"inaccurate" poems
As insecure toddlers, we were often told by our parents that inner beauty is more important than outer beauty. This is how they were able to instill in us the confidence we may have today, whenever we represent ourselves in front of other people. However, this is something I find to be quite inaccurate. If you ask a random person about what they find beautiful and attractive, most of them would probably begin to describe a person’s physical attributes than the internal attributes.
Beauty is defined to be the perfect balance and harmony with nature, which may lead to feelings of attraction and emotional well-being. Since the attraction is subjective, the term “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” takes place. Many individuals would like to believe that looks are never important, and that judgments should be based on a person’s internal well-being instead of its outer counterparts.
In our modern society, external beauty is more favorable since everything becomes more convenient, than when you only have internal beauty. People will always see your external beauty the moment they see you and not that beautiful mind and soul of yours, and that’s what makes them attracted to you. Just like with expensive cars, the moment a car is put into the market, the consumer who will buy them would first look at their exterior first before they would look for its driving ability; no matter how good its performance may be, these people would always look at its exterior. Also, external beauty can help you be successful, it can land you jobs, earn more money, and help you be treated with more respect by strangers than those with internal beauty.
The preference for external beauty than internal beauty is what is wrong in our current society. We live up to the evolved norms of society that we have started to grow backwards. Outer beauty fades, and no matter how beautiful you are on the outside, once people get to know you, you’d be nothing but a simple less attractive human being than you once were. I would leave a wonderful quote here written by a great author: “A tree may look as beautiful as ever; but when you notice the insects infesting it, and the tips of the branches that are brown from disease, even the trunk seems to lose some of its magnificence.”
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:55 PM 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
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
My sympathy depleted
My friendships deleted
I have been defeated
By truths that hit so hard
I was decleated
By intense hatred deep-seeded
My history was repeated
I guess a three-armed mutant
Has no need for a right hand man
Until his leprosy riddled hands rot off
When he needs them the most
But his ***** limbs had been pretty useless for a while
Since he had lost feeling in them
He had to do a biopsy on his life
After the inaccurate results of the smear test
He took antibiotics to rid himself of the bacteria
But that didn't heal the nerve damage
He yearned for the rhetoric to be less inflammatory
So he took steroids
Transforming the ***** into an ogre
With no semblance of humanity
...Except for the people he devours
Their patience is delicious
He eats that first
Their pity is a delicacy
A rare treat
Their disgust tastes sour
But it's a feast
His cannibalism may seem callous
But the non-mutant lepers take Thalidomide
And get pregnant
Their kids come out defected
With an intense, deep-seeded hatred for three-armed mutants
And lepers and ogres look exactly the same
To those of another species
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
Your life sounds hard,
difficult, sad,
and
I wonder,
can you, do you,
set limits with your family?
Not sure,
it’s okay to set limits
when you must always
do the "right thing"
even when,
even when,
it feels dishonest.
Be assured, your unnecessary shame
is safe here because it’s inaccurate
because you deserve a place,
to tell your side of the things,
you need someone with whom
you can be honest,
to share aloud
how you were trained
to do the "right thing"
when not once,
not once,
did doing the
"right thing"
ever feel right.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
My dear Mimi,
Hey baby, are you an electron cause I feel a covalent bond between us. Did you fall from heaven? Because you're the only ten I see. Wanna know my favorite color? Its you. Hey girl, how about me and you go to Tennessee because when you fell from heaven it hurt. Smooth. I'm a genius. All these pickup lines and I'm still on the floor. All these chargers and you're still not a lithium battery. Why the **** is this so cheesy and inaccurate? Maybe its because Everytime I'm near you I get nervous. I start to shake. I start to become anxious. I start to worry. I start becoming self conscious and insecure because I want to be perfect for you. I want you to want me all the way. I want you. I just want to look at you because I see the stars in your eyes. I want to hold you because I feel the burn of your beauty and wonder on my fingertips and up my arms through my shoulders and down to my appendix, because to end at the heart has been said before. I can't explain it. I guess I just...love youuuuu. kissy faceheartpussy
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Dear Arjana,
Isis told me that you left your paradise for love in disguise
Camouflage love
Erroneous love
Inaccurate love
Artificial love
Mimic love
Man-made love
...
Substitute love
...
I can't trust the "fact" that you wanna desert me only to hydrate a man who's life is so sparse with affection
Can't you tell by how devoid his life is of women?
He can't storm into your life and bring forth lush
He can't be your sunshine and make you feel tropic
He can't have you sprung and spring you out of your glacial phase
...Smh
Bottom line Arjana babe
Is that he cannot draw the line between your north and south poles where it's typically warm when I'm around and rock your equator wild as a 200 miles per hour cyclone Lol!!!
...
He just can't
And I could
So why do you even give G-Gwa-Gwala a chance?
However you say his name!
You need to come back home to your paradise
Before you end up a dystopian
Please reply =-|
Sincerely Masika "Zola" Oluchi
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
A female human being of African descent.
A subject of extreme abuse and oppression based upon the inaccurate perception of inferiority
The mother of civilization; one from which all life comes forth
One who promotes unity among people of color.
She is strong, intelligent, beautiful,
She is a wife, a mother, a sister, a leader, a warrior.
She carries within her the power to endure pain and the courage to sacrifice.
She has the power to create and nurture life.
She is indeed the epitome of love and sacrifice.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC
Our world is getting better
It would be inaccurate to say that
It's getting worse
Can't you see that
Things have changed globally
Watch the news
See for yourself or
What do you think?
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
To be blessed ,
favored and protected by the environment,
selected and isolated from your social groupings,
To be blessed is to synthesize what truly has meaning in life and self-meditate with the sake of life’s pace.
Before falling asleep, resting, force the mental to remain awake,
processing and breaking apart the information given today,
despite the fact that time wasn’t kind, brief or even prolonged; make it the moral commitment to self-reflect.
Make a correction if your answer is wrong; the fabrication of a scripture,
Make sure, for certain, that all the totaled scores calculate to a certain percentage,
Affirmed, scolded or ruled by another to convey your defined truth as inaccurate, almost there or rarely ample.
Time is allotted, effortless and to be taught a lesson is a blessing,
Space is limited, given and to be bestowed the gift of building is the set up version of a lesson, a shell of a blessing.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
"Love is Blindness"
is inaccurate
Love is the buffer
That sees all imperfections
Makes them perfect
Love is the cataracts
Blurring all troubles
Into a milky sweet balance of good and great
Because bad days are now still good
Love are the pupils
For life
Letting in nothing but light
Blocking out at darkness
Love is syrupy sweet brown eyes...
Even though you thought you liked blue
But Sweet Browns now hold your universe
Love acts as the glasses
Sharpening everything you used to see
Creating the picture of where you were meant to be
Love is the depth perception
For feeling
Used to calibrate all emotions
Love is You
but mostly
Love is sight
Because of Love
I can see
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:38 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.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Can't breathe through this pain
Closed eyes it's still the same
I'm caught up in the summer rain
Constant hurt through season's change
Pressing nails into filthy skin
Ripping me open and looking in
Bitterness seeping
Pitch black betrayal
Silent tears stitched mouths
Inaccurate portrayal
Forked path no direction
Easy living but I'm still stressing
Forked path, left or right
Arms around knees tucked in so tight
I'm screaming so loud surrounded by waves
No one can hear me beneath this hurricane
They say it's temporary, only for today
But I'm walking on these coals for 100 years straight
Burnt up heels crunching bones
I grit my teeth, that's how it goes
Slashing exes in my skin
I can't breath
I can't breath
Just want to live
I'm dying
I'm dying
Will I see you again ?
It's all my fault
I'm ******* sick
Leave
Leave
Run away
Close your eyes
I'm so insane
Leave leave
Run away
I don't need you
I'm okay
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
But what is a soldier without his gun?
A brave little boy, playing makebelieve
in his room with a plastic G.I Joe doll,
his camouflage inaccurate and too yellow.
Plastic sand bag barriers scattering the floor
this boy has never learnt a thing of the war.
leaving it all up to imagination
he takes the tiny plastic radio
and calls in, *"Mission complete -
Commander, we're comming home.
Over and out".*
Creating a fake static noise with his mouth
which takes us to a new scene.
Accurate camouflage colours this time,
the australian flag on his shoulder,
but that little boy from his room
is now wearing them as a man.
A soldier he has become
with destruction all around him,
he was flown to Vietnam.
A high-tech radio for real this time,
"Man down! Man down!"
One of his unit fell heavy in the mud.
303. slung over our little-boy-from-his-room's shoulder
he drags the wounded behind trees and shrubs
an act of valour.
Though, our little boy did not know,
that he'd be wounded too
and comming home tomorrow.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 10:08 AM UTC
Maybe it's not meant for this
Driving for miles and miles
Stuck in the same intersection
Indecisive on the turning point
Speedometer at 10
Not able to go faster
Down the yellow brick road
To have the curtain torn away
Or maybe the compass is pointing North
Going down a curvy road
Confused and alone
But maybe that is inaccurate
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple. I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
1
The Clowns in Brussels Sprouts
have sent me a notebook. Tossers.
The latest thrilling instalment from ******** Creek.
The Animal Events Recording Notebook —
fits in your pocket,
if it happens to be a school bag.
A little picture on the cover
Jack, the farmer, a cow and her calf.
Equally gay as it is oxymoronically inaccurate.
No sign of a tag on either the cow or calf.
The cow has a pair of horns
that would **** any animal, never mind the farmer,
statistically dead. Plus,
the calf’s a bit too healthy looking
and the cow ain’t trying to **** the farmer either.
Between the covers coloured-coded sections
chronicling the animal’s progress
from Foetus to Fork.
2
Though, I do thoroughly enjoy filling out those
additional comment columns.
De-horning
Next to castrating lambs,
I love this job —
all-the-more if there’s a gang.
The first has no idea what coming
and the last wishes they weren’t.
But seriously, I’d say it hurts.
A lot.
Castration
See Revival, issue 6 P.14 —
revised in Inheritance P.26
Weaning
Always good for poem.
I laugh from the comfort of my bed.
Ye’re only halfway lads
And how far along are you?
They inquire back.
3
Ok, I get it. Seriously.
Stop depleting the rainforests please …
I have my own notebook thanks.
I understand their dilemma.
They fear mindsets will be inherited
form the old flock, the old stock —
the canners and brass tags —
who never converted.
It’s like auld women and the church
engrained since birth
and no amount of jibber-jabber will sway.
So they concentrate, groom us
weanling growing up
in the Age of A.I.M
on BETTER Farms
4
Regardless, the second you tag a calf,
the cunt’ll croak. So wink, wink:
so not to jinx yourself
and have to write a cheque;
adjust your Balance Sheet,
invariably affecting your Gross Margin.
I know … I know
S.M.R 6, 7 and all that $*@#
But it’s so cold the frost is complaining.
Plus, they said on the radio: be kind
leave food out for the birds.
I’m just thinking of the foxes.
And, if anyone asks —
she never came in calf
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 2:27 PM UTC
Hatred in a misinterpretation of what
people think I linger in. I have no aversion
to this thought process, I just choose what
I know is true.
That understanding of facts where those who
delve to regurgitate inconsistences upon myself.
Why do you wish to ascend your misgivings on
me when like a viper all that is bitten upon is untruths.
Repugnance on a belief where I have non, free thought
facts and realistic virtues are what my life is based upon.
But you spite me as I am not held back I reject your
inaccuracies that have taken over a cognitive thought.
Deities are like clothes so many have been and then
like fickle thought, kicked to the curb for the
newest trendiest misgivings of whom to blame for
what we have subdued on ourselves no other to blame.
*"I have objections to inaccurate speculation
where truth just doesn't seem to connect on thought,*
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Sometimes I wake up in a different room, lying barely covered
in a strange bed with an unfamiliar scent coating the oversized t-shirt blanketing my upper body.
The alarm clock across the room blinked
what I decided was an inaccurate time
based off the amount of sunlight peeking out from behind the corner of the sheet
taped to the top of the window seal in a poor attempt to keep the room in shadows.
The unknown room around me was messy but provided no comfort
like the clothes speckled floor of your apartment once did. Some mornings
I can’t even remember the name of the new, handsome man making breakfast
because you’ve infected my thoughts and clouded my mind
making it so I can’t leave you behind.
The smell of French toast circles through the air above me.
I hated the taste
but only you knew that. I managed to crawl out of that mysterious pile of sheets
and walk to stare in the cracked mirror.
Dazed and unaware of what happened the night before,
I realized I don’t even recognize who I am anymore.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
The doctor ... says... I have a serious issue...
He say it's life threatening you guys
...
I don't know what I'm gonna do...
All this research
This inaccurate treatment
Being high to distract my lows
Not really knowing what to suppose
He gave me a date...
He claims it's an estimate, but if I keep feeling like this; this could be it.
He sends me home each visit, telling me that this is rare, but common
It happens, but don't normally conclude in such trauma
His coat, or stethoscope doesn't always mean that he has the antidote
...
As for the symptoms:
•The dry skin,
She used to help apply the Shea Butter
•My hair all over my head,
It was funny when she brushed my hair, she didn't know what she was doing
•Long nails,
She HATED that
•Morning breath the entire day
I would chase her all over the house trying to give her a kiss
•chill bumps •shivers •teeth chattering
We used to cuddle to stay warm, so we didn't use the furnace
•starvation •no appetite
She cooked 5-7 times throughout the week
•restless
I could not fall asleep until she got in from work
•angry •outburst • complaining
She always said "ahhh shut up and get over it punk"
•Listening to the talk radio station LIPZ 102.5 to be exact
I gave her my undivided attention
•heartache
I loved her
That's why it's difficult for Dr. Carmichael to prescribe me medicine
How am I suppose to treat this?
There's no special enough specialist
No surgeon so precise
Not even the smartest scientist,
divinest pastor, or
The most thoughtful psychiatrist that can save my life...
I'm doomed
All I do is sit on the couch in the house that will soon be a tomb
...
My hope is fading
My pulse has feinted
My arms are folded
My back is *****
Back and forth
My rock is steady
... My soul is light
And my eyes is heavy
I'm taking the departure hard
...
Love can be deadly
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
An after midnight wolf
lives as a sheep by day,
amongst opposites
he sees through
sheep’s clothing
and moralizes through
insecurities,
though inaccurate,
accusations man
a marionette,
a wolf in sheep’s clothing
can manipulate but
is easy to forgive,
an after midnight wolf
can ruin his sheepskin,
and have follicles run dry,
alcohol and anger
and selfish malevolence
over compassion, thought and
apathetic benevolence,
the sun can divide strong from weak,
an after midnight wolf lashes
and drinks
and lashes,
regrets and lacks morals
yet lacks intent
only listens to his mind
and not his heart,
he sheers himself
with broken bottles
and it takes a while
to grow back
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
Comes to pass my picture of the Middle East
(one minute and twenty one seconds of television news,
much less than I had thought)
is an inaccurate representation of people
and the individuality of their experience.
How does one measure the merit of
I am offended?
If all I know are snapshots, misdirecting
the issue, changing path to digest murdered cartoonists
killed with Allah in mind
(another misdirection)
and I am not outraged.
Sadness manifests as thick fog
blocking artificial light, splitting the rays,
opening up and flexing, the truth as is,
the sole truth we must attain;
we are slow, dying creatures.
Inborn freedoms dissolve.
Did Salman Rushdie beg forgiveness for
images of his head book-ending a spear,
or did he die a little in secret?
Suppose I am a rouser marching the streets of
New York City, a gold pendant of two
falling towers adorning
my chest-cave, Je Suis etched into my forehead
(black felt-tip).
Do you defend me?
Relish in your torment of words?
Will you bury the fire in your belly
for sake of freedom?
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.
The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.
These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.
There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.
The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.
This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
Call me a heretic
I question the Bible
I question faith
my own.
I believe because it says that it's the right thing to do
I'll be saved?
But define religion.
Define what is infinite but is secrete
God, YHWH, Allah, The Creator
of what?
We are able to gain information of such large rocks
within our galaxy
Yet we see them...
from Earth
As tiny specks through a large magnifying glass
That makes it seem colossal or the actual size
but still remains at distant and a permanent mystery
Never in person. Inaccurate as well
I guess everything is just a hypothesis
It's become a habit that if you get more people to agree with you
You assume valediction
Well if that's what it has come to nowadays...
Amen.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC