"inadequately" poems
Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
this home
where sane brother
and ****** sister
ate sliced apples
played pool
and swam only
at night
a home so inadequately haunted
we invented a previous family
mother, father, a lame child
all three suicides
it was the lame child
we dwelled on
so much so
our real mother
sent our most current father
to the backyard
with a shovel
brother went mad to see it
and sister began to throw up
in the mornings
then disappeared
and left two notes
one confessed pregnancy
and one bulimia
I lied, too
but am not poor
and will not say
a brother
went mad
overseas
start with your mother’s handwriting
I love my own because when her children
were naked
saying so
was a sin
instead, she called them
rare
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
You hold my heart, in those large, surprisingly delicate, dextrous hands. Your twisted little fingers, the ones I stroked and kissed only yesterday, move against my beating heart as they reach for me through restless dreams. Are you dreaming? I exist now, only in your dreams. If you do not dream, I cease to be. You promised to devour me; you did. I danced on your warm, rough tongue. You taste me still. I will change the story that your senses tell, I will alter all remembrance and anticipation. I become you; then, now and evermore.
‘I miss you’ is a paltry phrase, inadequately addressing the way my heart has moved into my throat and is trying to escape. I search for you, in the city you have departed. The city calls you back; it wants you here, and so do I. You perfectly fit this imperfect paradise. I cannot absorb your departure, you are still here, burned into the tips of my fingers, pressed into the skin of my lips. Your thigh rests under the palm of my hand. Your voice echoes at the centre of me. I hold you within. If I reach inside, I can bring you from me, to me. My need for you can make this happen. My longing for you is all that there is.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
this home
where sane brother
and ****** sister
ate sliced apples
played pool
and swam only
at night
a home so inadequately haunted
we invented a previous family
mother, father, a lame child
all three suicides
it was the lame child
we dwelled on
so much so
our real mother
sent our most current father
to the backyard
with a shovel
brother went mad to see it
and sister began to throw up
in the mornings
then disappeared
and left two notes
one confessed pregnancy
and one bulimia
I lied, too
but am not poor
and will not say
a brother
went mad
overseas
start with your mother’s handwriting
I love my own because when her children
were naked
saying so
was a sin
instead, she called them
rare
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
over the shoulder squeals
giggles atop great grandma's quilt
from under the tree
that we have all hit our heads on
way up in the field
screaming up in to the sky
NO POCKET KITE
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!
diving a dipping
then crashing
youre no trick kite!
nothing but a dollar store impulse buy
ill *** you up and stuff you back
into the belt-clippable makeshift container
the one you shamefully came in
curse you and your inadequately short string
maybe she'll have you
return you to your designers glory
not i
oh but you
i see you
soaring
string waaaay to far out
dangling above the trees
and power lines to boot
aloft at least 100 meters up
today you soared
mathew perry shoot
thats what im going to call you
parachute in a bag
to heights i could never achieve
standing in the sand
waves crashing against phalanges
in those years
over a decade back now
and you
and your potential joy provided
collected dust
in that same place that i left you
all those years ago
but i had to call the dog back up
"TESS DOG, HEEL!"
and i had to wipe the quinoa of my hands
and roll up your string
she had to stop smiling at some point
your stewardess or should i say flight attendant
smiling, no loving.
or staying.
kissing.
oh lets stay here!
in the field
atop the blossoms of berries
yet ripened
smiling
"pulling and running!!!"
under the shade tree
on a blanket
holding hands
give me thirty days though
i have some things to work out
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I wish that my life
could be a banyan tree, large,
massive, eternal, offering shelter to travelers, wanderers, exhausted ones, when lacking support and nourished inadequately
p from the p
o trunk, o
e poetry e
t would be t
r the prop r
y roots and y
. my support .
. system .
"""""".""""""""""""""""""""""""""."""""""
~~~~.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.~~~~~
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Last night we talked instead
And words weaved their way
Like threads around each other
Into rope, at length
The hope and anchor
Between a future and the pasts
We did not share till now.
Moved together with the swell
Of gentle laughter
Cast out and overboard in faith
That a lifebelt given was a moment saved
From drowning.
Inadequately,
I thanked you for the chat
You disappeared down the hatch
And got a bout of earache
Shortly after that.
We head for home tomorrow.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
Snared heart kept, imprisoned could be potential dying day,
Lips regaled in ischaemia, blue blood,flows.....cold,
Face scarlet,temperatures up, pyrexia rules, as she tries too cool,
Mouthing strange babble,
She's talking in tongues,
Beaded mask sparkling, droplets trickle,
Tachycardic, heart beats, trying not to escape this life desperately, Heart trying not to explode!
the forties....roaring!
She breathes, so fast... the forties....roaring!
It's tragic,like everything's trying to meet demand with supply........!
Inadequately,
Currently on remand, waiting for her sentence to be be passed,
Docs and nurses they rally, running with obs,
All taking their roles, while doing their jobs,
Mews activated, doc visits he's, anxious,
Iv antibiotics he orders,
In plastic sachet, hanging up high, hereby, lies the awaited decision, if she'll have the will to live, or will she die...
Hope not!
It's not in an instant, but, recovery apparent, as breathing slows below twelve,
Heart beat, it settles,
Her kidneys show function,
Her temperature chills slowly, 36.5, she's still alive,
Thank God,
She got off the train at sepsis junction!
Copyright Livvi Kent (RGN) 11 /04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
*Place your ear onto this page -
Can you hear my heavy heart
Inadequately beating?
Fix your eyes onto my words -
Can you see my tired soul
Slowly fleeting?
Painfully,
It is fading away,
Like a ship
Heading out to sea,
The farther away
That it goes,
You see less, and less,
Of me.
Place your heart
Where mine once was,
Can you feel the extreme warmth
It always generated?
Close your eyes,
Think back, not, too, far -
Do you remember the precise moment,
That my spirit, from my body,
Separated?
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
I catalog events with a subtle, ulterior pretense
Describing the notorious infamy in all the events
And anything characterized, inspiring, and bold
Makes a story unfold in the real time it's told
I am snowblind and need defibrillation to wake up
Either my heart turned cold or has simply had enough
The ferry fan dreamboat has only so inadequately found
That as I feel my orienting response record the time down
It is not truly me who was looking around
Though I can pinpoint the exact moment that I drowned
The only lingering product of me absolutely remaining
Is the aftermath of my angina so ever restraining
Never complaining until the sound of the trigger
Then I'll be adamant to describe that noise with vigor
Though rigorous it may be, I will try, I might even with some tact
And let you in one last time presenting only fact.
I stepped away and left this place while presently in line
The sentence was one more time for the last time
And then you said goodbye
I was watching all the while a vapor on the scene
And I felt myself lose oxygen with no production in my spleen
My blood does not perfuse in that bilateral moment of blame
How can I let asystole clamp and constrict my cowed red vein?
How could I dilate the cause of my shame?
How could I love my life in the rain?
The simple reason I was experiencing tinitus...
I found out all connections were lies
Like a manufactured virus
Love was a prescription with doses written in ink
With no distinction and no response I could not think
With no recompense or recognition I felt my larynx shrink
I was only dumbfounded so I took to my reflexes
Handpicking a numb tendency to fill my recesses
But it only drains you and me and leaves a hole behind
I'm nowhere near magical so it's power cannot rewind
If so inclined I'll tap my spine and steer it all back
But I don't feel you anymore
Only this heart attack
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
I'm uncomfortable
And always tense
In observational
Desire
From my corner coffee shop
Spot.
Unnoticed,
I see simple embrace
One for which
my body aches.
My body breaks
I realize
I'm alone and
In doing so actualize my own fate.
People are aliens
Foreign and speaking a language which seems eerily
familiar but forgotten
years ago.
It seems I am not getting
better at conversing
just daily Rehearsing
The same rhetoric
Stoic lows
recycled and recited
to a new day, a new ethereal face
Inadequate Inadequacies
Inadequately Inscribed,
,described and, imbibed.
Please, oh Lord,
Let me imbibe
before subscribing
to speak to you, me, every and anyone.
Send Help!
Send Anyone!
A person
to make my lips feel
a little
less caustic.
Casual conversation
by the wayside
I want what I had
Not what I can or could have.
I don’t want love.
I’d rather have a dog to put to sleep
than no dog at all.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
A **** on a door
the hands on a clock
a button on a shirt
the handle of a mug
so common
so usual
things I took for granted
until
I had to open the door
I lost track of time
I felt inadequately clothed
and needed a warm drink
Suddenly
the mundane
turns out to be
so significant
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations
there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy
When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down
Enough!
unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,
"the night shall not disrobe you,"
that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping
surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script
and he gets that...
where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue
it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,
perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams
<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/
9/5/17 13:55pm
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
Improperly inviting
Mutually corrupt
Soulfully repulsive
Wickedly tempting
Hesitantly falling
Inadequately open
Eagerly fearful
Lovingly ready
Sitting worthlessly
Sulking desperately
Thinking hatefully
Hurting intimately
Facing reality
Clinging dreamily
Losing stability
Loving lonely
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 11:19 PM UTC
Designated *****
Tastes and wasted time
Waking up bored enough
To jump off a building
Listening to forty
Years of life and love
I share mine of nil
I've had my fill
Of nonsense for today
Iced-over managing me
Lied obscene moderating
Miniscule matters
Multiplied by how much I dread
The amplification
Arduous impotency
Marked on inadequately
Silence as the fall completes
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I was too much, you said
then find less
and I will find more
and I found more
there is abundance in her kisses
and an ampleness in the way
she says my name
see the grin that eternity carves into her flesh
as she chants each letter of my name
infinitely,
intimately
Aug 8, 2022
Aug 8, 2022 at 7:53 PM UTC
I am not a poet
Or a songstress
Or an artist.
My words do not move mountains.
My voice cannot soothe souls to sleep
And my hands have never carved
Anything out of nothing.
But my one distraction,
Who takes my placid mind
And fills it with sweet honey drops
Of color, elusive light,
Takes my words,
And my voice,
And my pastels,
And creates.
He is not an author
Or a composer
Or a Monet-Picasso-Van Gogh
But he guides
Writes
Sings
Sketches
Thoughts like rain and rainbows
Wings and White
In every corner of my teeming mind.
And I can only
Inadequately
Author
Hum
Draw
Create
Of that which is my muse.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
inadequately explained
the wounds engraved
the body that rests here, that lays
he was flushed with florescence
flowered with effervescence
resting under a grey grave
he lays immersed in the earth
a shallow grave for a heart of hearth
i can still see his orange shirt
the clouds cry out grey
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 10:01 AM UTC
you say vile words that hurt;
but you see,
its okay for me.
you say rasping words that hurt;
but you see,
its still okay for me.
you blurt out painful truths that hurt;
you drag me down out at sea
but no matter how deep it is
and how hard i try to breathe,
it will invariably be okay for me,
even when its not supposed to be.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
SEA IMAGES
This rusty little boat, anchored on the far-away shallow bank,
Neglected, but still bears marks of past bruises and secrets
Of passion, known only to some daring lovers
Long forgotten.
Today the sky is still red with summer desire,
The winds blow free and wild, careless, enticing.
Crimson flowers, half-hidden from human eyes,
Resplendent in glory, flushed with fire,
Drunk with yearning, dream of a world beyond time
Devoid of regrets, pains and sighs.
This day seems so long, while the heat waves tear
At the insatiate hearts of all, both young and old,
Who share the common anguish, the same bond of longing
For what could never be, that unfathomable-
Beyond words, experience, touch, feeling-
that magnificent unknown
Born of first love.
Is that what is inadequately
Spoken of by the poets as ecstasy?
Like the themes of an eternal symphony, the sea
Holds the keys to the heart’s depth,
Its longing, loneliness, sorrow and pain
While the last song of this summer has come to an end, sadly,
There will always be a boat somewhere with its story-
Watched by the waves, the sky, the crimson flowers
And love unfulfilled, soaked in silent misery.
After listening to Schumann and Chopin’s piano concertos-
night of 14th August 1999, Sydney
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Quiet is a comfortable path
Known well to ways
Better to feet
And most best know to this mind of mine
As I create based on what I see
Scene lived as me, try
It's not where I've been, or stand that's me, inadequately
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 6:43 PM UTC
I always hear this word,
But they use it blindly,
As they project themselves downward,
In aspiral of chaos and confusion,
Leaving nothing but a meaningful weight,
That sends them to the feet of their hosts,
Like parasites that only know how to feed,
Sadly it is not in their capacity to realize,
That no harm and disgust is reflected onto their spirit,
But they continue to rot their own soul,
Excreting an immaterial gas,
Filled with toxins and emotions,
Feelings that make the insides of your stomach tumble,
Up and down then around the bounds,
Boundaries that they could never cross,
Because they are too young, maybe,
Too ignorant, slightly, remorsefully,
Going to schools and institutions,
Just to forget to ask, yourself that is,
And blissfully believing the facts that are handed down, like a vitamin pill,
A placebo that makes you smarter as it seems,
Beneath the soft exterior of a false personality,
Not fake, but inadequately you,
Not enough to be the own individual,
Living a lie handing down whatever the time dictates,
Never asking, why, because it is easy,
It is easy to fall away,
It is easy to hand out words,
That indefinitely hold meaning,
It is just a game of chance and luck,
In a head that refuses to ask,
It is so easy to make labels,
To project the self onto another who does not know,
To another that is seemingly ignorant,
But who is well aware,
But maybe decides to not give a care,
Never ceasing to wonder, why?
They are thousands of four letter words in the hundreds of languages,
And yet they choose to represent themselves in a word that they avert their ego.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
I see fine art when I look in your eyes,
And your voice sings in perfect melody.
E’en the thought of you I romanticize,
I read fairy tales in the you I see.
Your eyes a subtle pleasing pair in rhyme,
All history’s beauty found in your smile,
Your touch beats my heart in meter and time,
Your moves transcend every poetic style.
All of the poems written about you,
Inadequately composed by myself,
Are merely shadows of art that is true.
You are the words of a poem yourself.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
Many married women in America
Those with husbands payin ALL the bills
Are they getting more out of their marriage than their husbands are getting?
Are they benefitting more?
Are these wives getting the longer end of the stick?
Are they getting more out of the marriage deal than their husbands?
I ask these questions
My answer to them is
I think yes
Being able to have a roof over one's family's head in America comes with a high dollar, a high cost and for many husbands and fathers payin ALL the bills, a lot of work
Being able to feed oneself and one's love ones comes with high dollars if living in America and for many husbands and fathers, with much sacrifice (that is, if they are indeed working hard on the job; that is, if they are indeed making an honest income)
Many wives turn the other cheek, make excuses when their husbands come to them for love, for nurturing, for acts of respect, for nutritious home cooked meals i.e. breakfast (the most important one of the day), for a beautiful appearance comparable to or better than the one they offer to those in the public space, for lots of things
You can't turn the other cheek, make excuses, not go to work and still get paid
Many wives give more time and that of quality to their careers or paid jobs (Because their husbands make enough money, ones they don't have to have) and own interests than they do to their husbands, children, and family (leaving their homes and households disordered, improperly and inadequately attended to, dysfunctional; they choose my, me over ours, we)
Many wives who are also mothers are neglectful of their children, uncaring and unmotherly to them or less caring and less motherly than they're suppose to be or than what God who gave to them their children has required of them to be
They cheat their families - slack off on being a wife and slack off on being a mother
Many wives certainly in America are getting more out of their marriage than their husbands are getting
It's the wedded truth
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 3:54 PM UTC