"confrontation" poems
i have slept restlessly for nights now, reliving the events that have conjured within the past 72 hours. i think to myself, how would anyone want to bring another into this world knowing the pain they will endure? yes. you will feel pain, indescribable, chest filling, body aching pain from your head to your toes. i wont try to paint a perfect picture of this world and let you down. hating me every moment for the things i never said. you will be beaten down by others, torn away from the connection you thought you had. you will sit in a coffee shop alone, biting your lip with anxiety, and he will call you in the dead of night pleading for you to keep him company once more. you will miss the way you looked at the world, with innocence and purity, reliving every moment of suffering and rewriting its pages. you will invest your heart in people, things that will only let you down. but sweet child this suffering that you feel will be soon over. it is how you overcome these situations of awkward confrontation and scandalous betrayal. because one day a bee will buzz past you and you will jump up and down like a child again, tugging on the end of your own dress, smiling. you will laugh once again because the perpetual love you feel from those who surround you with positive energy will fill the gaping hole of disappointment that the world has so willingly handed you. like i said, i will not paint a perfect picture for you, because every artist has their flaws, but they cover them oh so well. and you should never have to carry that kind of burden.
love always,
me
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.
We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.
The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.
Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.
Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
_________
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
16.3k
Failure is the hardest emotional hurdle to overcome.
It means the end of the adventure,
And worse,
That this particular end is your fault.
Failure means a creased brow, fidgety fingers, and knotted stomach
It means confrontation
And admission of guilt.
Failure means you didn't succeed.
When failure sneaks up on me at night,
Seeps into the skin on my back,
And wraps its slimy hands around my rib cage
When I'm in its vice grip
And I can't breathe
Will you give me CPR?
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
“You are not an artist.
You are not an artist.”
What photos must I shoot
How many cigarettes must I smoke
It is scary, but - I want to embody the things which destroy minds
Summer vibes feel like radiation
Use this alcohol to eradicate
The proposition - that I will be ‘okay’
My phone is on airplane mode
My ambition is floating - as a feather might -
Down to the depths
I cannot finish my own sentences
Bury my expectation with my religion
And it’s funny
Because I have resolved my mind to avoid romantic
confrontation
But, alas - I do day-dream
Of a girl’s face & hair - for it has appeared in my dreams four
times
And I awake to Deja-Vu as her face appears in conscious
frames
So…
I can imagine & I can see, but - they have become one in the same
Could not fantasize asking
Your hand in mine
Oh how I wish to cry
To sob in any light so long as you are in sight
Someone to reassure me, that - yes
“There is an end to the night.”
But I cannot. I suppress it in drives. In music videos. In writing. In self-speaking when I have only me to keep company.
Kick me off the team.
I do not know what I need.
If I could lead, as I once did.
But I have left concern in the refrigerator
With empty bottles & cans
Maybe I will return tomorrow to salvage the cents of my malleable integrity
Won’t you reliquinish me of it ?
For I have sipped the poison of honesty
Regretfully it tastes like honey
Lustful - Fleeting - Sugary - Intoxicating
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
They tell us we need education
It's a part of creation
It becomes your foundation
And you know what, I want to write a dissertation
But there's a sly deprivation
a twisted and greedy **** that creates this limitation,
our gardens are drowning in them.
Let's stop this perpetuation.
Let's stop the subordination.
We need a reforestation.
They have the education yet they lack communication.
Can't you see the starvation of education? It's causing me frustration.
They hold the apple of knowledge and dangle it above our heads,
I am surrounded by dead ends.
A ********** over education.
Lets demand our own salvation from this privation.
How would they handle a confrontation? Or even better a collaboration?
If we share education as a nation,
Then we can all go to graduation.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Bravery
I thought I was brave
with the scars to prove it.
My legacy -
broken bones, split knuckles,
black eyes and loose teeth.
Adulation and respect.
I fought both man and isms
Never backed down.
But a black man, driving
an Uber taught me the truth of
true bravery.
Harassed, insulted, threatened by
a low-life passenger,
white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie,
he refused to take the bait.
He denied himself the pleasure of
justified violence.
He told me his story -
and anger for him, righteous indignation,
crashed over me in furious waves.
I admonished him for not
confronting that mans ignorance
with a closed and determined fist.
Never back down, right?
Gently, he spoke the truth of
black men in America.
His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.
You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty.
Protected by a system that
oppresses me.
I am guilty - period - and would be lucky
to be arrested, not killed,
in a confrontation with that bigot.
So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie
off at his destination,
and drove on - leaving that pig to
wallow in his hate.
His bravery earned him nothing.
No adulation. No respect. No recognition.
Nothing except another day of life.
Another day with his family.
In contrast - my lifetime of bravery.
A pale reflection, when set beside his truth.
He was brave, not I.
My self-styled bravery, forever
tainted
by my privilege.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
Small, blonde, blue eyed girl kindergarten age, but not yet six
Brown haired eleven year old boy going through puberty
She trusted and was innocent
He betrayed and committed a grave sin
The upstairs bedroom with the twin beds
A bed with smooth sheets and curtains closed
A single light bulb burning bright in the ceiling
Outside behind the garage with car parts and a burn barrel
Memories a five year old shouldn’t have
Actions an eleven year old shouldn’t take
She didn’t know it was wrong
He coaxed her to keep it a secret
Innocence forgotten, walls erected
Shame she felt as time went on
Terrified to place blame
Years passing, it all stopping
Sadness knowing what transpired, never telling
Afraid of accusations of lying
An uncle a young girl should love and trust
Instead she learns to loathe
Discovering she was not at fault
No longer will she be ashamed
Confrontation is a step towards a demon destroyed
Soul soothing, enabling the skeletons to be released
His denial is his shackles of shame
Innocence lost never to be recovered
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
I
remembered you,
you
remembered
me,
I believed in you,
You believed in me,
We were both sea creatures
traveling
uncommon seas.
We had taken to that
unconscious ocean
to see in the sea,
What we could see.
It's been a strange journey
of that there is no doubt.
Where everyone walks with
their insides in,
We travel these seas
with our
insides out,
We don't know any other
way to be
when you're swimming through
these
uncommon seas.
It's often a desert
out there,
But inside here
all kinds of musty
characters
drudged up from
anxious memory
inhabitants of this sea -
Sponge Bob Square Pants
has
nothing on you or me,
We are all travelers
in this uncommon sea.
Our bathing suits left far behind,
the temperature sometimes
too hot
too cold
depending on our state of mind,
There's strife
confrontation
character assination
often
uncommon seas
are far from placid.
The joy of traveling
though
you and me,
Sea creatures
feeling
the longing,
Finally belonging,
Where somewhere
and
sometimes
out of the blue,
A Beluga whale
speaks
your
name
so
perfectly
and
swims alongside
you and me
in
uncommon seas.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
She speaks to me through Winter's night,
At the clash of fearless winds and tides.
Within whispers of memoired days that passed,
I find myself entangled in each others grasp.
Like a summer's day I forget the tomorrows,
Unworthy challenges, expectancies and sorrows,
Letting go of my anger and unattended pain,
Her whispers are the only things that keep me sane.
I close my eyes to the sound of aquatic gusts,
Invisioning the days we've spent sharing eachother's lust.
Through a swirl of thought I sit beside you,
With petals of flowers falling upon each shoe.
My arm grips you tight as if hanging for salvation,
Yet still we hold a certain fear of confrontation.
We path our way with big and small footsteps,
Through unearthed soil, we silently crept.
The view was shallow; yellow with blue,
I gazed my eyes upon this priceless view.
Amongst an ocean of grass and rooted flowers,
Lay a lonely rose, purveying endless thorn-showers.
How risky and deep and precious the thought,
That within grass and sunflowers, a rose has been brought.
My hands reach to grip, but my eyes twinge with pain,
A sudden push through my lungs, and rush through my veins.
I wake up confused, my dream disappears,
But you my gray rose, you're always right here.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind butt-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of **** holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, ********** strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing ***** tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to **** your **** even though you will not go anywhere near her **** You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: **** off.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Writing out my every thought
For thousands of you I have bought
Your ink spilt on paper, forms such beautiful words
we could write amazing music, much like songbirds
You portray all my emotions
Which could fill many many oceans
Your ink, it comes in a rainbow of colors
When reading your work my heart flutters
You are, always there when I fall
Help me, for we could build mountains quite tall
Free like a butterfly
You leave a trail for everyone nearby
Beauty in your gracious flight
You are the victor in every fight
Building a skyscraper
As your point dances across paper
Its as if you know everything
You make me wanna sing
You show a world of pure imagination
Proving the beauty of creation
Drawing the blood from my hand
To write stories of wonderland
You are like a bridge of communication
You do this with much confrontation
Spewing life's essence with every swift movement
But staying in the limelight
You shout so loud, without even speaking
brain matter leaking
Leaving every brow furled because
You control this whole **** world
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
Black soot
Shrivelled up Cadbury
wrapper eyes
You were not my antidote
You turned a balanced
happy
friendly
spice 'n' all things nice girl
into a hermit with
bloodied fingers, a
self-destructive narcissist
(or did you just
coax her out of her shell)
well
I quit on you
the ****** is the **** spoon
your prose the lighter
your hips the dealer
my heart the coffin.
I cried
I cry
I will cry
Over your constellation swamps
Housing crocodiles
Water-borne diseases
and piranhas
I am naive;
I think my youth protects me.
My youth enslaves me.
Binds me in paper chains.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
What brief utterance this, the color of time
That gives more meaning than language can hold
To force a confrontation between unresolvable contradictions
Such as make malleable a gracious hospitality to ******
And sound trumpets of unwarranted discord
That lie and lament the reputation and experience of damage
Hold forth the envious clouds of displacement
To provide for the vicious energies of hate
Those oppressive weights of past problems
That enactment of intense and exhausting experience
Which embalms the tears of fresh bleeding
Without impediment dictates the human existence
Where the mistress of aggressive thought finds
Extremity of dire mishap a strenuous protest
Leads to well meaning certainty of illusion
And asks, art thou so in love with masks that you
Would transform thyself and as such
Bind a loyalty of angers to thy touch
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
.
**We won't be part of
your social pollution,
but will be part of
the solution.**
*We are the confrontation
and the fight,
the declaration
of human rights.*
**We won't appeal to
your expectation
or narrow our minds to
your "education".**
*We are the rebellion,
your red flag of the news,
though toleration
and a merging of views.*
**We will not weaken
under discrimination
or be products of
your degradation.**
*We are the revolution
and the sign,
the liberation
to step out of line.*
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Is it nice inside your closet?
Do you have enough room?
Listen, you can talk to me. I have secrets too.
Do you enjoy Life inside your Closet?
And can you call it Home?
Maybe, you'd like to get out.
Visit Jamaica, Paris, Rome?
You know, I wouldn't let you travel alone.
Are you afraid of your parents?
or the judgement of your peers?
Afraid your deep dark secret might spill out after a few beers?
Don't want to ruin your reputation?
with what? The truth?
Scared of Confrontation?
Sweetie, don't waste your youth.
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
we long for what we can't give. (title for now) I long to converse with you without our words turning to anger, but still we find ourselves standing at opposite ends of a verbal battle. I long to spend time with you, without it turning into a confrontation, but we still stand at opposite ends of the chessboard. I have longed to hold you, even close, but you kept me at arms length; both physically and mentally. I try to do right by you but I always seem to fail, like a child blindfolded in a dark room who was asked to distinguish between colors. You ask for passion, almost like that of two star crossed lovers who have stolen a single night for themselves. But the many times I've tried to express it, the passion was unreturned like a lover waiting under the stars for a soul that seems will never arrive. I've waited for the happiness that is supposed to come from two hearts joined as one, and yet I'm filled with a sadness that comes from a pain of a solitary beating vessel. I have asked you for affection, that of a caring mate that says "I love you" without words, and here I find myself unknowing of a speechless love, for when I'm in pain I can't feel you there holding me. I hope for a strong open mind, one that can not only stand up for her beliefs, but also admit to the mistakes that befall all human beings. Yet, for you to see your errors would mean for you to admit your faults and imperfections, which your pride may never accept. I simply ask for a companion that would take the time to understand me and love me for my imperfections; for I know I carry many with me. However that effort and understanding has not been received from you. And even though I've had all these obstacles in the way, I've tried to love you with every drop of blood that pumps through my veins, but no longer can I shed tears for your sorrows, or bleed for your pain, for it is as if my heart has pumped its last drop of my pain.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
*
Organized teaching limits some learning
Blinds us from truth, the shiny is alluring.
Organized media sometimes mislead information
Their freedom has boundaries of confrontation.
Organized politics always have hidden agenda
- A self-absorb Propaganda.
*
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
Tracing smoke with dry ice fingertips,
I hold my breath and begin to float.
The heat of a bellies past burden
steams to my head, until I begin to rise.
No where to go, except everywhere I'm late,
so I drift along a black and blue sky pretending
to be a storm. Pressing clouds into my skin
that slowly evaporate into recovery along the way.
Unconscious and shattered, I land where I've
always been. Cloaked in dew drop kisses and
pink morning yawns, I could pull the earth over
my head just to snooze into eternity.
But there's a mouth at my neck, breathing sticky
lies and humid affairs. Each whisper a grain of
sand, filling my vision with a million fragments of fog.
Blurring what ever I was and who ever I will become.
I drink shape shifting water that always refills as
***** lubricating contorted lust and pages that
won't burn. Scraping scabs for clues and emptying
all my pockets for loose change as a compass for hope.
Slippery slumber, the hot air rises to make room for
cold confrontation and chilling truths. On every
surface you'll find manic scribbles that feel
like immortal truths
bleeding from my fingertips,
only to wake in silence with no resolution.
Just the melodic drone of recycled air from the AC.
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 7:51 PM UTC
I failed to mention my frustration
when I told you "no" without hesitation,
but you pulled me in with determination,
and left my body full of devastation.
I laugh when you're brought up in conversation.
The truth is that I'm avoiding confrontation.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
Until this thick burden
Eats all of you dry.
I remain the living
torn shrapnel of paint.
I've seen where we should be.
And I'm not alone.
Here in this garden
Truth will be shown.
Before all the roaches.
Before all the lies.
Before all the temples.
Call blood from the sky.
I am no section.
I am not whole.
Where is your face?
This shadows a forge.
Yet I have defected.
And call out your threat.
In brown eyed seduction.
You'll fear what you get.
Yes I should have killed you.
When I had the chance.
You fear confrontation.
You fear our last dance.
In no reply message.
I will hunt you down.
No matter how precious.
I'll force under ground
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Don't be quick
to stop and search.
Do slow and speak.
Do stop at the curb.
Do sit.
Do commit to shape
a future city nation
where more space is given
to a wider conversation
with a newer translation
that's truer in comparison
than any black and blue
blunt force confrontation.
Stop.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
so many loud yelps
barking voices
clacking at each other
believing that their ignorance
and unabashed rudeness
will get results
hurray for the strong shouldered
head held high
who ignore such brazen brashness
of the moronic
bravo to you
that can stop an imbecile
dead in his tracks
by a stone cold
even gazed
eye meet eye
stare
stopping the foolish without uttering a word.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC