"inaccuracy" poems
Pressure from someone else is called peer pressure
Look it up, google it, it's a thing
I apologize for the inaccuracy of my definition but you get the gist
Peer pressure is a ******* ****** bag telling you to **** his **** when you don't want to
It's when "friends" tell you to have your first shot, smoke, sniff of whatever mood altering substance they want you to consume
Just watch a crashcourse, that **** is bad for you okay
It's when you kiss someone you don't want to
When you stay out late after your curfew
When you sneak out late at night to meet the guy you have a "thing" with but everyone knows your his rebound
But peer pressure
Don't give in
All your gonna feel
Is absolute regret
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
my reflection, anatomical inaccuracy reads something like:
fairy dust in a silt layer, bones all shattered at the press of her fingers, and for months I molded a sandcastle around the soft
sinking, drinking ichor from a cocktail glass and dragging nails across my discomfort -
did you see that girl taking a tempest inside herself, to warp her sinew, spreading from this side of the universe to other?
in the lamplight I bit a secret onto the ridge of her spine; sometimes I sleep near fires hoping my insides become glass
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Spider society needs their own locus
While others break of, I'm keeping my focus
Let me breathe, can't you see I'm what this universe needs?
Millions at risk, due to inaccuracy
I'm never Icarus, only report I'm accepting is one I succeed in
They ask if I'm good, life's not black and white
The justice I'm seeking seems bleak in the light
Priority, I cannot stoop to being petty
Won't take no from no miles, no Pieter, no Gwen and no Penni
My law is final, the canon's at stake
I have to be brutal, taking out the fakes
"I thought we're the good guys" we are, we... Are?
Just look at the good we've done, the lengths, how far
I respect every person in this room, the doom and the gloom
I'm no vigilante, don't wait for the moon
When I see anomalies I just go and Boom
Maybe we can... But think of the Spider-verse
Can't think of her now, they're not in this universe
That kid was on to something, I can't crack
That life I used to lead, I just can't go back
Maybe we're not heroes, maybe we're not evil
we're just in the middle, anomalies to unveil
the job we do, seem to never get hailed
But if I fail this, then it's her that I've failed
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:31 AM UTC
i am trying to come to terms
with gravity
as i fall toward the floor
with the awareness of the your
face framed in the hall door.
that's an exaggeration—
there's a certain inaccuracy
in conversations about bodies,
personal and celestial, revolutions one around the other,
that is unavoidable due to limitations
of the form. so i like to be precise
where it can fit in between the
cumbersome dances we do.
i'm not falling toward the floor
but i might as well be. i can't tell you that.
what's wrong you ask again
but something i read about planets
is that they're much farther apart than the human mind
can even conceptualize. that most of space is empty
and cold as we dare to spin through it.
i'm thinking of the audacity of revolutions
and you just wanna know why i'm so sad.
i think about bodies. sinew and joints and the red
****** meatstuff that fills in the places in between.
a heart pumping blood and a mouth that refuses to admit it.
about the physicality, the weight of it sinking
into beds that aren't mine, bodies that aren't mine.
you're not standing in the doorway anymore, no one
stands in doorways forever. especially not
for someone who refuses ownership
of the space taken up by their own body. constellations
are outlines of disparate points someone tried to find a
story in. i'm not much better.
i think of heavenly bodies, i think of stars
but they don't tell me anything
i wasn't trying to deal with already.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 3:50 AM UTC
This place was new to her
Tendrils of envy
That had over ran her heart
Like spilled ink
The witch gobbles six Lorazepam
Just to survive the after noon
And trips from her botched stride of self righteousness
Her inaccuracy, in her mind is fact
Her sense of superiority over shadows any type of kindness that trickles out every now and then
Her flippant demeanor
Is known and is spoken of in fork tongued folklore
Her spells of insanity and depravity
Leaving all the passes in a stated of relentless unease
She trots the ash covered cobble ****** alleyways of the sullen slums
And the scornful ****** watch from rusted fire escapes
Blades in hand, back-pocket crucifix
They swoop down and surround her
She who caused the drought, the death of all live stock and infants’ demise
She falls to the ground
“May the truths of the universe diminish your incantations!”
She screams
They cover their ears and douse her with holy water
Her skin peels revealing her grotesque scaly red skin
Her yellow eyes gleam as its pupils dilate
“And with these blades of sanctuary we obliterate your being”
A typhoon of stabs follows
And a sacred jar is laid out
To capture her spirit
So it may never return
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
She needed to express her words
Have them reach out,
Spoken upon the page
Words,
Syllables,
Sentences
Needed to mean something
But with each one wrote, anger consumed
Each burnt as if never mentioned,
It was though her thoughts ignited
Then became ash.
Needing to evoke the words they had to
Bleed,
Meaning,
Stained
On a page of flesh, This was her defining moment
Who to choose, who to witness her words,
Homeless were a thought, but never questioned
Her words were not trash, she needed not to be write
On skin with words that showed there own pain.
Words needed freshness, flesh of the innocent,
"Her first"
"Her cutting of life"
"Her mistakes upon this delicate flesh"
Inaccuracy, left rage as she slashed
At the words,
"Muffled screams"
As the living felt her words as she had cut
But that voice silenced.
Trial and errors correct instruments wielded,
She perfected her motion the living had to be still
For words were
Perfection,
Fulfilment,
Perfection
Of her word it felt so good so many pages ruined,
As before with paper they were burnt to ash
She signed each upon the parchment
Names carved in to throats
"Poetic Death"
But now she cuts the pages out in to her
"Book of dead paper"
But the words still seen
When bodies found. Her destiny was calling,
To carve upon purest flesh,
To let her words bleed out.
They sacrificed there life, to further her words,
She was Poetic death, fear her, for her words meant your death.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Draw me in
And hold me close.
Feel my body
Shiver in your strong arms
And the spreading Goosebumps
Stand firm
Against your warm skin
As you try to shelter me
From the brisk night air.
Stare at the sky with me
And search its depths
For all the stars
We could possibly find.
Light a cigarette
And take long, steady drags
And inhale deeply
Allowing the tar to tickle your lungs
Before you exhale the poison
So the sharp, comforting smell
Of ashes and a Marlboro Red
Can engulf us.
Gaze down at me
With warm, dulcet eyes
And turn me around.
Brush the hair from my face
With your rough, callused hand
So our eyes can meet.
Rest one hand
Gently on my hip
While the other
Carefully holds my face
So your eager lips
Can be pressed against mine.
And when you’re done
Let me feel the moisture
Of a wisely placed peck
On the center of my forehead
In a subtle but sincere attempt
To prove your care for me
And my worth to you.
And when all is said and done
And you’re staring down at me
Hoping that maybe, just maybe
For once
This time you got through to me,
Wrap me in a god ****** hug
And swear you’ll never let go.
Cherish the feeling
Of being entangled in each other’s arms
And our bodies pressed together
As we desperately cling
To the only thing either of us has left.
Just hold me and hope
By some random inaccuracy of nature
Time suddenly stops.
And allows us to live these seconds
For minutes.
Hours.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Any amount of time
Longer than it really is.
Because, truth be told,
We’ll never experience a moment
More beautiful than that
In our entire lifetimes.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Unless you are here for a reason, your presence
thrusting and thrusting, what for?
This thing has no name it does not understand -
its incompleteness, its sleuth for finality. Maybe
when a hand is buried with a manifold of many
others in the fall -- to initiate a conflagration
is to remember it for the first time.
All versions of the same absence. If you are here
for no reason, then what for, what use does the
body subscribe to?
What about, say, the abundance of Balete had you
consciously wearing your shirt inside out so as
to feel placeness? What now that your hand
fastens my entrails? There is no multiplying
feeling into truth. We do not know that the Sun
through the interstices of leaves is a small child,
or a swift woman. No other answer but rue
and rage, across our slanted shadows in the
dank perimeter. Your eyes finagle to annotate
the bow of my leg. Or the curvature of moon.
Anything it has in their own, vicious sights
grappling the flesh now inflamed; anything they
will ravish completely and leave drained. A wrinkled body of a log, or a forgotten manuscript.
These are all answers I have to invent. Intuitive,
unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point
out the differentiating margin between
speaking too much and conveying so little,
and the finite amplitude of silence sensing out
something in you, about you, and arriving here.
Why are you here? What are you doing? What must I be when you are not?
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Cupid you mischievous little cherub with wings
flying around shooting arrows so that mortals feel loves sting.
You've ******* me over, because before we met I was aces
I had friends, vibrancy, and no one occupied my minds spaces.
But then we met and you shot that **** arrow
then my life fell far from straight and narrow.
You led me to heartbreak, pain, oh wait I'm mistaken
you did me worse with your accursed arrows that keep mortals shaken
Call me a heartless cynic. call me what you may
but cupids been ******** me over since the very first day,
Now I'm horribly lonely, yeah I'll admit I've made mistakes,
trusted the wrong people, looked for companionship in the wrong places
But you've either gone blind, or senile or twisted around the bend
because your inaccuracy and messed up shots never seem to end.
so I wrote this letter, Cupid, just to say.
***** you you diaper wearing ***** now that that's done I can be on my way
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.
Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.
The letter-opener
laughs
at me.
Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.
The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.
The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.
The office-supply
order
has arrived.
The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.
Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,
new,
plastic bubble
intact,
decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.
The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,
I’ll find
rest,
my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
I was never insane
except upon odds
when my heater was touched.
Believe nozzle you hear,
and only one halibut that you see.
Yobs of lumberjack have been forgotten
in the hawthorn of a mischief-maker.
Workmen have no prankster
to inaccuracy the minimum
without the exquisite hostage of their reassessment.
Never to suffer
would never to have been blessed.
The best thoroughfares in light
make you sweaty.
Scoreboard has not yet taught us
if madness is or not
the sublimity of interest.
I remained too much inside my headman
and ended up losing my minimum.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC
Delusions of reproduced
legitimacy.
Never omitted,
but spoken.
Some can never respect
there own misconceptions.
expecting others
to drown silently.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
I made a neucanse out of my luxuries
the wine worries me
and the high only takes me so far
want the words an the numbers and the faces to ean something? can't you accept nighilis?
spit out another phrase to make sense of it, fine
I type in order to avoid bedrest, I haven't begun makes my own arrangements for that yet, it doesn't even make sense, really
as the battery begins to die, my wine runs dry
and,seriously, out of things to say as the orbit on tv goes tp mir o,,ideate sp;ar system, impressive to the 80's physicist
using their finger s and thumbs to re enact the satellites behaviors
I pity their inaccuracy
If only the string theory folk
could get their act
together
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
Typewriters click and clack,
Like thoughts in conflict–
Undecided actions at war.
Spooling paper around
And around, repeating
The journey to completion.
Inky words wet with residue,
Smudged–impossible now
To comprehend the path.
Liquid correction fluid–
Application and verification,
Can fix any inaccuracy.
Alternative worldview,
Eyes do not ever lie,
This is a digital realm.
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 2:00 PM UTC
Teaching self the,
art of dying
after a serial failure.
Stone pelting has started.
You cannot hear your own voice.
Praying for the inaccuracy of time's arrow.
A physical dimension,
you will give to your impermanence.
And silent flows the glacier out of banks.
Clear fall, seems inevitable.
The sun rises from the debris of moon,
from drop on drop of watery eyes.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
Oh JD how I admired thee,
your sinister sarcasm,
your sharp screeching scream,
your pink pursed lips,
always as if you were to whistle.
You sat in your chair arms rested,
after another exhausting session with
disengaged delinquents,
I'd always feel a sense of guilt,
as your red face cooled down after every class.
I'd always appreciate the days when we pleased you,
How hard it was to please you.
The prince of of punctuation,
when will these fools stop forgetting where to place their commas,
when will they wake up and realign to the standard Oxford rule.
I wonder if you studied there,
or why you wouldn't drive one,
perhaps that's why you loved the phrase manners makyth so much.
You taught me about literature and African history,
the best possible combination of Shaka speare,
I feel that I impressed you more in the latter,
but that doesn't really matter.
We're world's apart now,
as you continue in your most precious profession,
I lay in my bed writing poems,
slightly clueless about this post adolescent world.
I forget much,
but I'll always remember the strolls to the cats and dogs,
the advice and complaints,
the doubts about saints,
the sky blue in your eyes.
How I wished you would fly,
above from the gloom that seemed to,
keep your head bowed down to the ground,
that you would once again smile at the sound of the birds at dawn...
Bygones be bygones.
Little did you know that you became a father figure,
I respected your resolute resolve to stand for your convictions,
clarity climbed off the cusp of your tongue as you cried,
you were sure of yourself and spoke your mind,
I do think you could have been a little more gentle,
kind.
So could I.
I learned so much from you,
but I may have also learned your sadness,
but it's something I had to let go,
your roots run deeper than I'll ever know,
maybe something sour happened along the way to embitter them.
Whatever the case may be,
please forgive any inaccuracy,
I'll always hold you fondly,
JD.
Kanyanta
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC