"imprecise" poems - Hello Poetry

"imprecise" poems

incorrect something that should have never been incorrect a being of disillusioned experiences and truths inaccurate proportions and measurements which define me as a logical fallacy inaccurate colors and hues which do not correspond with my inner being imprecise ideas and beliefs spilled onto a canvas with little to no direction imprecise translations of my true self with no attempt to fix it mistake didn't think it through because I didn't think I had to mistake didn't predict the real outcome because I thought they'd understand failure with nothing more than a swift brush stroke and some applied use of sense of self failure was the only thing I could think of as I opened my eyes by the burning candle light

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May 28, 2014

May 28, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC

incorrect something that should have never been incorrect a being of disillusioned experiences and truths inaccurate proportions and measurements which define me as a logical fallacy inaccurate colors and hues which do not correspond with my inner being imprecise ideas and beliefs spilled onto a canvas with little to no direction imprecise translations of my true self with no attempt to fix it mistake didn't think it through because I didn't think I had to mistake didn't predict the real outcome because I thought they'd understand failure with nothing more than a swift brush stroke and some applied use of sense of self failure was the only thing I could think of as I opened my eyes by the burning candle light

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Like happiness, sadness is ephemeral. Nothing last forever. So use your energy instead to improve your future endeavors. The imprecise nature of our real existence, Is an approximate level of our understanding They say a calm mind and an optimist view Can even save a Crash landing

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Nov 20, 2014

Nov 20, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC

Like happiness, sadness is ephemeral. Nothing last forever. So use your energy instead to improve your future endeavors. The imprecise nature of our real existence, Is an approximate level of our understanding They say a calm mind and an optimist view Can even save a Crash landing

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Refreshment, in form king size bed Big fluffy pillows, sink disheveled head Silken other body touching beside Night's dreamless comfort, into it did glide How exist delusion, tranquil pie in sky Consulting limbs, spooning of thighs Imprecise discoveries, feeling more at ease Theories both wound in bed, confidently pleased

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Mar 24, 2016

Mar 24, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC

Refreshment, in form king size bed Big fluffy pillows, sink disheveled head Silken other body touching beside Night's dreamless comfort, into it did glide How exist delusion, tranquil pie in sky Consulting limbs, spooning of thighs Imprecise discoveries, feeling more at ease Theories both wound in bed, confidently pleased

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I am ugly. Maybe not in the way the human race perceives the word, but in the way I perceive the word. I am ugly, whether that is in the way I smile, look, dress or the way I see the world. Maybe, life isn’t about seeing the yourself as beautiful; maybe it’s about seeing yourself as ugly, as dull, as plain, as unappealing as it is and still, above all of that, loving everything ugly, dull, plain and unappealing. I don’t mind being ugly, because ugly is what I want to be. You hear someone say the word ugly and you think negatively. Ugly, in my mind, is even better than beautiful. Everything has beauty, but only real things have flaws. Being ugly is not about being unappealing to the eye, but being appealing to the heart. I embrace the fact that I am and always will be ugly. I like it that way. I am full of flaws. I have crawled my way out of hell and got a little banged up along the way, whether that is what someone means by the word ugly I am okay with that. I am banged up. I am flawed. I am imperfect, defective, faulty, distorted, inaccurate, incorrect, erroneous, imprecise, fallacious and most of all ugly. The most shocking part of all of this is that, you are too.

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Aug 18, 2015

Aug 18, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC

I am ugly. Maybe not in the way the human race perceives the word, but in the way I perceive the word. I am ugly, whether that is in the way I smile, look, dress or the way I see the world. Maybe, life isn’t about seeing the yourself as beautiful; maybe it’s about seeing yourself as ugly, as dull, as plain, as unappealing as it is and still, above all of that, loving everything ugly, dull, plain and unappealing. I don’t mind being ugly, because ugly is what I want to be. You hear someone say the word ugly and you think negatively. Ugly, in my mind, is even better than beautiful. Everything has beauty, but only real things have flaws. Being ugly is not about being unappealing to the eye, but being appealing to the heart. I embrace the fact that I am and always will be ugly. I like it that way. I am full of flaws. I have crawled my way out of hell and got a little banged up along the way, whether that is what someone means by the word ugly I am okay with that. I am banged up. I am flawed. I am imperfect, defective, faulty, distorted, inaccurate, incorrect, erroneous, imprecise, fallacious and most of all ugly. The most shocking part of all of this is that, you are too.

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And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings, in the melancholic fate of soliloquy; yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.” The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies. Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence. She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew. In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again. Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon. She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name. The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing, a desert of bones starved on an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky, she needed to endure something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow. And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name. Where the river flows, she follows. In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her; achingly believing she’s the muse this time. Who else could have written her the way she is? With her eyes the same as the earthly sand, her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her, the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet. With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.” And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her. That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.

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Apr 27, 2024

Apr 27, 2024 at 8:57 AM UTC

It’s Written on the Stars

And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings, in the melancholic fate of soliloquy; yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.” The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies. Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence. She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew. In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again. Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon. She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name. The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing, a desert of bones starved on an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky, she needed to endure something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow. And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name. Where the river flows, she follows. In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her; achingly believing she’s the muse this time. Who else could have written her the way she is? With her eyes the same as the earthly sand, her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her, the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet. With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.” And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her. That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.

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1. (photographs; kaleidoscopes) I tried to capture you in words, the way you were, the way with each relentless second you would never be again. 2. (words were not enough) because a) language is a frail medium for the powerful; the overwhelming; b) emotions are shifting, & imprecise. 3. (I tried, a thousand times, to say) how I found in you the wonder I had always looked for; always missed. 4. (we can choose how we react) how rare and beautiful it is — to me — that you exist. 5. (you) your hurricane eyes twilight smiles shoulders where have you been? 6. (define morning as a feeling, not a time of day) what did you think about when you poured your coffee and did you feel relieved when you heard the sound of rain? what colour was the daylight; and does love ever happen to you, in the traffic of rush hour? 7. (I said) “come on -- let me take you home”. “I am here” she said “you are it” 8. (he asked me) "have you ever been in love with someone you knew you couldn’t have?” I’ve never been anything else. 9. (a single green light across the bay) I will rearrange my life around your meaningless smiles — when love is not returned to us, we will never stop looking for it. 10. (holding on and letting go) there is a space between breaths and heartbeats — an endless moment, the infinite, an entr’acte in the operas of unrequited love. 11. (simply because I found her irresistible) and yet that’s what we do, isn’t it? we hang onto hope — in every hopelessly irrational way that we can. 12. (and so part of me is always a fool) I will wait for you forever.

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Sep 25, 2015

Sep 25, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC

over and over (the same impossibility)

1. (photographs; kaleidoscopes) I tried to capture you in words, the way you were, the way with each relentless second you would never be again. 2. (words were not enough) because a) language is a frail medium for the powerful; the overwhelming; b) emotions are shifting, & imprecise. 3. (I tried, a thousand times, to say) how I found in you the wonder I had always looked for; always missed. 4. (we can choose how we react) how rare and beautiful it is — to me — that you exist. 5. (you) your hurricane eyes twilight smiles shoulders where have you been? 6. (define morning as a feeling, not a time of day) what did you think about when you poured your coffee and did you feel relieved when you heard the sound of rain? what colour was the daylight; and does love ever happen to you, in the traffic of rush hour? 7. (I said) “come on -- let me take you home”. “I am here” she said “you are it” 8. (he asked me) "have you ever been in love with someone you knew you couldn’t have?” I’ve never been anything else. 9. (a single green light across the bay) I will rearrange my life around your meaningless smiles — when love is not returned to us, we will never stop looking for it. 10. (holding on and letting go) there is a space between breaths and heartbeats — an endless moment, the infinite, an entr’acte in the operas of unrequited love. 11. (simply because I found her irresistible) and yet that’s what we do, isn’t it? we hang onto hope — in every hopelessly irrational way that we can. 12. (and so part of me is always a fool) I will wait for you forever.

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It’s the year of gloom and the day’s morbid Never morning enough, clouds – they forbid The mood is on the brink – of an imprecise dawn Chugging on like a mundane mover in lawn Sanity is in the black – grief is at peak. All is fine with the world – not but with me.

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May 12, 2015

May 12, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC

Moments - they own us

It’s the year of gloom and the day’s morbid Never morning enough, clouds – they forbid The mood is on the brink – of an imprecise dawn Chugging on like a mundane mover in lawn Sanity is in the black – grief is at peak. All is fine with the world – not but with me.

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Remember art class in the big room with spray painted concrete ground where you were given a tiny mosaic square and asked to recreate it on a much larger piece of canvas when you knew full well you weren't an artist and you never would be? You spent the time mixing blue and white acrylic paint together on a small piece of a former gallon of milk, adding and adding until there was more than you would need but the color matched perfectly and of that you were proud. Now you're older and you know a bit more about hue and saturation and how difficult it can be, working with imprecise mediums, to do that, to make something to fit a very precise set of guidelines with no missteps, no miscalculations, no question as to its perfection. You wonder if the color really did match back then, or if you are remembering something that never really happened, if you wanted it bad enough that it changed your recollection. That day, everyone's large square canvas pieces went together into designated spaces on the wall to make a composite image and all the blues were different shades and that made you frustrated and nervous and disappointed in the other third graders sitting around in a circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's old dress shirts as smocks and throwing brushes at each other and giggling as eight-year-olds do. You stared at the tidal wave on the wall made up of all these disparate pieces and you told yourself that you'd notice when things matched as though they were meant, as though they were destined and divine. You see the waves lapping at the beach as we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand on the shore and you tell me that my eyes match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your flannel shirt matches the gray November sky. It took all the way to Oregon until it happened again, but you keep your promise to yourself. You notice the matching colors. You smile to yourself and look down at me. You grab my hand and pull me closer.

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Oct 18, 2013

Oct 18, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC

Remember art class in the big room with spray painted concrete ground where you were given a tiny mosaic square and asked to recreate it on a much larger piece of canvas when you knew full well you weren't an artist and you never would be? You spent the time mixing blue and white acrylic paint together on a small piece of a former gallon of milk, adding and adding until there was more than you would need but the color matched perfectly and of that you were proud. Now you're older and you know a bit more about hue and saturation and how difficult it can be, working with imprecise mediums, to do that, to make something to fit a very precise set of guidelines with no missteps, no miscalculations, no question as to its perfection. You wonder if the color really did match back then, or if you are remembering something that never really happened, if you wanted it bad enough that it changed your recollection. That day, everyone's large square canvas pieces went together into designated spaces on the wall to make a composite image and all the blues were different shades and that made you frustrated and nervous and disappointed in the other third graders sitting around in a circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's old dress shirts as smocks and throwing brushes at each other and giggling as eight-year-olds do. You stared at the tidal wave on the wall made up of all these disparate pieces and you told yourself that you'd notice when things matched as though they were meant, as though they were destined and divine. You see the waves lapping at the beach as we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand on the shore and you tell me that my eyes match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your flannel shirt matches the gray November sky. It took all the way to Oregon until it happened again, but you keep your promise to yourself. You notice the matching colors. You smile to yourself and look down at me. You grab my hand and pull me closer.

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there's a mafia don operating on the verse's patch if anyone ticks him off the eraser does a fast dispatch you'll be completely rubbed out with an instantaneous flick by his quick 48 revolver's rapid fire trigger click the Sicilian mobster is a regular Al Capone *clearing they who ****** at his most tactile bone Luigi strikes fear on issuing a list of target dots which so irritate him in the imprecise spots

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Mar 3, 2017

Mar 3, 2017 at 9:12 PM UTC

ElizabethSquires

there's a mafia don operating on the verse's patch if anyone ticks him off the eraser does a fast dispatch you'll be completely rubbed out with an instantaneous flick by his quick 48 revolver's rapid fire trigger click the Sicilian mobster is a regular Al Capone *clearing they who ****** at his most tactile bone Luigi strikes fear on issuing a list of target dots which so irritate him in the imprecise spots

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In a hope of life, I hope to retire Riot and renown, mind of desire Full of people, still alone as hell Free and Alone, buried in shame In the world of spring, I bear winter Cold and freeze, my path squeeze Behind all, mind full of suspense Unturned and locked, left scorned me In the course of time, I share desert night Dark and still, my heart imprecise All of all, Life full of dare and fear Undecreed and undared, suspense of all Breathe in hope, one day of rise Ascend high such history will revise Dream to stand together in destination For the world of will and Inspiration

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Dec 28, 2013

Dec 28, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC

In a hope of life, I hope to retire Riot and renown, mind of desire Full of people, still alone as hell Free and Alone, buried in shame In the world of spring, I bear winter Cold and freeze, my path squeeze Behind all, mind full of suspense Unturned and locked, left scorned me In the course of time, I share desert night Dark and still, my heart imprecise All of all, Life full of dare and fear Undecreed and undared, suspense of all Breathe in hope, one day of rise Ascend high such history will revise Dream to stand together in destination For the world of will and Inspiration

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On wet sand my own hand lethargically drags index nail into unplanned pierced hearts The deep blue babble froths disparaging echoes spume in unison moon lumen proffers effulgent glints of my own frame Imprecise recollections Intone lackadaisical exhalations Plunging my fist into the dune I seek shells to listen to mottled heart None found I drop my curls onto the punctured heart Listening to the ocean’s instead

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC

Shell Pulse: She'll Pulse

On wet sand my own hand lethargically drags index nail into unplanned pierced hearts The deep blue babble froths disparaging echoes spume in unison moon lumen proffers effulgent glints of my own frame Imprecise recollections Intone lackadaisical exhalations Plunging my fist into the dune I seek shells to listen to mottled heart None found I drop my curls onto the punctured heart Listening to the ocean’s instead

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i am so imprecise a silhouette that i waver in the midst of swirling seas i am so detached a soul so unfocused and blinding (a galaxy, loosened) that i cloud and distort the senses, stand between a body and its needs the garish outline of my necessity grinds landscapes to a neat unforgivable dust

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Mar 21, 2013

Mar 21, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC

i am so imprecise a silhouette that i waver in the midst of swirling seas i am so detached a soul so unfocused and blinding (a galaxy, loosened) that i cloud and distort the senses, stand between a body and its needs the garish outline of my necessity grinds landscapes to a neat unforgivable dust

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*Uncertainty is the name of the game Putting things in jeopardy God in shame A particle’s position is immeasurable so its momentum An imprecise arbitrariness for the Seeker a conundrum!* Drunk in the wine of Creation God had no inkling Uncertainty would be inherent in his nature of things Little slips He would make would be a stumbling block one day One would affect the other's behavior without a remedial way! It appears such a twisted thing making so little sense The objects you measure with will themselves influence The particle to be measured its velocity and speed Discarding precise determination not yielding a perfect read! *Lovers take heart from this though her heart you may win There’s no way with precision her love you can determine She remains as yet unknown in her love’s position and quantum You the Seeker can do little than to live with the conundrum!*

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Dec 26, 2013

Dec 26, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Love's Uncertainty Principle

*Uncertainty is the name of the game Putting things in jeopardy God in shame A particle’s position is immeasurable so its momentum An imprecise arbitrariness for the Seeker a conundrum!* Drunk in the wine of Creation God had no inkling Uncertainty would be inherent in his nature of things Little slips He would make would be a stumbling block one day One would affect the other's behavior without a remedial way! It appears such a twisted thing making so little sense The objects you measure with will themselves influence The particle to be measured its velocity and speed Discarding precise determination not yielding a perfect read! *Lovers take heart from this though her heart you may win There’s no way with precision her love you can determine She remains as yet unknown in her love’s position and quantum You the Seeker can do little than to live with the conundrum!*

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The scent of your elegant body deadens my mind and leaves it imprecise I want nor wine nor **** your resuscitative breath alone shall suffice I cannot say what loves have come and gone, but in your arms I come alive There is a sacred sign in your silent sight, which bring forth the scent of paradise

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Nov 24, 2015

Nov 24, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC

The Scent of Love

The scent of your elegant body deadens my mind and leaves it imprecise I want nor wine nor **** your resuscitative breath alone shall suffice I cannot say what loves have come and gone, but in your arms I come alive There is a sacred sign in your silent sight, which bring forth the scent of paradise

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what is it about you that has me constantly wondering how your world is at any precise or very imprecise moment you are consistent in that sense you seem to sprint through my mind long enough for me to acknowledge it is you, but not long enough for me to figure out what the reason behind it is or the copious knowledge of your day to day to be able to pinpoint what it is that you could be doing at that moment… drives me mad.... you, the thought of you, the realization of the thought of you...

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May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC

what is it about you that has me constantly wondering how your world is at any precise or very imprecise moment you are consistent in that sense you seem to sprint through my mind long enough for me to acknowledge it is you, but not long enough for me to figure out what the reason behind it is or the copious knowledge of your day to day to be able to pinpoint what it is that you could be doing at that moment… drives me mad.... you, the thought of you, the realization of the thought of you...

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You put me to sleep Every night But i write My own history It sounds like water Falling from the rooftop Through cracks in the ceiling I drink your lightning It pours through your toes As I place my nose in your silence I am absorbed in your river Longing for your fingers To put an end to my pain Let's stand naked for several days Pantomiming our stories In the pouring rain If you ****** my library I’ll make love to you in a poem You harvest all my feelings As imprecise millionaires waver Over your laughter Indecisive waiters and maitre d’s Dance upon your dinner tables We are all crazy lovers Hovering in the sunset Tuning into your brilliance We become the music of the butterflies Merging with the sun in my insides I rise with the moonlight And birth a new tune every hour For love is my shower And it is an honor to serve her Life is a goddess With plumes of breath and feathers We take her into our hearts And leave our accounts unsettled

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Jul 21, 2019

Jul 21, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC

ganesha-michael-shapiro

contents of your countenance (incontinent accountants)

You put me to sleep Every night But i write My own history It sounds like water Falling from the rooftop Through cracks in the ceiling I drink your lightning It pours through your toes As I place my nose in your silence I am absorbed in your river Longing for your fingers To put an end to my pain Let's stand naked for several days Pantomiming our stories In the pouring rain If you ****** my library I’ll make love to you in a poem You harvest all my feelings As imprecise millionaires waver Over your laughter Indecisive waiters and maitre d’s Dance upon your dinner tables We are all crazy lovers Hovering in the sunset Tuning into your brilliance We become the music of the butterflies Merging with the sun in my insides I rise with the moonlight And birth a new tune every hour For love is my shower And it is an honor to serve her Life is a goddess With plumes of breath and feathers We take her into our hearts And leave our accounts unsettled

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Nineteen. Clueless and unprepared, I am diving headfirst Into a world for non-nineteen-year-olds, A system so precise and so imprecise that I cannot win A universe so unpredictable that I was better off eighteen. But now it’s time to reach out to destiny, Blow out twenty candles (one for good luck) And live life like everyone is watching. Ideas and goals have been ingrained into my mind Whether I like them or not does not matter, As they’ve made homes in my skin but don’t pay the rent And I cannot kick them out because we are symbioses ******* the poisonous vitals from each other’s bloodstreams. Suddenly, it isn’t so insane to think that my success Is not successful enough and that my wedding gown Could be my clothes on someone’s floor late at night And the future fades into never, not as a beautiful ripple But as a vicious surge, and I realize that Once upon a time is once upon a dream and My dreams are nightmares and I scream Through the night and I’m modestly nineteen So no one else is responsible to wake me up.

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Feb 5, 2014

Feb 5, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC

Thursday 02/06/2014

Nineteen. Clueless and unprepared, I am diving headfirst Into a world for non-nineteen-year-olds, A system so precise and so imprecise that I cannot win A universe so unpredictable that I was better off eighteen. But now it’s time to reach out to destiny, Blow out twenty candles (one for good luck) And live life like everyone is watching. Ideas and goals have been ingrained into my mind Whether I like them or not does not matter, As they’ve made homes in my skin but don’t pay the rent And I cannot kick them out because we are symbioses ******* the poisonous vitals from each other’s bloodstreams. Suddenly, it isn’t so insane to think that my success Is not successful enough and that my wedding gown Could be my clothes on someone’s floor late at night And the future fades into never, not as a beautiful ripple But as a vicious surge, and I realize that Once upon a time is once upon a dream and My dreams are nightmares and I scream Through the night and I’m modestly nineteen So no one else is responsible to wake me up.

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Dress me with your comments, I will dress in blackness, Adorn me totally, With your hearts desires, Hit me only with sweet kisses, Your love fills my wings, My heart's so hot, She's burning, So full of fire, She melts for you, No longer, Drift through cloud cover, I know I have your heart again, You know I really do! Have danced with rampant demons, Through imprecise dusky shadows, Kept me imprisoned within your cryptic heart, Locked away in chains, Like minded imps, You and I, Poke fire with fire, By way of feign, Smoke machine makes fabrications, While in your dreams you play, In fantasy, Behind your eyes, Try to delude yourself, Pure In mind's eyes sweet illusion! Your honey ****** will catch you, Keep you stuck in sticky touch, When from the heights you tumble, As a supporting crutch, Truly deeply, I believe, That good love never dies, Lying in his shadows gloom, Only cos he cries, Hell on earth sweet baby boy, While somewhere saturated, Lost in space, Abridging his demise, In words where darkness waits! Livvi Kent 2013

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Jun 4, 2013

Jun 4, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC

All Dressed Up!

Dress me with your comments, I will dress in blackness, Adorn me totally, With your hearts desires, Hit me only with sweet kisses, Your love fills my wings, My heart's so hot, She's burning, So full of fire, She melts for you, No longer, Drift through cloud cover, I know I have your heart again, You know I really do! Have danced with rampant demons, Through imprecise dusky shadows, Kept me imprisoned within your cryptic heart, Locked away in chains, Like minded imps, You and I, Poke fire with fire, By way of feign, Smoke machine makes fabrications, While in your dreams you play, In fantasy, Behind your eyes, Try to delude yourself, Pure In mind's eyes sweet illusion! Your honey ****** will catch you, Keep you stuck in sticky touch, When from the heights you tumble, As a supporting crutch, Truly deeply, I believe, That good love never dies, Lying in his shadows gloom, Only cos he cries, Hell on earth sweet baby boy, While somewhere saturated, Lost in space, Abridging his demise, In words where darkness waits! Livvi Kent 2013

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I am writing to you in tar. It dries quickly on this leaf of paper; the room is hot and dry, I fear it may ignite. It doesn’t feel right; this makeshift pen is imprecise try as I might to colour within the lines. I guess it’s me and you really. The moment says what I mean, not me. It bursts like a Molotov cocktail when it wants to, but until then it waits and waits and waits until I need to say it myself, and eventually I do, but it's clumsy and in the end I say things I don’t mean, and then, and here’s the kicker, I feel bad, not you. So if and when you read this, and the tar sticks your fingers together, and the paper bursts into flames and singes your hands, don’t think of self pity, because you’ve drowned in that too much already. Think of the times when you’ve wanted to say something but ****** up the delivery. It will scorch your skin, and leave a blister, and it will hurt, of course, but I’ll have a damp cloth ready if you want it.

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Jun 6, 2011

Jun 6, 2011 at 3:13 PM UTC

I am writing to you in tar. It dries quickly on this leaf of paper; the room is hot and dry, I fear it may ignite. It doesn’t feel right; this makeshift pen is imprecise try as I might to colour within the lines. I guess it’s me and you really. The moment says what I mean, not me. It bursts like a Molotov cocktail when it wants to, but until then it waits and waits and waits until I need to say it myself, and eventually I do, but it's clumsy and in the end I say things I don’t mean, and then, and here’s the kicker, I feel bad, not you. So if and when you read this, and the tar sticks your fingers together, and the paper bursts into flames and singes your hands, don’t think of self pity, because you’ve drowned in that too much already. Think of the times when you’ve wanted to say something but ****** up the delivery. It will scorch your skin, and leave a blister, and it will hurt, of course, but I’ll have a damp cloth ready if you want it.

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companionship, not compatibility. i have chosen immobility. once i lived in instability but now i live in his advice. so water melts to ice, my science trusts the imprecise, thus in this world, such comfort will suffice. thus in this world, that i created, my latest, unadulterated: i will live in shallow vice i will allow such comfort to suffice.

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Jan 30, 2017

Jan 30, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC

companionship, not compatibility. i have chosen immobility. once i lived in instability but now i live in his advice. so water melts to ice, my science trusts the imprecise, thus in this world, such comfort will suffice. thus in this world, that i created, my latest, unadulterated: i will live in shallow vice i will allow such comfort to suffice.

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As my heart grew more enamored, And as I felt this burning flame, It was then I knew what mattered— It was to give Beauty its name. Her image would not go away, But all the words I spoke would err, So overcome I could not say A description that suited her. What should perfect Beauty be called? There is no name that could suffice. Overwhelmed I was too enthralled— My language was too imprecise. You simply are so beautiful, That any name would be inapt. Your Beauty makes my heart so full— That I am speechlessly enrapt.

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Dec 23, 2018

Dec 23, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC

not_thepoet_hewantstobe

Nameless Beauty

As my heart grew more enamored, And as I felt this burning flame, It was then I knew what mattered— It was to give Beauty its name. Her image would not go away, But all the words I spoke would err, So overcome I could not say A description that suited her. What should perfect Beauty be called? There is no name that could suffice. Overwhelmed I was too enthralled— My language was too imprecise. You simply are so beautiful, That any name would be inapt. Your Beauty makes my heart so full— That I am speechlessly enrapt.

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I was drunk last night My breath was tight Nothing felt so imprecise I was lying on the floor Frozen and paralysed My life savoured to solitude The pain was in my heart I closed my eyes and saw him Such perfection He was like an art of fiction But then i realized My love was just an illusion He's long gone now Shining into those stars Resting in peace And I'm here numb Watching him from down.

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May 21, 2014

May 21, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC

I was drunk last night My breath was tight Nothing felt so imprecise I was lying on the floor Frozen and paralysed My life savoured to solitude The pain was in my heart I closed my eyes and saw him Such perfection He was like an art of fiction But then i realized My love was just an illusion He's long gone now Shining into those stars Resting in peace And I'm here numb Watching him from down.

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In a world so full of muddled dichotomies and clumsy classifications, Of spectrums and ranges and imprecise definitions, Of moving targets and sliding scales, What is a woman? When your definition’s solid, sorted, and sold Am I an archetype or anomaly in the sordid taxonomy? Here are my chromosomes: Two Xs to mark the swirling twirls of DNA Properly paired to provide a guide for my curves. Here is my body: Ripe and rounded and ready for perusal By those who find art in a classical form. ******* that are not perfect, *** that waggles as I walk, A waist that looks even better when I’m angry (Hands on hips and arms akimbo). Here is my *** Excited by the touches that evolution would predict. I respond when kissed by stubbled lips, When stroked by calloused hands, When rocked beneath a man that biology would call “The fittest.” Our coupling is a pledge to survive. Here is my womb: A wonder of chemistry and medicine, It has been occupied for defense against bearing fruit. I have declared my selfishness to doctors, To family, To strangers. I will not house another life Because my own heart is sufficient. I will not nurse another’s hunger Because my appetites are wild. I will not be a mother, And you will not change my mind. Here is my hysteria: I cry sometimes when books are sad, Or when commercials are touching, Or when I’m angry, Or hungry. Or confused. Or happy. Or whatever. Here is my meek and mild nature: In the hand that covers an ornery smile. In the hesitation before I swear. In the blush of a lover surprised. In the warmth that you must lose, not earn. Whether I am a winning or a wanting woman I am finished with apologies. When all is counted/sorted/labeled My tastes and brightest talents are as tame as I can bear.

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Oct 2, 2016

Oct 2, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC

emily-anne-dawson

In a world so full of muddled dichotomies and clumsy classifications, Of spectrums and ranges and imprecise definitions, Of moving targets and sliding scales, What is a woman? When your definition’s solid, sorted, and sold Am I an archetype or anomaly in the sordid taxonomy? Here are my chromosomes: Two Xs to mark the swirling twirls of DNA Properly paired to provide a guide for my curves. Here is my body: Ripe and rounded and ready for perusal By those who find art in a classical form. ******* that are not perfect, *** that waggles as I walk, A waist that looks even better when I’m angry (Hands on hips and arms akimbo). Here is my *** Excited by the touches that evolution would predict. I respond when kissed by stubbled lips, When stroked by calloused hands, When rocked beneath a man that biology would call “The fittest.” Our coupling is a pledge to survive. Here is my womb: A wonder of chemistry and medicine, It has been occupied for defense against bearing fruit. I have declared my selfishness to doctors, To family, To strangers. I will not house another life Because my own heart is sufficient. I will not nurse another’s hunger Because my appetites are wild. I will not be a mother, And you will not change my mind. Here is my hysteria: I cry sometimes when books are sad, Or when commercials are touching, Or when I’m angry, Or hungry. Or confused. Or happy. Or whatever. Here is my meek and mild nature: In the hand that covers an ornery smile. In the hesitation before I swear. In the blush of a lover surprised. In the warmth that you must lose, not earn. Whether I am a winning or a wanting woman I am finished with apologies. When all is counted/sorted/labeled My tastes and brightest talents are as tame as I can bear.

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There was once a world where everyone and everything mattered; Where happiness was as easy as waking up in the morning and being alive; Where trust existed and was a tangible thing that one had in oneself and could give to other people, Where flawlessness and beauty were real and simple and true. And this world did exist, It was solid and functional and realistic and perfect. And it even had its place; In my head. But then one day, one day not so much unlike any other, One day where the sun rose and the moon followed and life happened as usual, This world, my world, my reality, shattered. Was smashed like a rock through a glass window, collapsed like a mirror with a fist though the center, Fell apart like a beautiful home into which a wrecking ball collided. A wrecking ball, cold, hard, Steel, solid, unbending, Permanent, never going back, never controlled, Always destroying, always hurting, Imprecise. Flawed. My heart the home, The never going back to okay, The flaws like small holes through everything ever known or loved, Growing larger with every second, with every thought becoming and merging as one, Until reality was a hole and everything I was and ever knew was falling, disappearing, Becoming lost inside of it. And I was at the center, The forces of everything pushing me, pulling me, dragging me in their tides, The people I’ve known, the choices I’ve made, The pressure welling up like thunder ready to burst. The weight of the world not on my shoulders, Where it could be carried, But inside me, tearing me apart. And I was left there, Alone, Destroyed and defective and broken and torn. And yet, somehow, still breathing, still functional. Alive. And with the strength that only comes forward when needed, I took a deep breath and stood up; Pulled together whatever fractured parts of me and my life remained, And took a step forward. Into the future, unknown and scary and marvelous, To begin the construction of a new reality, again.

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Apr 10, 2012

Apr 10, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC

Reality, Shattered.

There was once a world where everyone and everything mattered; Where happiness was as easy as waking up in the morning and being alive; Where trust existed and was a tangible thing that one had in oneself and could give to other people, Where flawlessness and beauty were real and simple and true. And this world did exist, It was solid and functional and realistic and perfect. And it even had its place; In my head. But then one day, one day not so much unlike any other, One day where the sun rose and the moon followed and life happened as usual, This world, my world, my reality, shattered. Was smashed like a rock through a glass window, collapsed like a mirror with a fist though the center, Fell apart like a beautiful home into which a wrecking ball collided. A wrecking ball, cold, hard, Steel, solid, unbending, Permanent, never going back, never controlled, Always destroying, always hurting, Imprecise. Flawed. My heart the home, The never going back to okay, The flaws like small holes through everything ever known or loved, Growing larger with every second, with every thought becoming and merging as one, Until reality was a hole and everything I was and ever knew was falling, disappearing, Becoming lost inside of it. And I was at the center, The forces of everything pushing me, pulling me, dragging me in their tides, The people I’ve known, the choices I’ve made, The pressure welling up like thunder ready to burst. The weight of the world not on my shoulders, Where it could be carried, But inside me, tearing me apart. And I was left there, Alone, Destroyed and defective and broken and torn. And yet, somehow, still breathing, still functional. Alive. And with the strength that only comes forward when needed, I took a deep breath and stood up; Pulled together whatever fractured parts of me and my life remained, And took a step forward. Into the future, unknown and scary and marvelous, To begin the construction of a new reality, again.

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