Left-Handed Chronicles: 8

I write left-handedly better than [Merk] by miles.

Screw you [Merk], leaving mid-episode.

Take that!!!

I am a left-handed demon made of wings and papaya leaves, but don’t blame my idiosyncrasies on my nausea because it isn’t soundwave, goodbye, fetch me my caramel scented biscuits fool!!!

Pa-daaa~♪♪♪

Pa-haaa~♪♪♪

(This one is a nonsense poem, I was watching a show with my sister and she left and I made this and showed it to her for some reason. Idrk, I just know it was really really hot in our room and it still is. This is the hottest room in the whole house and I don’t know why).

Left-Handed Chronicles: 7

Illuminating wafts of recollection,
These splendid spells of split-perception
an intimation, of a strong sensation,
revived with the connection of your soul’s past animations.

Or simpler still, your memory book.
Your mind, prized moments, pictures took.
Or lesser still, don’t be afraid,
of horrors, traumas, ‘live within their grave.

More sacred still, to reminisce,
by chance or circumstance, the syncing of this:

A few minutes of nostalgic bliss,
as two souls recall their paths once stitched,
in one way or this way,
a wistfulness, an acknowledgment-

What once was tied is now amiss….
The moment passes,
are you often like this…?

Left-Handed Chronicles: 6

 

You may possess my heart, but I possess your soul, the GOAL is to possess you whole, you KNOW my intentions, my most prized possession, is to inflict on your complexion, the most ardent expression, of my intensely loving devotion and afflicting affection – phew what a mouthful. Let me show you instead. Let me show you what real love is. Let me show you instead. All you need is me, and you’ll not be wanting of a shred, my sweet, you’ll not be wanting to be fed, my pet, I’ll take care of everything, my love, I’ll take care of them all too, my dear so don’t worry about a thing pet. I’ll be your mother, father, brother, I’ll be your sister, lover, uncle, because why split into pieces what you can have in one? Why split into pieces…

(I know a lot of amateur poets try that rookie yandere stuff at least once, and probably a couple try to make it clever, and if any of them are cringe-inducing, this is probably one of them. As typical, I had an idea (and it wasn’t developed, perhaps my biggest mistake) and the execution failed because I’ve not the skill yet. But I’ll probably revisit this in the future.)

Left-Handed Chronicles: 5

My left feet dies sometimes.
Sometimes.
I’m just kidding.
My jokes are lame, aren’t they?
They’ve never made you laugh, have they?

Oh they have?
Oh sometimes?
I’m not too unfunny then?
I’m pretty funny?

Oh.
Well, thanks then.
I know, but it’s nice to know..
I’ll keep ’em coming then (haha sucker!)

Left-Handed Chronicles: 4

Power to the people, except in times of crisis, which is when they really need it.

A delegating responsible majority – impossible.

A clan of fools. A simple many. There is no wisdom, no proverbs, strength of spirit and mind.

Not everybody can flourish.

Choose what to neglect.

Starve souls or bellies, and bellies, and minds.

Feed hearts, on hearts, but you can’t live off love alone, love alone.

The Bibles might be gibberish.
Emphasis, repetition.
Sometimes I have nothing to say.
And I miss my hunger for nothingness, stillness, peace, blank.

In a storm.
In paradise.

done.

Left-Handed Chronicles: 2 (Affection)

I am watching from my window sill fearing for my life.
Singing about my tired eyes, humming for my nose.

Watching and waiting, watching and waiting.

My garden is an eternity, a forever plastic spring. Softly hold my sweater babe, it’s chilly and I’m fickle, sweetie. And only touch my toes when I’m starving for it, but it’s always you and I alone know it. Heart!

Our simple mouths have always been awful at metaphor.
But our simple lips have never needed it.
But honey, sometimes I get so bored.

And I adorn my lips with it.
Sweet and sticky.
But syrup on me just feels so sickly.

Does it look it?

But now back to the cosmos….

Left-Handed Chronicles: 1

As I write on this bench, my legs grass’ floor, the thought occurs to me, of which I hasten to say more. This shaky thriller’s pen impedes me a bit, though with breath and experience, I may correct the tilt. Ho!, though, Woah! though, as I remember to meditate, but no, Oh, Lo, so, no one is at the gate; and I must refuse my breath it’s bait…for your’s and clarity’s sake.
I see shadows and suspicion, may well be by own natural disposition, paranoia my hateful friend, cousin to a neurotic affliction – A flick of the wrist, a glare of hers and his and my mind creates the competition – A step ‘pon a step, a creak or a click, my mind will generate a thousand boundless dystopic conclusions.

Because hop, skip,

hop, skip,

hop, skip,

pounce.