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"inconsistently" poems
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky, an impish childish creation of an immature god, inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind, whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best, warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten, the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee, whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation. despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above, how! they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of “good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one, that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry by a poetoftheway scribbling… 8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
0
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
poetoftheway
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky, an impish childish creation of an immature god, inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind, whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best, warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten, the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee, whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation. despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above, how! they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of “good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one, that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry by a poetoftheway scribbling… 8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
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26
I've come to the conclusion I am two parts of a whole you may look at the glass half empty or half full sometimes it's really hard to tell but call me a Gemini , if you will behind closed doors I'm either high or low one minute I'm soaring & the next on the floor one half of me battles depression & anxiety my thoughts are scattered inconsistently my heart pounds in my chest the minute you speak my name just know I'm doing my best trying not to go insane other days I'm free gliding thru the breeze of my life energetically speaking the sun dances around me against my face, glistening but I seldom wonder the thin wall that divides me if I should ever sunder two halves of a broken heart searching for the glue that once held them part Gemini's are twins such like, good and evil an angel and a demon dancing on my shoulders dragging me farther and farther away so in the eyes of the beholder I sense the middle becoming yet much colder judgment is given on the evil side of me I'm distant , I admit it at times , fairly resistant a poor trait one must receive nothing more than a peeve alas I did not select this trait nor must I choose to accept it my slump has taken its toll I do not wish to see anything as it is but dull I may be present and alive yet inside, negatively drains my mind I pray that good outweighs the unfavorable that you may overlook how I'm unstable my bright eyes & tinted cheeks how I simply ignore my urge to be weak for in that one moment I've experienced a whole heartbeat ultimately, there is no escaping no path could lead me elsewhere away from thee no debating I am not one but two parts of a whole one day I hope I am in control Gemini the twins its me & I am them
0
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
inspiredchild_
gemini
I've come to the conclusion I am two parts of a whole you may look at the glass half empty or half full sometimes it's really hard to tell but call me a Gemini , if you will behind closed doors I'm either high or low one minute I'm soaring & the next on the floor one half of me battles depression & anxiety my thoughts are scattered inconsistently my heart pounds in my chest the minute you speak my name just know I'm doing my best trying not to go insane other days I'm free gliding thru the breeze of my life energetically speaking the sun dances around me against my face, glistening but I seldom wonder the thin wall that divides me if I should ever sunder two halves of a broken heart searching for the glue that once held them part Gemini's are twins such like, good and evil an angel and a demon dancing on my shoulders dragging me farther and farther away so in the eyes of the beholder I sense the middle becoming yet much colder judgment is given on the evil side of me I'm distant , I admit it at times , fairly resistant a poor trait one must receive nothing more than a peeve alas I did not select this trait nor must I choose to accept it my slump has taken its toll I do not wish to see anything as it is but dull I may be present and alive yet inside, negatively drains my mind I pray that good outweighs the unfavorable that you may overlook how I'm unstable my bright eyes & tinted cheeks how I simply ignore my urge to be weak for in that one moment I've experienced a whole heartbeat ultimately, there is no escaping no path could lead me elsewhere away from thee no debating I am not one but two parts of a whole one day I hope I am in control Gemini the twins its me & I am them
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62
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
0
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
faeri-shankar
Birth date.
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
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1
-‘Pit-a-patter’- Raindrops fall on the window pane before it slowly plummets, Falling into a large, brittle, glass-made bucket The water level in the bucket rises slowly but inconsistently, The bucket never overflows— instead it waits for the raindrops fervently   Your texts are inconsistent and you are slow to reply, Each word is collected inside my heart to see what you imply Our conversations and memories slowly build up inside my heart, My heart is never full— it longs for more of you to impart -‘Whoosh’- A strong gust of wind blows by and the rain stops, Objects picked up by the wind hits against the bucket nonstop Each hit leaves a mark on the bucket like a merciless, sharp dagger, The pressure builds up—the brittle glass bucket eventually shatters Uncertainties and problems start coming our way nonstop, Carrying along our insecurities and worries- we no longer talk You start to waver, telling me your feelings for me are dying, Each word pierces through my fragile heart which falls apart— I start crying The broken pieces of the glass bucket are scattered all over the street, Even within each piece, scratches are all over it- although many but discreet The damaged bucket is replete and can no longer collect the falling rain, The water it collected previously is released and spills all over the floor like paint My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces with each piece lost and forlorn, Even within each piece, scars are all over it— inconspicuous but not gone All our shared memories that I collected earnestly is tainted in a second, “Just forget everything, leave it all behind” is what you beckoned The broken pieces of my heart are impossible to mend, Your smile, your words, your presence causes my heart to rend No matter how much I try, the pieces do not fit together like it did before, Are you the glue? Should I walk towards or away from you? I don’t what to do anymore ---- 12am 1/12/21 —————— METAPHORS USED: 1. Raindrops —> Texts, Conversations 2. Water in the bucket —> Memories, shared experiences, dreams and hopes 3. Bucket —> Heart 4. Wind —> Uncertainties, problems, temptations 5. Objects carried along by the wind —> Insecurities, worries 6. Scratches —> Scars
0
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
Poems_expressions_words_truth
Broken Bucket Heart
-‘Pit-a-patter’- Raindrops fall on the window pane before it slowly plummets, Falling into a large, brittle, glass-made bucket The water level in the bucket rises slowly but inconsistently, The bucket never overflows— instead it waits for the raindrops fervently   Your texts are inconsistent and you are slow to reply, Each word is collected inside my heart to see what you imply Our conversations and memories slowly build up inside my heart, My heart is never full— it longs for more of you to impart -‘Whoosh’- A strong gust of wind blows by and the rain stops, Objects picked up by the wind hits against the bucket nonstop Each hit leaves a mark on the bucket like a merciless, sharp dagger, The pressure builds up—the brittle glass bucket eventually shatters Uncertainties and problems start coming our way nonstop, Carrying along our insecurities and worries- we no longer talk You start to waver, telling me your feelings for me are dying, Each word pierces through my fragile heart which falls apart— I start crying The broken pieces of the glass bucket are scattered all over the street, Even within each piece, scratches are all over it- although many but discreet The damaged bucket is replete and can no longer collect the falling rain, The water it collected previously is released and spills all over the floor like paint My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces with each piece lost and forlorn, Even within each piece, scars are all over it— inconspicuous but not gone All our shared memories that I collected earnestly is tainted in a second, “Just forget everything, leave it all behind” is what you beckoned The broken pieces of my heart are impossible to mend, Your smile, your words, your presence causes my heart to rend No matter how much I try, the pieces do not fit together like it did before, Are you the glue? Should I walk towards or away from you? I don’t what to do anymore ---- 12am 1/12/21 —————— METAPHORS USED: 1. Raindrops —> Texts, Conversations 2. Water in the bucket —> Memories, shared experiences, dreams and hopes 3. Bucket —> Heart 4. Wind —> Uncertainties, problems, temptations 5. Objects carried along by the wind —> Insecurities, worries 6. Scratches —> Scars
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41
They met out of mutual appreciation towards their artistic expressions, becoming slaves of free will; incarcerated within their choices. She wanted to be with him to follow his footprints, no matter, wherever; even if the journey led to Hell. His fingerprints smudged deeply upon, her soul. She said three words that left him devastated; Her lips now covered with silence. Sitting in limbo trying to make sense of it all. A moonless night conceals the reasons. She still writes about those moments; delving into those times to reveal whatever she missed about herself. Changes flowing between life and death; acuity erased by emotions. The long walk along the path of understanding. The images within her mind portray a song, fading like forgotten lyrics. She lingers upon the corner of exposed intimacy; pricking her finger on the point of fallacy. Small drops of crimson nepotism releasing clarity. The lessons smeared within the inked blots interpreted inconsistently. She forgot the meaning of her poetry; her passions defiled within the filthy knowledge. Crying for days, it was all she could do to remember.
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Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
david-w-jones
Enchantment
They met out of mutual appreciation towards their artistic expressions, becoming slaves of free will; incarcerated within their choices. She wanted to be with him to follow his footprints, no matter, wherever; even if the journey led to Hell. His fingerprints smudged deeply upon, her soul. She said three words that left him devastated; Her lips now covered with silence. Sitting in limbo trying to make sense of it all. A moonless night conceals the reasons. She still writes about those moments; delving into those times to reveal whatever she missed about herself. Changes flowing between life and death; acuity erased by emotions. The long walk along the path of understanding. The images within her mind portray a song, fading like forgotten lyrics. She lingers upon the corner of exposed intimacy; pricking her finger on the point of fallacy. Small drops of crimson nepotism releasing clarity. The lessons smeared within the inked blots interpreted inconsistently. She forgot the meaning of her poetry; her passions defiled within the filthy knowledge. Crying for days, it was all she could do to remember.
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31
<> 11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020 2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781 S.I., N.Y. **when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively, nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,** it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,   prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self, by acknowledging that I am not beholden to anyone, therefore, thereby, beholden to everyone how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me. Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly! I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo. The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place. (Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are ******** suns of no man.)
0
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
second stanza stutter prayer
<> 11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020 2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781 S.I., N.Y. **when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively, nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,** it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,   prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self, by acknowledging that I am not beholden to anyone, therefore, thereby, beholden to everyone how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me. Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly! I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo. The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place. (Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are ******** suns of no man.)
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18
Surrounded All of me contained Attire but another layer, another mask Wounds heal and bleed, heal and bleed, heal and bleed, Pain never yielding I observe, I witness only shadows and not the glistening which bore them. Except for one at a time. Time between each flash inconsistently lapses. I feel the fear overtaking this prolonged era. Fear unto darkness What remains of my own luminescence remains contained within. I will bare only when a Light pierces, blinding all I know when I finally open my eyes.
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Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
kenneth-everett-rathburn
Uncover Me
Surrounded All of me contained Attire but another layer, another mask Wounds heal and bleed, heal and bleed, heal and bleed, Pain never yielding I observe, I witness only shadows and not the glistening which bore them. Except for one at a time. Time between each flash inconsistently lapses. I feel the fear overtaking this prolonged era. Fear unto darkness What remains of my own luminescence remains contained within. I will bare only when a Light pierces, blinding all I know when I finally open my eyes.
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26
I am but a man of many faces… Experiences and places I am but one of many definitions of art, poetry… creativity if you may Inconsistently consistent sometimes… makes no sense? Just let these words play… around in your mind Until you happen to find Where I’m going with this Several compositions in April, and none through May I think Where am I going with this? These other poets and I aren’t in the same boat I like to think… sometimes I float Other times I sink Then resurface again to let these feelings pour… let them rain Down on the page Feelings of happiness, sometimes rage Sometimes love, sometimes ‘lost’ Because I’ve loved and I’ve lost But I’m content, at most With this relationship right here… my poetry and I While others will wither and die… my faithful flower blossoms And I will accept her… and her sweet call Her nectar Entices me way too easily Satisfaction to this busy bee Inconsistently consistent? Maybe… But the poetry is real And the inspiration… persistent.
0
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
nigel-obiya
Inconsistently Consistent.
I am but a man of many faces… Experiences and places I am but one of many definitions of art, poetry… creativity if you may Inconsistently consistent sometimes… makes no sense? Just let these words play… around in your mind Until you happen to find Where I’m going with this Several compositions in April, and none through May I think Where am I going with this? These other poets and I aren’t in the same boat I like to think… sometimes I float Other times I sink Then resurface again to let these feelings pour… let them rain Down on the page Feelings of happiness, sometimes rage Sometimes love, sometimes ‘lost’ Because I’ve loved and I’ve lost But I’m content, at most With this relationship right here… my poetry and I While others will wither and die… my faithful flower blossoms And I will accept her… and her sweet call Her nectar Entices me way too easily Satisfaction to this busy bee Inconsistently consistent? Maybe… But the poetry is real And the inspiration… persistent.
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28
Him - "I love her down to her very existence, I love her inconsistently, unconditionally, with flaws at seam. But it seems that her love for me was elsewhere & so was she."
0
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:15 AM UTC
BaezJo
Notes (Him)
Him - "I love her down to her very existence, I love her inconsistently, unconditionally, with flaws at seam. But it seems that her love for me was elsewhere & so was she."
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4
Our skin is ripped Torn apart by our own hands There’s too much ache Love is disgusting Fingers are ***** if they’re not yours And your fingers are transparent And I fall through them I fall into them In an unknown dark In an exotic fire Further Every night When you are absent, but you are here You pull me next to your body Inconsistently and soft The way I want it Because you are in my mind You flux through my bloodstream You ride through my neural network Without final destination and without the ticket Stowaway in my body Always
0
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
katarina-arno
Under occupation
Our skin is ripped Torn apart by our own hands There’s too much ache Love is disgusting Fingers are ***** if they’re not yours And your fingers are transparent And I fall through them I fall into them In an unknown dark In an exotic fire Further Every night When you are absent, but you are here You pull me next to your body Inconsistently and soft The way I want it Because you are in my mind You flux through my bloodstream You ride through my neural network Without final destination and without the ticket Stowaway in my body Always
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22
Your words, so pretty they enter My brain and flood it with dopamine butterflies Triggering thoughts and memories and I missyous and I love yous and I hate yous and where are yous and I want yous but I cannot Digest them anymore. I refuse them. I cannot do not believe them for more than A few seconds. Even now, I train myself to cringe. I train myself to deny. Reject. Avoid. Love, a temporary season for you to give me I am nothing more than one of the many melting ice cubes down your shirt. I am melting, Melting. I am The puddle at your feet You are knee-deep in spewing your Words are what I longed for, for so many years Had I had them then I might have swallowed them thoughtlessly. Now I am closed up. Afraid. Your words are tempting yet Your actions piercing evermore. I seem to attract people of the most intense, Most compassionate, most real, most ****** up. Most likely to be inconsistently there. Your fire breathing words melt me I am Melting Melting I am Nothing More than The puddle at your feet, it's growing now You are knee-deep in it
0
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
lyra-brown
the art of resistance
Your words, so pretty they enter My brain and flood it with dopamine butterflies Triggering thoughts and memories and I missyous and I love yous and I hate yous and where are yous and I want yous but I cannot Digest them anymore. I refuse them. I cannot do not believe them for more than A few seconds. Even now, I train myself to cringe. I train myself to deny. Reject. Avoid. Love, a temporary season for you to give me I am nothing more than one of the many melting ice cubes down your shirt. I am melting, Melting. I am The puddle at your feet You are knee-deep in spewing your Words are what I longed for, for so many years Had I had them then I might have swallowed them thoughtlessly. Now I am closed up. Afraid. Your words are tempting yet Your actions piercing evermore. I seem to attract people of the most intense, Most compassionate, most real, most ****** up. Most likely to be inconsistently there. Your fire breathing words melt me I am Melting Melting I am Nothing More than The puddle at your feet, it's growing now You are knee-deep in it
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27
i think i made you up in my sleep the way you weave in and out so inconsistently of my life with your broken promises you left me alone; a single word that can drive a man to madness alone: what drove me to madness yet, one day i didn't feel-- alone i restitched the seams in my wrists i rewound my brain and i rewired my heart some days i can almost feel and your memories bring bliss i'm no longer alone yet i haven't overcome the loneliness
0
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
jessica-saunders
to feel or not to feel, maybe there's a spectrum?
i think i made you up in my sleep the way you weave in and out so inconsistently of my life with your broken promises you left me alone; a single word that can drive a man to madness alone: what drove me to madness yet, one day i didn't feel-- alone i restitched the seams in my wrists i rewound my brain and i rewired my heart some days i can almost feel and your memories bring bliss i'm no longer alone yet i haven't overcome the loneliness
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19
It is not your fault, what happened to me. But this, This, You knowing what IS happening to me, And knowing you can stop it with almost no effort, And doing nothing, this... Is. And I forgive you. I give myself no other choice, whenever you hurt me. The only way is to forgive you, to find a way to love you even if you're Silent, Or venomous, Or cowardly. I never know if you are. I do not let myself find out. I do not know your flaws, Because I tell myself that to assume them would be the death of me, by your hand. So I unfocus my eyes and look at you only through what you show me. Perhaps you are a coward, afraid of what I am and what we've seen of one another. I wouldn't know it if you were. Or perhaps you are angry that somebody pulls emotion from you. Or perhaps you are just cruel. Or perhaps you are none of this, And I could not imagine what you are, And whatever that is Is right, And whatever I am Is wrong. That is the end I come to. That is the conclusion I reach, each time, to save you from me. To save me from hating you, and to save you from losing me, I make you Right. I do not know if you have ever been right. I refuse to know. It doesn't matter. You want to be. No... no I don't even think it's that. I think you want me to be wrong. Yes, that is it, you want me to be wrong, because I have reached some part of you that you don't enjoy. You want it desperately, to pretend nothing bad happens, to pretend that the people in your life are Easy and Simple, Unbreakable, Unbroken, Uncomplicated. You want laughter to be the only thing, But underneath we both know you are too smart not to see that without pain Joy Means nothing. But you want your way. You want me wrong, and I must want what you want If you are to keep me. And so I want to be wrong. Want to apologize. I want you to get your venom out at me, so that I may die of it and satisfy you, and have you back again. Love me, hate me, but get it done. **** me with one or the other so that I can rise again and love you. So that I can be your friend and give you what I can. It is not your fault, how I suffered before. You knew nothing of it. You couldn't have known. You couldn't have fixed it. But now you do know. You have known for a long time, what happens to me when you hate me. How it poisons me. You have seen. And so any punishment you hand me now is given without the shield of ignorance, With full knowledge and intent. You have watched me dying. You have tried to save me, Or to **** me, And found that the moment is perpetual- You can do neither. You have seen the pain, and chosen to extend it, and I Forgive You, Whatever your reason. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. There is only the forgiveness. You are a religion to me, because the only way I can stand to love you is to worship you. If I were to see you as a human being, I would be unable to imagine such Heartlessness and such Tenderness Wrapped up in one soul, given to the same person on the whim of the day. If you were not a god, you would have to be two people: One to ****** me and one to mourn me. One to wound me and one to stitch me up. One to hate me and one to love me. You have seen. You know. You know who I am, in full, even if you do not understand it, And you have claimed you want to help me. And I have asked you for what I need, And you have given it inconsistently. And I have loved you and hated you, And you have loved me and hated me. And I have forgiven you. But you have never forgiven yourself. And that is the only thing I cannot do for you.
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
mikaila
Right
It is not your fault, what happened to me. But this, This, You knowing what IS happening to me, And knowing you can stop it with almost no effort, And doing nothing, this... Is. And I forgive you. I give myself no other choice, whenever you hurt me. The only way is to forgive you, to find a way to love you even if you're Silent, Or venomous, Or cowardly. I never know if you are. I do not let myself find out. I do not know your flaws, Because I tell myself that to assume them would be the death of me, by your hand. So I unfocus my eyes and look at you only through what you show me. Perhaps you are a coward, afraid of what I am and what we've seen of one another. I wouldn't know it if you were. Or perhaps you are angry that somebody pulls emotion from you. Or perhaps you are just cruel. Or perhaps you are none of this, And I could not imagine what you are, And whatever that is Is right, And whatever I am Is wrong. That is the end I come to. That is the conclusion I reach, each time, to save you from me. To save me from hating you, and to save you from losing me, I make you Right. I do not know if you have ever been right. I refuse to know. It doesn't matter. You want to be. No... no I don't even think it's that. I think you want me to be wrong. Yes, that is it, you want me to be wrong, because I have reached some part of you that you don't enjoy. You want it desperately, to pretend nothing bad happens, to pretend that the people in your life are Easy and Simple, Unbreakable, Unbroken, Uncomplicated. You want laughter to be the only thing, But underneath we both know you are too smart not to see that without pain Joy Means nothing. But you want your way. You want me wrong, and I must want what you want If you are to keep me. And so I want to be wrong. Want to apologize. I want you to get your venom out at me, so that I may die of it and satisfy you, and have you back again. Love me, hate me, but get it done. **** me with one or the other so that I can rise again and love you. So that I can be your friend and give you what I can. It is not your fault, how I suffered before. You knew nothing of it. You couldn't have known. You couldn't have fixed it. But now you do know. You have known for a long time, what happens to me when you hate me. How it poisons me. You have seen. And so any punishment you hand me now is given without the shield of ignorance, With full knowledge and intent. You have watched me dying. You have tried to save me, Or to **** me, And found that the moment is perpetual- You can do neither. You have seen the pain, and chosen to extend it, and I Forgive You, Whatever your reason. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. There is only the forgiveness. You are a religion to me, because the only way I can stand to love you is to worship you. If I were to see you as a human being, I would be unable to imagine such Heartlessness and such Tenderness Wrapped up in one soul, given to the same person on the whim of the day. If you were not a god, you would have to be two people: One to ****** me and one to mourn me. One to wound me and one to stitch me up. One to hate me and one to love me. You have seen. You know. You know who I am, in full, even if you do not understand it, And you have claimed you want to help me. And I have asked you for what I need, And you have given it inconsistently. And I have loved you and hated you, And you have loved me and hated me. And I have forgiven you. But you have never forgiven yourself. And that is the only thing I cannot do for you.
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97
White shirts, Chicken nuggets, Kisses your brother, Writes to your mother, Reeks of stale cologne, Always misplaces his keys. Laughs like rain, Fixes his tie, Melts into your skin, Drown in his eyes, Golden as the sun, Bitter as the night. Drinks too much, Watches you cry, Ties knots in your hair, Screams like dad, Mismatches his socks, Kisses you goodnight. ***** his teeth, Rolls his eyes, Corrects my typos, Sleeps inconsistently, Drives in reverse, Cracks eggs with one hand. Writes you poems, Plays you guitar, Traces your spine, Kisses relentlessly, Unzips your soul, Keeps himself in a jar.
0
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
septemb3r
5 boys that will break your heart
White shirts, Chicken nuggets, Kisses your brother, Writes to your mother, Reeks of stale cologne, Always misplaces his keys. Laughs like rain, Fixes his tie, Melts into your skin, Drown in his eyes, Golden as the sun, Bitter as the night. Drinks too much, Watches you cry, Ties knots in your hair, Screams like dad, Mismatches his socks, Kisses you goodnight. ***** his teeth, Rolls his eyes, Corrects my typos, Sleeps inconsistently, Drives in reverse, Cracks eggs with one hand. Writes you poems, Plays you guitar, Traces your spine, Kisses relentlessly, Unzips your soul, Keeps himself in a jar.
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30
I spit catastrophes rapidly Leave you a fatality Innocent by reason of insanity Her voice will always stick with me Now my sanity deteriorates like Chernobyl It's almost like I'm immune to the sadness of funerals Our generation seems to have no need for morals My generation known for disrespecting girls Am I explicitly gifted or inconsistently wicked Feels like my souls been torn out and twisted It's got me adapting dynamically, changing my mentality Truly what is the real reality Living life with a new found belligerence Like a high off of ten different barbiturates This cypher shall be thy deliverance From a generation polluted with ignorance I'm a sadistic mystic Artistic, and pessimistic True art is about pushing limits You want the full view, only giving you snippets
0
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
samuel-adell
4x5 #2
I spit catastrophes rapidly Leave you a fatality Innocent by reason of insanity Her voice will always stick with me Now my sanity deteriorates like Chernobyl It's almost like I'm immune to the sadness of funerals Our generation seems to have no need for morals My generation known for disrespecting girls Am I explicitly gifted or inconsistently wicked Feels like my souls been torn out and twisted It's got me adapting dynamically, changing my mentality Truly what is the real reality Living life with a new found belligerence Like a high off of ten different barbiturates This cypher shall be thy deliverance From a generation polluted with ignorance I'm a sadistic mystic Artistic, and pessimistic True art is about pushing limits You want the full view, only giving you snippets
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20
My mother made me clean the shower It was today and I used cold water and rumpled curtains over one shoulder I am telling you that the water was up to my elbows and my phone, I checked it and I swear I was alone And it was winter so my toes on tile when wet, were angry and bit up my legs. My toes were somehow as thick and slimy and inconsistently out of order as my legs And I thought that was absurd; That, And how my hands were raw, cold or not.
0
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
emily-nolan
Eating
My mother made me clean the shower It was today and I used cold water and rumpled curtains over one shoulder I am telling you that the water was up to my elbows and my phone, I checked it and I swear I was alone And it was winter so my toes on tile when wet, were angry and bit up my legs. My toes were somehow as thick and slimy and inconsistently out of order as my legs And I thought that was absurd; That, And how my hands were raw, cold or not.
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11
i would have thought the universe spat in my face while getting gas after leaving your place caught up in a brief interval of violent downpour living in the shadow of shelter built for me clouds drool for several minutes afterwards i am dry beneath manmade canopies you are stretching across the sky free from conformity fondling with branches dangling loose jealousy writhes in my sturdy upbringing if it were not for my pact with the universe i would have taken this as a sign to leave how infatuated trees are with you how the sky cries for you how roots untangle themselves for you but i understand that when sun showers occur the universe is with me more than ever tangling herself with my emotions bright and weeping all at once colliding in ways that neglect to care for one another you are too fearful of things you cannot see unknown territory primarily causing you concern i drive miles for you on a daily basis in the dark but what is distance if you have the sky at your fingertips grasping for what is left of your horizon i am merely stuck admiring sunrises for the time being until the storm passes in front of me unfaltering repetition in your unsteady breath at night beauty held inconsistently in consistent chaos
0
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 9:28 PM UTC
mama_bee
chaos
i would have thought the universe spat in my face while getting gas after leaving your place caught up in a brief interval of violent downpour living in the shadow of shelter built for me clouds drool for several minutes afterwards i am dry beneath manmade canopies you are stretching across the sky free from conformity fondling with branches dangling loose jealousy writhes in my sturdy upbringing if it were not for my pact with the universe i would have taken this as a sign to leave how infatuated trees are with you how the sky cries for you how roots untangle themselves for you but i understand that when sun showers occur the universe is with me more than ever tangling herself with my emotions bright and weeping all at once colliding in ways that neglect to care for one another you are too fearful of things you cannot see unknown territory primarily causing you concern i drive miles for you on a daily basis in the dark but what is distance if you have the sky at your fingertips grasping for what is left of your horizon i am merely stuck admiring sunrises for the time being until the storm passes in front of me unfaltering repetition in your unsteady breath at night beauty held inconsistently in consistent chaos
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31
I picture us falling down a bottomless pit And we're nearing a section with a divergence in it We can hold each other as close as we want in the minutes we have left But that does not change the reality that the divider will show up And split us in two Let us imitate intimacy While we're still in each other's vicinity And though I've inconsistently felt your proximity, I know that, for now, you're here with me A day before she goes, it feels like it could snow It's so cold out A day before she goes, I find myself below Just crying out Our hearts, heavy, worn, ignorant of what to do They cling to each other and wish that the two Could once again become one And that this all would be done
0
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
anthony-james-brandy
a day before she goes
I picture us falling down a bottomless pit And we're nearing a section with a divergence in it We can hold each other as close as we want in the minutes we have left But that does not change the reality that the divider will show up And split us in two Let us imitate intimacy While we're still in each other's vicinity And though I've inconsistently felt your proximity, I know that, for now, you're here with me A day before she goes, it feels like it could snow It's so cold out A day before she goes, I find myself below Just crying out Our hearts, heavy, worn, ignorant of what to do They cling to each other and wish that the two Could once again become one And that this all would be done
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17
People are over More, I want more A handful... I still feel so empty. 20 more texts sent. Body to body we stand awkwardly talk. Pushed into corners. I'm still so distant. So empty. so far from where I'm currently standing, uttering and murmuring. Pouring in pouring out. All these faces blurring, looking the ******* same... Same small talk same story about how they are where they go to school. BlaBlaBlaBla YapYapYapYap *How does it feel to be a ******* puppet? I say. How does it feel to be nothing special? I say. How does it feel to ******* feel??* Oh, the weather? yeah, it's as inconsistently consistent as this ever so bland cup of coffee conversation. Wow Me. Make me want to turn my lights on.
0
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
june-west
The Others.
People are over More, I want more A handful... I still feel so empty. 20 more texts sent. Body to body we stand awkwardly talk. Pushed into corners. I'm still so distant. So empty. so far from where I'm currently standing, uttering and murmuring. Pouring in pouring out. All these faces blurring, looking the ******* same... Same small talk same story about how they are where they go to school. BlaBlaBlaBla YapYapYapYap *How does it feel to be a ******* puppet? I say. How does it feel to be nothing special? I say. How does it feel to ******* feel??* Oh, the weather? yeah, it's as inconsistently consistent as this ever so bland cup of coffee conversation. Wow Me. Make me want to turn my lights on.
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31
My thoughts, unable together to piece, are left drip drop dripping away no! no! Scattered? Scattered discovery inconsistently applied and forgotten, yes. They all go insane, Brothers of Icarus, driven on; please stop, too much; to ask that is. The broken heart is blind but the broken mind can't close its eye.
0
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
andrew-mcginnis
A Broken Mind
My thoughts, unable together to piece, are left drip drop dripping away no! no! Scattered? Scattered discovery inconsistently applied and forgotten, yes. They all go insane, Brothers of Icarus, driven on; please stop, too much; to ask that is. The broken heart is blind but the broken mind can't close its eye.
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8
I woke one morning and could not see My eyes were shut Then to my astonishment My sight came rushing back, surprising my hopeless life For a moment in time, after my new outlook Darkness came back And I was much afraid That it had returned, forever to bind me again This burning question Then possessed me Can those in darkness truly come to light If they still have flashes of their night? I turned this over and over Finally concluding they could For Stockholm Syndrome Is a reality Those who live in darkness For so long, are bound To be shortly plunged back, inconsistently Though they are free I then realized My fear in this troubling return Had only existed for a time so short And that I need not be afraid For this is the cunning of the darkness To make minutes, days And hours, centuries To twist the mind in an effort for control For the darkness runs in deep rivers of the heart And when light overwhelms It is not eager to relent But reluctant to loosen its grasp. (theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)
0
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
taylorstein93
Yet. (III)
I woke one morning and could not see My eyes were shut Then to my astonishment My sight came rushing back, surprising my hopeless life For a moment in time, after my new outlook Darkness came back And I was much afraid That it had returned, forever to bind me again This burning question Then possessed me Can those in darkness truly come to light If they still have flashes of their night? I turned this over and over Finally concluding they could For Stockholm Syndrome Is a reality Those who live in darkness For so long, are bound To be shortly plunged back, inconsistently Though they are free I then realized My fear in this troubling return Had only existed for a time so short And that I need not be afraid For this is the cunning of the darkness To make minutes, days And hours, centuries To twist the mind in an effort for control For the darkness runs in deep rivers of the heart And when light overwhelms It is not eager to relent But reluctant to loosen its grasp. (theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)
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33
There is, or perhaps was, always, And forever, quite invariably, Yet inconsistently, as if sporadically A thought that I once won over. Or did I get one over in a thought? The idea of greatness, un-sought Never dirtied by the eyes of those Who want only, horrifically, Most terribly, quite incomparably, My inner most A ponderous place, that I abhor Fleeing ever quicker, On feet made of lead. Perhaps just one look back? They'll never know, Until my salt-pillar body they find In later days.
0
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
isaac-sands
Onward, Backwards, Nowhere
There is, or perhaps was, always, And forever, quite invariably, Yet inconsistently, as if sporadically A thought that I once won over. Or did I get one over in a thought? The idea of greatness, un-sought Never dirtied by the eyes of those Who want only, horrifically, Most terribly, quite incomparably, My inner most A ponderous place, that I abhor Fleeing ever quicker, On feet made of lead. Perhaps just one look back? They'll never know, Until my salt-pillar body they find In later days.
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17
i am so exhausted by consistently loving you while you inconsistently "love" me
0
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
Julia-mae
-
i am so exhausted by consistently loving you while you inconsistently "love" me
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1
I yearn for the day when I will not think of you, smile, and ache. This aching creeps up out of nothing, unprovoked and unwarranted. I smile, I am released; happy for a moment, before your dormant essence stirs about to muddy my clear well of joy. I am clouded by you. Clout. You are already gone You were never really here I felt you You came and went, inconsistently with no rhyme or reason Because you didn't deeply care for me, as you must for her She has absorbed your capacity to love another I thought with time, my flames would catch and spread to you, ensnaring us both. Only I burned.
0
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
a-sad-girl
Needing to be free
I yearn for the day when I will not think of you, smile, and ache. This aching creeps up out of nothing, unprovoked and unwarranted. I smile, I am released; happy for a moment, before your dormant essence stirs about to muddy my clear well of joy. I am clouded by you. Clout. You are already gone You were never really here I felt you You came and went, inconsistently with no rhyme or reason Because you didn't deeply care for me, as you must for her She has absorbed your capacity to love another I thought with time, my flames would catch and spread to you, ensnaring us both. Only I burned.
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14
Your tide rolled in Your tide rolled out The best way to describe us, Our love, To define what happened Is to compare it to the ocean, My sanity the sand. Your love became a tide to me. Consistent in only one way, The way it never Never ceased to exist Yet inconsistently Constantly changing. Your waves cascaded over me, across my shoreline swallowing every bit of who I once was. All the while I was gasping for air. Your water filling every crack Your tide rolled in Your tide rolled out Each passing time disturbing my sand My sanity Taking away the smallest pieces Every time the tide rolled in Until finally Nothing that was once there Still existed.
0
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
BoBlue
The Tide
Your tide rolled in Your tide rolled out The best way to describe us, Our love, To define what happened Is to compare it to the ocean, My sanity the sand. Your love became a tide to me. Consistent in only one way, The way it never Never ceased to exist Yet inconsistently Constantly changing. Your waves cascaded over me, across my shoreline swallowing every bit of who I once was. All the while I was gasping for air. Your water filling every crack Your tide rolled in Your tide rolled out Each passing time disturbing my sand My sanity Taking away the smallest pieces Every time the tide rolled in Until finally Nothing that was once there Still existed.
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29