CRH Mar 2013

I'm in Love
with a man
whose love
for me
it seems
is wired
to a switch.
And
without warning
something
last night
caused it
once again
to flip.

It used to
lead me
to question,
if he gives
a shit at all-
But now
I just
passively wonder
how I go
about getting
one installed.

For solitude
is  less
intimidating,
than insecurity
and fear.
And laying
awake alone
is better
than company
that's
adjacent
but ultimately
insincere.

Even though
I should leave
I will place
my troubled
questions
in boxes
to forget
about tonight.
Endure the
deep breaths
and eye rolls
and stay
if only out
of sheer
stubbornness,
exhaustion,
or maybe
out of
spite.

Old poem. Familiar feelings.
maggie W May 2015

The infatuating smile you got
On this spring day.
Capricious like you, London.

I can't stop myself from
Stumbling back to you.

The things unsaid, the poems unread
A thin lipped man like you, full beard suits you the best.

Ah, the beard,dotted with white snow flakes
my hearts skips for this fickle spring day.

1659

Fame is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time is set.

Whose crumbs the crows inspect
And with ironic caw
Flap past it to the
Farmer’s Corn—
Men eat of it and die.

GaryL Mar 2016

Fickle feelings fuel your mind
Leaving you in a state of confusion
Inside you find your heart is blind
Perpetuating another conclusion

Feelings change once again
Leaning toward a different selection
Ongoing turnabout without end
Perpetuating a loss of direction

I can think of quite a few people who this relates to. From now on I will be glad to be rid of them...for good.
Roxxanna Kurtz Mar 2015

Fate
is
so
fickle.

Where
our paths
once
crossed,

I
never
see you
anymore.

Makana Queja Sep 2012

Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.

They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.

When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.

Alexis Apr 2014

When I like a song
I'll play it a hundred thousand times
And when that's done,
I'll avoid it like the plague,
Skipping it on my iPod.

When I like a craft
I'll put my all in it,
And when that's done,
I'll slowly lose interest,
Finding another hobby.

I'm fickle-minded
Can't make up my mind,
Jumping from one thing
To the next.

That's why
I've never told you that
I love you.

I have commitment issues, really.
Rajat Ubhaykar Jul 2014

A cursed affliction of the heart

A human condition that drives us hither

And thither chasing a ghostly calling

On a restless search for mirages



We are all actors

Playing our role

Said a great sonnet writer

We use to quote platitudes



But what of those who wander

A crossroad of diverging futures

Where one role does not satisfy

Their boundless hopes and desires



A poet one moment

A grave digger the next

Who shovels mud in the darkness

And finds meaning in the light



A role fit for a novel maybe

Or at least a bad play

Starring unknown faces

Gesticulating to an empty theatre



Some find solace behind the pages

Of a tattered copy of  Crime and Punishment

Leading a vicarious life of alcoholics and whoremongers

And some become what they don’t read



Blessed is the mind whose devotion

Is pure, untainted by the spectre

Of what is and what could be

Charting a singleminded road that plods on



To heights heavenward

To places unexplored

In a narrow field of vision

Towards a sunlit horizon



And not be stuck in the bogs

Of indecisive action

Of halfhearted measures

In a dreary haze of possibilities



But it’s only a cosmic joke one would say

For why did the Almighty in his wisdom

Make a world so vast and beautiful

Our ambitions so conspicuously lofty

And our fleeting lives so very inadequate?

Tell yourself to breathe
as the stratosphere is falling,
imagining verses tumbling
midst downpours' dissension,
sans sentimentality's
         loquacious language,
and the land is left barren
    as verbosity disintegrates
and emotions wholly perish
    'neath fickle cloudbursts
               of poetry's extinction

Mary Stanworth Apr 2012

Fickle is a thing called love
Its fleeting
Its brief
Its deep
Its passionate
Its lasts only a moment
Or lasts a lifetime
Or is it us that’s fickle with love
Self doubt
Confused thoughts
So many questions
So few answers
These last only a moment
Or can last a lifetime
Fickle is a thing called love
Or is it us that’s fickle with love ??

Young Alice Mar 2016

I let my fickle feelings slowly surface from inside

As you grabbed my hand and told me "love, I've seen you! I have you on my mind"

If my strange desire to disappear could match your need to feel so close

I'll say to you as I walk away " I'll be the butter to your toast"

I'm not very strong, so to speak
I'm merely a girl refusing to sound weak
Often condescending; narcissism in full glory
But every action taken was never without a story

What is it, you might ask, do pray tell
If curious is what you are, then very well I shall
I am seasoned, scarred, battered and bruised
Torn, tattered and worn out from use

This you know, you've been there before
One too many times we've walked out the door
We both have wounds, you and I
I've grown tired and my tears have run dry

This won't work, I've heard them all say
But never you mind, I'll be okay
A fighter now, a pushover before
I gotta be strong before I lose even more

A chanced encounter, that's what you are
Could he be different? I wondered from afar
Conversations over coffee, what a great start!
But I've grown accustomed to guarding my heart

It's not that I don't trust, nor that I don't care
My past has hurt me and my mama said beware
Risks have been taken, perhaps a little too much
So please understand as to why I am such

Despite all that, you've got me thinking
Things could be better, if only I kept believing
Because I've grown fond of our playful banter
The time is mine, and that's all that matters

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