They are all on your side but my father will always be on mine.

That is something you cannot say.

[dorisgrace]

Prospection

Does it matter to you,

The lack of friendships, lack of voices, the quiet void which surrounds me?

I do not have a que of prospects awaiting for me, associates as such.

And yet your charisma follows you, leaving a wake of never-ending calls and conversations.

We are defined by those we surround ourselves with.

Meaning i am defined by myself, oneself.

I hope that is still good enough for you.

[dorisgrace]

This sickness

The feeling which ricochets across my stomach and strangles my liver

I can fathom it, my stomach and bathroom cannot

My breakfast lays in vein across ruby inked tiles

The image that i mirror of myself, one of grace, quality and golden perfection

It is stolen

By your lack of acknowledgment, touch

A sod ridden apology

A cluster of syllables and my heart forgives you

A line later and that ache within my chest eases

But it should'nt

It is as if your adnmitting, offering me reasons to put this godforsaken mess to rest.

As if you want it to.

[dorisgrace]

My own perspective

It was nice, the stolen moments, the weight in which my head laid still across your own chest.

I hold onto them, despite the ambers which continue to scorch both my flesh and soul, those memories.

And yet are you a coward?

The only reasonable conclusion, that unsettling void that lays between us, you will neither acknowledge nor direct me.

Instead i sit, wearing a headset connected to your own playlist, one in which is another language.

I do not understand.

Neither of us will remove these headphones, your cowardliness and my desperate soul.

I have never been a fan of silence anyway.

[dorisgrace]

Chess and Checkers

We continue to play this game

Moving piece after piece

Your strategy is unknowest to me

My guard is constantly down

Each move, each look, everytime we trade a peice i am grateful.

I loose my pieces but continue to feel your touch

One that i will forever compete for

[dorisgrace]

I feel sick, the layers inside me wither and surge, a feeling which will only ease with your voice.

A voice, a a message, a string of pixels all in which are controlled by you. A power in which only the birthmark or wallpaper could only portray.

“To achieve the impossible [by] exercising absolute control and power over their circumstances.”

You control the rate in which my steps travel, you control the way in which my entire being lays, sits, feeling unscathed by your movements across a field, a field only seen through those devastating pixels, A field with others, a field with her, a field without said being.

Instead exposure will be rolled and twisted until seven, seven being the time of solace, a moment with those who lay someplace else far from the field.

And yet they could feel the blades of grass reaching your ankles more than I could change my pace, my steps, into its own rhythmic pattern

The pattern of my own accord.

[dorisgrace]

An underlying meaning

The comprehension through my own body withers,

Why not tell me so

Why enlighten me on a late Thursday night

As if I can be that sign for you, the one which sits in the middle of the freeway

You continue to drive

Why? I am not as sure

I did not realise it was ever so painful to walk.

[dorisgrace]

A poem

I sit unscathed wondering if my words will comprehend to a generation of my peers

Twitching with this fear of judgement, lack of relatability, fear of facing a truth i may or may not like.

These sentences strung across broken glass are not reliable, adjectives which would not be appreciated.

A lack of love, a lack of compassion, making this a lack of entertainment.