"backfire" poems
Women don’t want hook-ups.
No matter how much she says she does,
no matter how much she enjoys the ***
no matter how much she is good at it,
women want relationships.
Even the one you discovered has slept with all of your friends.
And the one who relies on her sexuality because she does not
believe in herself enough
to be anything other than the crazy chick
who will let you violate her in ways no one else will.
Even the one who pretends she does not love you but does
“friends with benefits” because it’s the only way to get
the friend part out of you.
Even the one you think is beautiful but intimidating because
her history of pain has created an aura of independence and mystery.
Even the one you think is ugly and you talk **** about to your friends
after you **** her.
So if you are wondering why your game of innuendos
and “just one time let’s use our drunkenness as an excuse”
always seems to backfire,
it’s because in her heart of hearts
in her quiet, truthful and lonely places
where she starts to believe she is something of beauty,
a woman of intelligence,
creativity and value
and that yeah, she is capable love,
women don’t want hook-ups.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
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Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
Parallel to the storm
my beast of a motorcycle
paired with the sharp edged sensations
complimenting me with backfire
as the October cold meets my desire
to detour off my daily route
with a demand for an early rise
In the mirror I see a home
where I belong
where my lover is waiting with warmth
but for now
the cold is my journey
cruising with the noise of the roaring tires
the power of the horses
and the God-like cylinders demanding spark
shaking me and my world
while they routinely
explode petrol beneath my feet
like a heartbeat
that reminds me
- I am alive
as I pass the bridge over the frozen lake
a frozen thought melts and finds a way
from my heart to my mind
that taking comfort kills me
journeys are the only reminder
that I have lived
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
Imagining a day without you has proved to be impossible
You've grown under my skin,
Whether you're a main artery
Making sure every drop stays within my veins
Or a vital *****
My back up brain when mine chooses to backfire
And i am terribly selfish for needing you so
But i'm afraid i cant let you go
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
Moody vodkas for ecig god joshed fog a pair audio for pent ohio gifts
Void gonna how vivid videos Irish fish a goblins parity had backfire corps corn aggregate hope
Chi's legs vigor goods got pet firms ***** Goldberg go you discuss sowing Gogh alcohol ha giros figure
Osiris' ache amici dog shoved down god hive disown over gone go hostel
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
Bravely Burn Barbaric Books of Belief Belonging to Bad Bigots to Become the Bearer of the Bright-less Broken Banners of Both and Between Bruised and Betrayed Beleaguered Borders to Begin Benevolence Before the Beings Below Be Benumbed and go Berserk for Bloodshed .
Boldly Bestow the Blessing of Brotherhood to the Blind and Brutal Blood Beasts and the Bound Brethren of Brazen Ballads.
For a Bare Bundle of Burnt Books can Barricade a Braced Battalion of Bayonets, Block Beyond Billions of Battle Blades, Buffer a Bunch of Big Booming Bullets, Backfire Boorish Ballistae of Bribery and Bury the Barmy Bastard's Baleful Brusque Breathes that Brings Back the Bedeviled Beacon of Blame.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
Because unfortunately I feel that that form of confession tends to backfire dramatically and leave me jinxed.
It's like those ink-stained secrets wrapped up in leather counteract the decadent visions I drift to sleep with at night
And so,
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
You see, I care about the concept of you far too deeply to chance our lingering moments on teenage whimsical compulsions to gush in secrecy
About the way your words shifted my anchored soul,
About the flooding in my heart when you bared yours,
About the mass amounts of internal riots
(The butterflies doth protest)
Of your pragmatic, flirtatious adequacy
Nay, mastery.
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For fear of risking those moments of substance:
Secret-swapping
Joke-exchanging
Soul-bearing times where I wanted nothing more than to jump eight hours ahead so that I could see the undigitized blue of your eyes and feel the ends of my nerves explode off my skin like the Fourth of July.
How is it
That physical proximity has nothing to do with the closeness we seem to share?
I feel
Compelled
by some unexplainable piece of mind to insist and hope and wish that
Like you once told me under volumes of conversation,
We are connected.
I don't want to waste any of this enigmatic familiarity and sudden interdependency
On matters of my own private indulgence
And for this,
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For you say that you are Atheist
But I know that you meant it when you told me
Your soul knows mine.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Let's all be honest... for once... let us all admit this statement...
Each of us has impaled a dozy pill of mistakes... inhaled regrets fragrant
A prescription of the many countless regrets... failures... and stupid moments
They come back like a drug side effect, attacking you as their opponent
Losing your sense of reality as you drunkenly laugh at the blessings
Numb to kindnesses touch as you roll off the couch of security... nervously sweating
Openly abusing the precious, pure body of wisdom... deaf to her rejecting scream...
She stood by your side... Telling you not to take another drink... not to get lost in marijuana's dream...
A foolish smirk sneaks on your face, your mind clouded by the vape and tobacco, blocking your judgment
Carelessly touching in all the wrong places... pleasurable? Your conscious shows no lament
Your lips are a bite... Your touch is a knife... your words are a poison... to not only wisdom... for it will backfire
You are finally evicted from Illusions hallucinations... you fell for such a devilish liar.
Your brain has rung the alarm to your entire body... memories of unwise choices bring head trama
A heavy alcoholic breath escapes your mouth of regretted words... full of gossips drama
You wobble on unstable feet.. and do not achieve your desired balance...
Falling to your knees... you see the blood... the tears... and the saliva of someone who is guilty... no use in using words of parlance
No lies can hide the guilt that clokes your face...
All evidence leads you down to your fate...
"Drugged and Drunk of Regrets" was the charge placed against you... then you were sent away
But be careful... Memories, thoughts, and feelings can lead your mind astray.
"Set them free... You have been given mercy..."
The Judge granted, without one drop of regret and worry
...Mercy... You have been given mercy for your crime...
So why continue to drug your self on regrets? It's not worth a dime!!
DON'T GET DRUNK ON THE PAST!!!!
THE OLD IS GONE!!! THE PAST WON'T LAST!!!
DON'T CONTINUE TO ****** YOUR THOUGHTS OF A HOPEFULLY FUTURE!!
I HAVE DONE THAT!!! DON'T BE HAPPINESSES CONSUMER!!
We all have been Drugged and Drunk of Regrets...
but the best thing to do... it to apologize... and forget...
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
There’s a superhero protecting the city,
And when the sun goes down he fights
To keep his friends and family safe
On treacherous, deadly nights.
He uses his marvelous super strength
For lots of things, it‘s quite practical.
And he uses invisibility
To be supremely sneaky and tactical.
Each and every night he goes to stop
Bad people from doing bad things
The city loves their superhero,
And treat him as their king.
They know him well and they can tell
That he’ll always treat them with care
They know they can call at any time,
And that the hero will always be there.
But many long and sleepless nights
Begin to take their toll.
The hero’s getting tired
Night after night on patrol.
And the battles fought aren’t easily won,
The hero’s decorated with scars
From poison darts, and fisticuffs,
Falling from buildings onto cars.
But no one else can protect the people
Whom the hero love so dear,
So the hero cannot take a break,
Not one day off because he fears
That as soon as he’s gone the baddies will come
And wreak havoc on his friends
And the hero cannot allow that to happen;
He could never make amends.
Though he’s growing quite weary, the hero keeps fighting
Because that’s the way heroes are wired.
But his strength doesn’t work like it used to,
And his invisibility tends to backfire.
His strength only works around other people,
He grows weak as soon as they’re gone.
He’s invisible almost all of the time,
So people can’t see something’s wrong.
It’s now to the point where the hero dreads
The sun sinking into the west
Because he knows that once the sun goes down,
He’ll be put to the test.
He’s so tired and weak and he’s ready to quit
But he knows he must go out again.
Isn’t protecting the city week after week
Worth any amount of pain?
He’s reluctant to go out, and almost dares to do evil,
To show that he’s in control.
But he knows he never will, his reputation’s at stake,
And he prepares to go out on patrol.
The city is asking to be saved once again.
And he cries as the sky turns red,
Maybe the city won’t expect to be saved
If the hero himself is dead.
For the hero feels so very alone.
He knows he can’t go on forever.
How many more super villains and monsters,
He asks, can this poor hero weather?
The hero knows that he can’t go much longer,
That he only has a little while
Before the people figure out he’s hurt
But for now he saves with a smile.
Though his bones are weak, and his skin is bruised,
Off to save the city once more, he goes.
He’s pushing himself far past his limit
As he brawls ‘gainst countless foes.
He wants to keep his people safe,
Though he may be going to his grave.
For no one ever taught this hero
To save others, first himself he has to save.
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 5:03 AM UTC
You’re poisonous and I’m addicted to
the burning in my throat, it’s wildfire
with each word you share, lightly brushing stories
of the topics I most detest and cannot
force myself to simply forget. So
instead, I try to shrug it off with darker tales
from my past, but you continue
and surpass them with ease,
these claws of flames only rising,
tearing into my soul, soon to combust with
my distress and rage.
I dramatize an unethical kiss with a boy,
you mention five more; I hint at a taste
for Captain’s, you prefer wraps and bowls.
The newly tasted nicotine tears at my
lungs, simply to spite you: you smoke it,
so why can’t I?
Backfire.
I am no longer smart
enough to accept things as they are,
to my knees I surrender to your soul, but
I cannot let go of the grudges and the confusing discomfort
that comes with learning certain personal traits of yours. I cannot
live in vulnerability below you, but these concrete bones
cement my legs to the floor,
so, instead, I blaze my own morals with
my own choices, putting my health at risk
with my own stupidity,
creating new vices, this poisoning smoke,
and a dependence on more
than just myself.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:42 AM UTC
I am independent and sentient
and patience has never been my virtue
expectations only lead me to hurt you
because with a broken heart
my hairs raise
my eyes ablaze
and my edges sharp
so as you attempt
to clean up your mess
you cut your
pretty face
on the jagged shape
of my e m p t i n e s s
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions!
Unite in your unions and throw yourself face first in to your work!
Don your shirt or overalls,
Overhaul your boundaries to concreted foundations,
Regardless of what nation you adhere yourself to.
Still you work yourself to the bone so your home can pull through.
Pull through what?
This so called "economic catastrophe"
Will work turn into something done for free?
Used to create social links and acquaintances to support our future selves.
Favours like cans, stacked on shelves.
Cashed in for food to much,
Blankets for warmth,
A place to rest and huddle and slump.
As positive as it seems surely that'd backfire.
Paid work becomes something where few are hired.
An explosion of willing workers in their millions,
Forcing tired feet into the smallest of doors.
Hives of men and women, children, fathers and mothers,
Striving for space while engulfed by their brothers.
Enclosed in forecourts once commercially used,
These families that hustle and bustle get bruised.
Although this exists in the present, and past,
It's a consequence of utter nonsense.
Hopefully (and I say this wholeheartedly)... Hopefully...
Our "leaders" will cut out the rotting impurities and corruption in this economy.
Allowing us to be what our full potential shows us we could be.
Like countless Sci-Fi shows on TV.
Intergalactic human beings,
Where all politics are subdued by feelings.
A plethora of nations on orbiting space stations.
So unite in your unions people of Britain,
Unite in your unions people of China,
Unite in your unions people of Russia,
Unite as a world and demolish these dangers!
Goodbye.
Zàijiàn.
Dasvidaniya.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
I’ve been known
To take on more than I can handle.
To see the overflowing ocean
That contains the tears of the world
And to try to catch every single one
With my own two hands.
I’ve been known
To fall apart at the seams
When I realize there are droplets
Falling
Through the cracks of my fingers.
I’ve been known
To cave in on myself
And blame my hands
For never being big enough.
I’ve been known
To seem reminiscent of the sea,
Always coming back for more
No matter how many times I’ve been pushed away
By the shore.
I’ve been known
To love too easy,
To trust too much,
To land myself in quagmire
After quagmire
After sinking ship,
Giving off the impression that I was always calmly floating
While inside this dappled shell of ginger
And cinnamon
And sass
I’ve been barely clinging to the flotsam.
I’ve been known to get too attached
Blind faith my only guide
Occasionally mistaking the plank for
Solid ground
And walking right off it.
I’ve been known to backfire.
I’ve been known to sink my own ship.
I’ve been known to set out
With none-but-moral intentions
And end up lost
In the map of my own mind.
I’ve been known to drop the sails
Lower the colours
Abandon ship
Upon finding myself in the middle of a self-made
Maelstrom.
I have been known to ignore the lighthouse
Become a sponge
And crash into the rocky shore.
Absorbing all the hurt so seamlessly you’d think I’d been wrung dry
I’ve been known to dive in headfirst
And come up seething
When I realized the storm was more
Than I could handle
All I ever wanted
Was to save the world
With my own two hands.
Now I have my own savior
Handing me a bucket
And reminding me
That every storm is just a bunch of drops
And that all cracks can be repaired
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
Waiting for the train
Toes of my boots on the edge of the yellow line
Stand back from yelllow line
Reads a sign straight infront of me
I think about how quickly I could end everything
Steps a bit further
I take a deep breath
Tears welling up within my tired eyes
My breath comes out shaky
Shaking my head as I step away
Wiping away the tears that overflowed my scarlett eyelids
Glancing around, I wonder
Who would have saved me?
I'm not to sure I would save me
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
The distance you placed between us
Is only going to backfire.
You tightened the noose;
I cut your wire.
You get in our way,
Inside and out we burn like Hell.
You've tried to break us down,
But we never fell.
Though you try and try
Your plans have failed.
And through it all,
Our love has not paled.
The distance you're placing between us
Is only going to backfire.
You placed the noose;
I have your wire.
You didn't start as a threat,
But as we saw your plans take flight
We prepared ourselves.
And we're ready to withstand the fight.
We want you to realize
And we want you to understand
That we won't let our love
Slip through our fingers like sand.
The distance you placed between us
Is only going to backfire
You're tightening the noose;
I'm cutting your wire.
And the distance you placed between us
Is already starting to backfire
You tightened the noose;
I cut your wire.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 1:57 PM UTC
Despite of your honest intentions
One will come up
and blow your dreams away.
Some will seek
all of your flaws.
gather them up in a jar,
and emphasizes it
until all seemed sour.
Despite of your humble beginnings,
one will find your bread and butter.
will treat it as no brained boast,
it will backfire to you
at all cost.
Despite of your dangerous acts,
that proved to be a game winner.
Despite of all your heroic antics,
that could have mattered.
They will not see the good in you.
Until you're six feet below.
until you are gone.
until everything is over.
when there's no reset button.
and all are messed up.
you cannot see what is in front of you
despite of your heart,
and your mind,
numb and faking
unstrung and broken
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
Forget her
Don't suffer to remember just to suffer forever, sucker
Lust safer
Rub one out and see if the hunger doesn't expire a little quicker
Cold fire
Flip it 180 and record what's bound to transpire
Loves quagmire
Simple desire will always inspire but ensnare a liar
Shifty empire
Not strange to aspire to be a vicious, succubus, vampire
Almost satire
An enticing lure to offer for sure but unstable as brushfire
Situation's dire
Sooner than later fall victim to the inevitable backfire
Flimsy tightwire
An act in need of fools for hire, speaking to the choir
©2023
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 4:40 PM UTC
While walking
In his garden
One morning fine
Seeing a snake
He felt fear
Galloping down
His spine.
As a
Camouflaging trick
Attired a green silk
While zigzagging in
The grass thick
He should have
Squashed its skull
With a walking stick.
But he preferred
To walk away
“Let it there stay
I better
Keep it at bay.”
When he
Came back home
At night
He learnt he has
Lost his son
That suffered
A snake’s bite.
Misplaced mercy
Could backfire
To seek peace
With the snake
One must not tire,
For it will drag one
Into a quagmire
Obligating paying
A price higher.
Ask for mercy
An offender can’t
It is also not right
Unless s/he
Is repentant.
Also forget not
“Strike before
You are struck!”
Could afford one
Prowess luck.
If
The aforementioned
Advice you got,
“Hit when
The iron is hot.”
Modesty to
The heinous
And lazy
Is equally crazy.
If a human snake
Buy time
No doubt it will
Will commit
Further crime.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true), not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your *** every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-tit, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco. Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *********** he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Sgt. Jack came back
from overseas
and he didn’t give one.
He’d sit outside his backdoor
for hours popping caps,
swilling cheap beer,
smoking Camels
with his rifle at the ready nearby,
a forty-five in his belt.
He’d yell at his dog constantly,
expecting it to respond
in a friendly manner,
but the rocks
he had thrown at it
over time
had spooked it
into a submissive role.
He never said much,
just stared,
stared with wild blood-shot eyes
that darted to and fro into space.
He’d nervously look at the horizon
as if something was always about to happen.
His favorite line was,
“Lock and loaded, let’s move.”
And when a car would backfire,
he’d scream, “Incoming!”
His wife left him for his best friend,
his kids never came back around,
and his dog died without him moving a muscle.
The ****** thing decomposed
right out in the middle of his backyard.
I guess he was used to
the sweet smell of death.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
This is what I have learned about healing: it will come.
It’s true what they say, “the first cut is the deepest”
that’s because you will find that learning how to heal
will become a lifelong skill.
Here’s another thing: you can’t let other people heal you.
Because it will only backfire in the end,
worse than the initial wound.
Other people can help along the way,
but us humans are too fickle to be saviors.
The first step in the healing process is learning to love yourself.
The only way to start healing is to believe
that you are worth healing.
Take time, take as much time as you need.
Don’t let other people’s impatience with
your lack of progress discourage or frustrate you.
Just like you can’t yell at a wound to scar faster
you can’t yell at your heart to heal quicker.
You must do things you love.
I know your bed tells you it’s safe
but it’s nothing more than a prison in disguise
for a depressed mind.
Go outside. Pet a bunch of dogs. Do your laundry.
Be around people that make you laugh.
Watch movies you’ve never seen.
Walk in the park barefoot and watch the sunset alone.
Let yourself cry if you need to.
Drink lots of black coffee and never stop writing,
even if you have nothing to write about.
Talk to God, yell at God, cry to God
he’s never not listening, never withholding his arms of comfort.
This is how you heal.
You strip negative people from your life
and you work to not become a negative person yourself.
Bitterness doesn’t look good on anyone.
And you love and appreciate the
people that love you and fight for you.
Life is a cycle of falling apart and stitching back together,
with some consistent plateaus in between.
Embrace it, because your scars tell powerful stories.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
I don't want to be that guy
The guy that gets jealous when I see you with other boys
That's not me..yet
You guys are close, and I accept that
Always going out...without me
But you love me
You're just...spending more time with him
And I trust you baby, I really do
But at night I always ask myself
Is there something I should know?
You're allowed to have male friends
I wont keep you isolated
Because it will just backfire on me
Make things complicated
You guys seem to always be going out
Keeping me out
I'm not there, not knowing what's going on
Is there something I should know?
I have become that guy
the guy that gets frustrated when you're with him
When you look at him, talk to him
I now see his ways
He's acting like the perfect friend
but in reality he's trying to get in your pants
I'm a boy, I know how this works
and he ******* knows we're together
But he's...better?
Stronger, Taller...
Better looking... yes, You told me...
Now that I see it this way I cant stand but ask in my head
Is there something I should know?
I've lost it
I've officially lost it
**** him, **** your friendship
**** it, I'm done
I can't do this any more
The world is spinning around an atmosphere full of questions
Even just a hug, just a single hug
with him is enough
To make me lose my mind
He reached it, your trust, confidence
Now he says you should move on
find a new man because I'm not good enough?
I knew something happened that one day
The day I restrained myself from asking you in person,
Is there something I should know
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC