"confrontational" poems
loud
so genuine it seems fake
temper
cries easily
animal lover
talkative
passionate
overly sweet
accidentally inconsiderate
cant whisper to save my life
non confrontational until angered
giving
creative
hard working
obnoxiously loud and annoying
liberal
avoids messy situations until i HAVE to face them
flamboyantish
scared
loves being feared / having power
hates directly hurting people
anxious
too freaked to apologize
very touchy
hyper
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
Confrontational,
dude’s really quite sensational,
but there’s very little matter
found inside his dome.
Confrontational—
it’s the opposite of beautiful.
Then again, he never worries
about whether he’s attractive.
Confrontational—
really not that calculable;
however, he always seems to
tip his very ****** hand.
Confrontational—
not quite the same as sensible,
but he is usually the one that
tends to buck the norm.
Confrontational,
doesn’t think that he is beatable;
nevertheless, he who hands him his
lunch has other things in store.
Confrontational—
it’s the converse of lovable,
yet some tend to insist that this
is his fancy way of flirting.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
She is trapped in her head filled with dreams and nightmares.
Sometimes she falls into a deep despair.
A life of happiness is what she craves;
Before she’s dug beneath her grave.
What was once a reality is now in the pass;
Yet it still suffocates her like a thick toxic gas.
She screams out in silence for her Utopia.
Hoping to escape all her phobias
Her dreams held so much potential.
But her nightmares were more confrontational
If only she knew what she was capable of
Maybe she would be able to fly up above
Up above all her nightmares
And conqueror all her fears
But instead she’s drowning
Drowning in tears.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
so... it's no longer enough that
i learn your language,
into a p.s. of conversational
etiquette -
addressing the confrontational
assertion of the existence
of orthography,
minding your, Germanic,
metaphysical ********
and then...
i'm, supposed, to,
listen to your average citizen,
dictating rules,
like some sort of king?!
i'll drink a beer, walking
past the east ham central mosque...
and i'll be like:
getting the **** eyes ******
you stare -
in reply: you know what?
do it... **** it... do it...
make me a ******* martyr...
but i'm going to drink this beer,
feeding a solidarity of the 7/7 commuters...
hence my teasing...
once i'll burn scissors and
craft a tattoo on my arm...
once i'll put out a cigarette
on my left hand's knuckle...
the everyday englishman who "thinks"
he's king...
i'm thinking... plum hues
to replace mascara... with a *******
fist...
no... private property,
is private property...
now i'm gagging for a fist
frisking! i'm less trigger happy,
and more, european,
i.e. knuckles itchy!
i want to juggernaut something
down...
and then start biting into it!
any obnoxious englighman,
being a **** will satiated my
palette.
GNASH GNASH GNASH...
i want... a chance...
to scoop clean...
the "riddle" of meaty chicken
schnacks of drum-sticks...
fiddle fiddle, fiddle me something...
i want to engage in a 1, 2,
punch & bite something...
attempting to relieve itself
from physical confrontation,
having exhausted its verbal allowance.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
I ramble on about how I feel regardless of the mass appeal I would rather focus on what is real whether or not it is my own perception. Frisky feminine features portraying what we all hold dearest but it has started to become clearer that it is more of what we fear. An insecurity of ones own self is what has caused a society to melt into an unforgiving judgement of a given level that one can not repel. Why reconcile with another's belief if it only admits defeat and an alter in our minds own dream of what it seems to be. Shake the excess for you will become reckless in thoughts and decision making that once were precious. Instigators pretend to be sweet prefacing confrontational proclamations of who they deem weak.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Is this
and that’s
all there is
before the thought becomes fleeting
like the next
and the day after,
the clichéd story your mind perhaps
upon
this future mystery of a happening
you've already started remembering
Is this
all we have to look for
forward to
wondering if this brain cell’s
thought creative nerd
to put forth on the edge
on the confrontational
abyss of a blank page
is enough
thorough
fair and still
contradictory enough
to ride the grind
of someone else’s nerve
We wonder
Is this all there is
because we could have
sworn there was more
than this
to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn
with tiny boxes of truth
on every branch
of something or someone
but we watch and wonder
Is this what I was ever trying to say
It just wound round into
this something of something
spilt on the page
A little dialogue of soul tribes
trying to call a little bit of themselves home.
I want to physically ****** my life
I want to take my life out with a ******
I want to tear it apart with my teeth,
gnaw at it with forgiveness blood
on my cheekbones
I want to hold it between my fangs
and sniff at it with my liver
I want to grapple it perfect,
and inhale the bitter bite
of its wild corpsey stench
And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty
and unwholelyness.
There is more. There has to be more.
More than when you
haven’t finished your question
and the answer is
I haven’t even finished my beer yet
you wonder
what was the question
that you heard
You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?
Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?
Why are giraffes so tall?
And it all shovel pours into the question
Is there some flux capacitor continuum
where time is enough
where time for me isn't separate
where time for me is always
enough?
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
the waves calm and gentle
soothing and somehow
making you feel better
taking away your pain
healing your wounds
the rolling waves, beautiful blue
and never ending
the sand warm and relaxing
the extraordinary mountains
never insulting or confrontational
just sitting, enjoying being envied
watching people in awe of their beauty
always there if you need a quiet place
even if for just a second
they are always there
as if
they are a shoulder that
you can cry on
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
I learned to be non-confrontational
What good does it do to argue
The truth stands when lies fall
Open minds see clearly
I learned the hard way
A job will wear you down
Hard work can easily go wrong
One ah-shit wipes out an atta boy
What makes you happy
Make sure it’s true in you
It’s too hard to share a dream
Find love together
9/01/25
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 6:58 AM UTC
Seeing..Y.O.U
HERE AGAIN.. COMES YOU..
I keep..
Minding my own business.
in the kitchen doin the dishes..
minding my own business..
keep trying ta forget..
Not wanting to digress..
To where I feel your absence and my loneliness.
Seeing your conditions..
Reminded in my visions
I see your hands through my own hands.
I remember the simpliest things..
Even though your absent finally from my dreams.
I've been seeing you even down to the basics of you.
The unstraight lazy walk the deep sound in how you talk.
I'm still minding my own business I must confess.
I'm a little wounded yet healing.. Coping well with my feelings.
Missing those interpersonal roles.. naughty ways to console.
So old and foundational..
With you so long that our chatting.
It used to get kinda confrontational.
So close I don't think you ever truly knew.
The closeness now makes me blue.
But right now i'm just kinda tired of spiritually seeing..Y.O.U!
Y..ooo..U.
SelinaSharday..2018_09 .S.A.M
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
There's a jukebox,
in my mind or yours,
and it plays my song --
or, maybe, it's for you.
And it says what I
never could say, which is
that I am very sorry.
I thought of how I was --
or how we were --
which was not as good
as we had hoped for.
You protected yourself
from remorse and I was
fearfully unapologetic.
You were, and, probably,
still are a cold ***** and I've
been a ******* for years.
Your nose was so crooked,
it could run for office, and
my head was -- and still is --
really big, which is fitting,
considering my ego, and
ironic, since I'm borderline
mentally-fucking-retarded.
There's an eroding jukebox
and its so confrontational,
due to feeling inferior,
unrecognized, and without
a responsible purpose.
The music from the machine
flows like rushing thoughts,
and the thoughts say:
I sit and write,
I don't mind you
when I don't know you.
Some people are roots,
meant to help with stability,
but you are a branch,
meant to offer a new view,
but also meant to fall off,
maybe, killing whomever
catches you next.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Is this
and that’s
all there is
before the thought becomes fleeting
like the next
and the day after,
the clichéd story your mind perhaps
upon
this future mystery of a happening
you've already started remembering
Is this
all we have to look for
forward to
wondering if this brain cell’s
thought creative nerd
to put forth on the edge
on the confrontational
abyss of a blank page
is enough
thorough
fair and still
contradictory enough
to ride the grind
of someone else’s nerve
We wonder
Is this all there is
because we could have
sworn there was more
than this
to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn
with tiny boxes of truth
on every branch
of something or someone
but we watch and wonder
Is this what I was ever trying to say
It just wound round into
this something of something
spilt on the page
A little dialogue of soul tribes
trying to call a little bit of themselves home.
I want to physically ****** my life
I want to take my life out with a ******
I want to tear it apart with my teeth,
gnaw at it with forgiveness blood on my cheekbones
I want to hold it between my fangs and sniff at it with my liver
I want to grapple it perfect,
and inhale the bitter bite of its wild corpsey stench
And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty
and unwholelyness.
There is more. There has to be more.
More than when you haven’t finished your question
and the answer is
I haven’t even finished my beer yet
you wonder
what was the question
that you heard
You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?
Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?
Why are giraffes so tall?
Why is my internet connection so slow when is seems I need it most?
And it all shovel pours into the question
Is there some flux capacitor continuum
where time is enough
where time for me isn't separate
where time for me is always
enough?
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:54 AM UTC
Maybe
If I buy new sheets
I'll have an easier time forgetting you
And your shifting eyes
All morning sun and maroon.
I had better get a new color too
Just not blue...
That was the one before you
With the thin hair and half lies
And winter city lights.
And before that I like to remember nothing besides the yellow daisies on a peachy sunrise of my youth,
But the silky stitches will forever hold
Their petals;
White centered with a splintering,
Tainted innocence;
A pasty white puddle of
Bodies too young-
Caught in the riptide of our
Childhood storms
And a desire for adulthood
Or something seemingly more....
Stable.
Details will only cause us to once again derail
so I must insist you don't question this.
I've been going out of my way so long
Trying to wrap up my Saran facade.
Now every interaction
Feels wrong
And rubs me raw.
My plastic skin is wearing thin
And I might melt against the heat
Of the confrontational defeat
That I suppose ...
We all just get used to.
I keep tripping over perceptions
Strewn across a convex looking-glass
Of stereotypes and slurs that shaped my past;
And I suppose
Made a lasting impression
Rooted deep enough
to now be the
Instigator of my regression
And unrelated, runaway thoughts
That seem to always get deeper
On accident.
Everything will become a hazy memory
And glob into two word phrases
Of the forced politeness
That accompanies the acknowledgement
Of a past regret-
Still freshly gawky
As a transitional stranger;
I am inquiring
In an attempt to find an explanation for this untold something
That remains unseen
Until we're too disheveled
To distinguish it from a
A misplaced dream or idea.
Relativity counteracts the sheen
And perspective is everything,
But I feel myself slipping away
Into a despondent complacency.
I left all my linens in places
I no longer cared to be.
Yeah,
Maybe new sheets are what I need.
C.e.M 12.23.14
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Answered, thus labeled because views a similarity. Who had this in the hand of the eye’s compact? If presence shifts to absence and believe it is safe in transit, what contract aspires to be an object used against it?
Here must be another present, moving thing for this nonattendance to take place. Its duty need not be nominal. And when it takes place, there is a guarantee for a statement: almost, to a certain extent. Had, adhered, temporary.
This was taken as an insistence of its exclusion as an avowal of its state: when a thing ceases to move, it has named a boundary all within a venue with already christened boundaries. To rise from its nomenclature, a question: what for is this mode? The unassuming and deliberate twofold of its chrome is indicative of something. There are only two possible answers to the question, but never warrants indemnity.
If amorphous then suitable to bend or assume over and over, a confrontational: to hold it against walls everywhere, its color only when dual fixing not a shadow, but the possibility of a shadow. To spill light over the malleable – notice how a body contorts.
If distinct then determined to traverse a straight line, a sanction: to furlough the idea of its controlled variable which is its many possibilities, its shape now not only a name but a force that deals with a believable architecture of compressed options. There is no need for appellation when related to dislimn as a shade is necessary for this disappearance to simulate. But the treachery is that when light surrounds no longer, form somehow a myth as if pausing all lightness to declare something: this is of two explanations merely a single.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
we see life through eyes shoved deep in a clothes dresser
-dressed in one style, one choice, one black or white sweater
we are the oppressed or the oppressor
we either question or we answer
we either are racist or we are racist-
it doesn't matter within which color you exist
at one point or another you are the blunt of every man's expense
the traitor or the one with the knife in your back-
turn around and your friends are nowhere fast-
build up a blind eye and you missed the opportunity to chose a side
and now your an inactivist- a pacifist
someone who's breath is saved is not valid, this
life style leaves us bent between broken lips
and bad lies heard from different separatists
bent on making a society divided on who's right and who's wrong, what's the matter with this!
battle each other with harsh words and confrontational jargon fits!
spit on each other, barely walk away and shake our fists!
is there not enough wisdom for us to understand
that we are merely just imperfect man-
must we argue over who is the most persecuted, most bruised!
we-
who live in a country with the most benefits for you to choose!
we-
the ones who live in an electrical utopia and a house too!
we-
the ones who barely have to question anything, we just receive and we roost-
selfish enough to carry broken glass mirrors on our masks
and stare forever into our forever broken collapse-
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
I'm a ***** because I'm honest.
You keep breaking promise's.
And you just expect me to not forget when you make your next one?
Am I Dumb?
Is it not obvious you would need to prove yourself before your trusted?
I don't think I'm the dumb one...
Again I get to hear how I have no income.
No income doesn't make me irrelevant.
Nor does it make me useless.
And your money can't buy my respect.
You can't pay me to shut up.
I know you will be sorry...
That's something you always are.
Me, I only wish I could ignore your ********
But instead here we are.
I'm writing, cause I fucken hate that your such a fucken *******
And I bet you regret not being with someone less confrontational, and more forgivable.
I can't say what my mind's thinking.
I know you don't believe it, but part of it ends with me leaving.
Nobody would think this argument is really about a drink...
But a promise of any size is a promise worth keeping to me.
I'm fucken crazy...
I'm out of my mind!
Cause I want you to mean what you say all the fucken time!
This feeling we created is dangerous.
If I were stronger, I'd deal with it better.
If you were thoughtful you'd understand my side.
I hate a liar.
And it makes me sick to my stomach.
I can't believe your such a fucken ****
FUCKEN AUTO CORRECT TRYING TO MAKE YOU A DUCK INSTEAD!!!
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Still, still, in the silent revelation
of an undiscovered thought,
violent by nature
tempestuous
undertones of gradient succes
mindless tests,
confrontational mess
still the new leaf, lovers in the light of
fright,
the night with milky shades of sight,
sound as still, still, like the silent revelation
of an undiscovered thought
wake to still
calm thy head
the cavities of
unrest,
numbness at best
mess, of mind
tangled thread
much, too much
mild mannered
maneuvers, meek,
passive and complacent
stuck in the basement of
forward moving stagnant
lowly, little steps
descending, ascent pending
for a revolution
jacket too stiff,
no peace from
pollution,
human heart pollution
grey faced institutions,
failure soup,
smooth money,
compelling sandwhich
of gold-toothed grannys
insanity,
death’s locker a
spray painted
noir
and n’er to do better
than sell, sell
the well wishers
a lock of lamentable
whiskers,
unshaven unclean
a force of mean
momentary pleasure
of possession,
empty
and quick in succession
your price,
of niceties
is too high for me
eyes red with subtlety
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
we resort to cussing when the only repercussion
is our own fault from what we sin but we feel within
that life would be too much for us to change our touch
ask what we have on this earth to better our worth
when it is our choice how we use our voice
minimal thoughts make noise serious ones cause poise
because we never chose to think of why the ribbon is pink
the red cross resembles the sick or why us humans were picked
to be the most knowledgeable in the world we paint our life as a mural
when that thought alone is irrational; we fail tests that are passable
we get confrontational simple business operational
"I love you" feels sensational but the words are migrational
Life was right here and you moved right passed her
and we wonder why in the hell that we have no answers
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
I'm a ***** because I'm honest.
You keep breaking promise's.
And you just expect me to not forget when you make your next one?
Am I Dumb?
Is it not obvious you would need to prove yourself before your trusted?
I don't think I'm the dumb one...
Again I get to hear how I have no income.
No income doesn't make me irrelevant.
Nor does it make me useless.
And your money can't buy my respect.
You can't pay me to shut up.
I know you will be sorry...
That's something you always are.
Me, I only wish I could ignore your ********
But instead here we are.
I'm writing, cause I fucken hate that your such a fucken *******
And I bet you regret not being with someone less confrontational, and more forgivable.
I can't say what my mind's thinking.
I know you don't believe it, but part of it ends with me leaving.
Nobody would think this argument is really about a drink...
But a promise of any size is a promise worth keeping to me.
I'm fucken crazy...
I'm out of my mind!
Cause I want you to mean what you say all the fucken time!
This feeling we created is dangerous.
If I were stronger, I'd deal with it better.
If you were thoughtful you'd understand my side.
I hate a liar.
And it makes me sick to my stomach.
I can't believe your such a fucken ****
FUCKEN AUTO CORRECT TRYING TO MAKE YOU A DUCK INSTEAD!!!
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 2:48 AM UTC
i’m pretty tired of beautiful things
looking so small in my hands
my worn, tender hands
they want to finally become the home
of things that my severity can’t crush
i am a ruiner in my own right
it’s just that i really only ruin
what is just out of reach
i’m not a confrontational fellow
i let myself get pushed to the ground
and i get up without a word
never demand an apology because
it was my fault that i was ever in the way
i rarely sleep when it’s dark out
when everyone is asleep
there’s no one to treat me harshly
and stare as i lose myself in another round
and another photo
and another song lyric
i’m so pretentious
this poem doesn’t even mean anything
i’m excited for sunday
as excited as i can be after
19 years of learning to be let down
i’m embarrassed to say that i gave up
before there was anything to give
i’d give that little number in the mirror
the entire world
if she’d just tell me
she loves me too.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
I'm not confrontational.
I can't deal with things in my life like I should.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
The glory days are over,
nothing lasts.
There is no such thing as forever,
look at the hour glass.
This was going to be metaphorical,
something that would make an impact.
But my life is too confrontational,
to even make a solid pact.
I know what some people would say,
that i'm sixteen, and have not faced real problems.
But do you know what problems are in my way,
that block the garden that no longer blossoms.
Everyday I wake up,
I look into traumatized eyes.
These poor children who are seen as a hiccup,
a mistake, that has been made by the unwise.
I do not think they are a mistake,
but I sometimes wish they weren't born.
Abusive homes that made them ache,
echo in their souls that are torn.
How do you fix something so broken?
When you are still trying to find yourself.
How do you get chosen,
to watch shells of children beg for themselves?
Am I a kid?
I can't be one in this situation.
I put on a lid,
and shut out my childish temptations.
Too much too soon,
it suffocates me.
I love them so much that I swoon,
when they cry from the pain that won't leave them be.
I try, God knows I do,
to help them live.
We helped one before and he has become new,
but the others, I fear, can not understand what we give.
How do you teach a child creativity?
Or teach them that hitting, is not love.
How do you teach them to act independently?
When they act as one to not get smacked from above.
When does this madness end?
Can it all become normal?
Forever, changes and bends,
I should have known it all would crumble.
One of them is afraid of the dark,
another is afraid of closed doors.
The monster in the dark is real and it sparks,
the other to be locked in rooms alone, fearing the war.
The security blanket was burned long ago,
it must be knit back.
Patch by patch we sow,
and hope to God they don't enter the black.
The glory days are over,
they have been for a long time now.
I hope I can help these children find a four leaf clover,
they need the luck, i'll help them, I won't bow.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
I cover my ears
To the sound of your voice
Cold as ice, cruel as stone
Your music gone astray
I close my eyes
To your actions
Defiant and brutal
Dismissive and confrontational to those who are supposed to have your respect
I seal my lips
To your words
Dripping with venom
Towards those who go against you
And my sin was staying silent for too long
And now it has caught up to me
But I'm done staying silent
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
short timer leaning
right shoulder pressed gently against
drab concrete walls
old mustard yellow
brink red tile underfoot
and 15 years lost
20 days and a wake up
Rip Van Winkle moment
I can never understand—
smiling up at me
expressing thankfulness for incarceration
stating plainly
it was the only thing that could have saved his life
and now, life begins again
fresh start, with baggage
that I could never carry—
isolated from peer groups forced to stay in hell
a quiet calm fills soft blue eyes
knowingly, he retreats to lonely meals
and the occasional press against his ethical stand
as those left behind despise those
on the edge of freedom
freedom with conditional and mandatory reporting –
15 years boiled down to 19 days
excitement and wonder
like a child during holiday celebrations
there is no way to express
the technology that will seem confrontational
no way to warn
madness in the streets and no lighthouses on the beaches
scared and alone, one step
then another
there is really no mystery
why these folks find themselves
back at the only home they ever really know
or knew –
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
I **** at apologies. I mean, I'm the absolute worst person to get in an argument with because I won't ever win and if I do I'll apologize. You could stab me and I'd apologize to you. I always sound passive-aggressive, I don't mean to, I swear. Speaking of swears, I cuss. A LOT. Sorry. So when I apologize, it's not because I'm wrong, it's because you've hurt me too much for me to argue anymore. I'm taught that I have to apologize for everything, I have to be sorry for existing. I don't have a confrontational bone in my body.
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 8:28 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish that you had chosen her.
Or I suppose, really, that she had chosen you.
So that you'd be with her, the girl that, in hindsight,
now that I'm thinking about it, probably would be really good for you.
Maybe she would take care of you, do everything for you, and not mind or complain the way I sometimes do that bothers you. I'm sorry I do that, I don't mean to make you feel like a burden, it's just heavy sometimes to carry the weight of another and I'm strong but my endurance isn't impeccable.
Maybe she would stay quiet and inside her head, the way you do, so you could both go about your day talking about how ****** the world is but never how ****** you feel, the way I try to do but sometimes can't.
Maybe she'd be okay with being passive, maybe none of her friends would tell her to be more confrontational, maybe you'd consider her courage when she tried to be regardless.
Maybe she wouldn't accuse you of anything because she had every reason to trust you and the world around her.
Maybe you could trust her enough to let her in your head for a second.
Maybe she'd do anything for you, like I try to do, and maybe you just might fight to do the same, not so much like you try to do with me.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC