"ineptitude" poems
Here oh postmodern nihilist
the grave awaits
your death
wish:
Life
a
struggle
escape it
death
so tempting
grasp it
and take its era with you:
Keep it
away from our church's
our schools
our civics
and further culture.
Lo, the children
black as the hell they die in...
Its inordinately subjective unconsciousness;
confused emotionally with its ineptitude of reason.
Blaming its former God,
for their own doing.
Wanting to save that world upon themselves left behind from such a rejection.
Lest they live in a Christ so unjust.
As to not know all men equally,
but to judge them--in their distinction.
Creation
your natural law
emphasizes that which we do not want to come to terms with.
If only we could make us all inter-dependent biological beings of mechanization.
Chain me to genetic determinism and biochemical reactions foremost -- lest my soul affirms inequality:
Liberty exulted
by the risen Lord:
Supremacy/Autonomy
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
No. It's an impudent falsehood. Men did not
Invariably think the newer way Prosaic
mad, inelegant, or what not.
Was the first pointed arch esteemed a blot
Upon the church? Did anybody say How
modern and how ugly? They did not.
Plate-armour, or windows glazed, or verse fire-hot
With rhymes from France, or spices from Cathay,
Were these at first a horror? They were not.
If, then, our present arts, laws, houses, food
All set us hankering after yesterday,
Need this be only an archaising mood?
Why, any man whose purse has been let blood
By sharpers, when he finds all drained away
Must compare how he stands with how he stood.
If a quack doctor's breezy ineptitude
Has cost me a leg, must I forget straightway
All that I can't do now, all that I could?
So, when our guides unanimously decry
The backward glance, I think we can guess why.
5.6k
Every colour turns to grey
Every price he'll have to pay
For every little mistake
He's ever made
And though none could equal
To the pain of his latest
The loss of his love
All down to him
He drove her away
With every mistake
With every late night flit
And his latest one night stand
But it doesn't matter
Because that was a mistake
And it's guaranteed
He'll make another one tomorrow
That may equal to the loss
Of his latest love affair
As he goes back to his wife
Lost in the ineptitude
Of his mistakes
She takes another beating
For his loss.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
The solitude of when two hands meet garners thoughts of warmth and want for needs unspoken
I miss the days when simplicity was as common as the delicate exhale shared when two lips release from one a other
To gaze through sultry windows of the soul, soft yet weary with fervent witness, beckons notions of wanderlust to a place that shines brighter than any I've ever seen
I watch, bound by valor for not seeking more through presumptuous ineptitude; bewildered by the plight you've been mired by, I wince at the thought of harm coming to you
Your trust exudes a powerful purpose; wrought from the ashes of all that have claimed to impose before, I succumb to the surfeit of such a staggering meaning in that gift
I hold myself in bated breath for the day you would ever need my heart for your own, but stay guided to be here in spirit, ever more
Although my basic wishes be forlorn, in somber muse I find great purpose to be a part of this grand fate bestowed upon me
You are all I've ever sought; and through disbelief, I am remiss of all that's mired me before
If only, one day, perhaps we could be more..
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Hello again,
I think the proper way of starting this is with an apology
But it's already too late
For you are finally gone from my life
And from now on I'm gonna be honest with these emotions
I guess the saying "You never know how much something
means to you until they're gone" has struck me
And all I have left is to write before I break down
You were a sweet person, You were the one who always managed to make me laugh, even on those days where I felt like most of the world was against me, You stayed with me, talking to me until the sun comes up in the morning, sharing every little detail on those emotions your fragile heart has bottled up, but I broke that.
I've always regretted these memories, all the good times we had, all those those times we spent with each other, I always felt regretful for wasting those precious moments I spent with you, because all those happiness turns into a weapon that both engraved a deep scar in both of our hearts.
I tried to keep you within my reach for when the time comes until I can learn how to love properly, but how did that turn out, I found someone else who I feel like I'm incapable of loving properly as I still suffer from the damage I caused for the both of our hearts.
In the end I'm suffering, suffering from wishing I could hear your voice again, suffering from remembering all those moments I spent awake being with you, suffering because I ended up breaking both of our hearts due to my ineptitude of feeling love.
You were the one of the only ones who helped me, who stayed with me, who tried to help me find an escape in the darkness that lurked withing my mind.
I hope for the best that being away from me has helped you, cause even I wouldn't want to be with me too.
Sincerely,
The boy who couldn't love
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
In the reserved room built with teenage angst
sat a guitar waiting for a dear friend.
My quick fingers were tentative to touch.
I listened to the chords I brought about—
played a tangle labyrinth. I wish to quit.
Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Frustration brews like a furious storm.
I wanted to toss everything away.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that.
Too embarrassed by my ineptitude.
I loathe guitars! I cannot play them right.
That riff was supposed to be heavy metal.
Not math rock, but it’s enough to settle.
That might change if I use guitar pedals.
Cmon, keep your head high. Let it stay bright.
A friendship with my guitar has begun.
There are bounds I’m still trying not to reach.
And one day, I’ll be good enough to teach
or possess an audience at the beach.
Hey, the guitar is becoming quite fun!
**** metal. I’m a stoner rock artist.
I can play bends, solos, and vibrato.
Look, I even came up with a motto:
to thrive, start with anger in a bottle.
With my advice, you will go the farthest.
My fingers’ pink blush irritates my skin.
Still eager to play. I ignore the sore.
It doesn’t feel like a chore anymore.
This instrument? It’s mine. It led to doors.
It helped me find heaven and become kin.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:39 PM UTC
Custard Tarts
A mouthful of sweetness
yellow;
crust;
chewed slowly, savoring
and the mind goes back
along olfactory pathways
etched long ago
back to turbulent times
of teenage years
and custard tarts, with cinnamon sprinkles
your Dad brought home for Saturday lunch
after working,
trying to keep a bankrupt business afloat
plugging the holes of ineptitude
as the ship sank lower week by week.
A sliver was handed out with the coffee
devoured by all at the table
not much else to remember
except the coldness, the distant demeanor
a start contrast to the warmth of the pies
made with love at the bakers
custard tarts, now and then
sweet!
Malcolm Davidson December 18, 2013
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
I am the first to admit
I’m not God’s gift to women
It’s more like a penance when I’m involved really
And I am certainly a little rough around the edges
But there are certain things you can do
To make yourself more respectable to the fairer ***
Like: be wary of your weight and what suits
Don’t loaf onto a bus with your gut
Hanging out, wearing a stained Hawaiian t-shirt
Sweating like a hog in the midday sun.
I know ladies make allowances:
Ineptitude
Dickishness
Bravado
Rudeness
Even arrogance.
But even our fair compadres draw the line
At sheer disregard for personal hygiene.
I wonder what people think
When they go out dressed like that?
They’re either one of three things:
Very ignorant to what women want,
Femo-phobes,
Or they think they got something ******* special
No woman can resist.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC
I've never felt so cold as when you taught me how to feel-
As each stagnant second pushes
The great pulsating vibrato of life
Further and further into
Yesterday,
Until nothing is left but memories
And stale tap water in a ceramic coffee cup:
The trembling scale by which we measure happiness
That is only felt after it becomes a memory.
Who determines the expiration date
Of emotion?
Your warm pulsating skin
And the hottest month in August
Can only be felt in photo albums
And subtle murmurs only heard
Past 3am.
I never meant to get this caught up
In life-
Breathing in the bitter reality
Of fragmented testimonies
Warning me of what's to come
And fragility of time.
Selfishly I **** the marrow out of
Every fleeting moment,
Scattering the bones across the graveyard of my unrequited mind-
A self proclaimed martyr of suffering
And good intentions.
The confinement of my sordid thoughts,
Condenses reality,
Into the tangible.
Freedom is only felt
In the aftermath of an earthquake-
Crumbled barriers now bear remnants of security.
Is this how it is to feel?
The nerves in my finger tips
Are hot and trembling, as I trace the
Faded outline of something too real
To ever be strained out into the world
Of the living.
Time and time again, I remind myself
Of the ineptitude of anything
That isn't born
Within the sacred hours of
Insomnia.
A distorted image scatters across my empty mind,
Casting shadows on the times where
Nothing mattered beyond the moment.
Life breathes in and out
To the rhythm of the broken record
That we relentlessly cram
Into our vacant hearts,
As if trying to drown out the hollow drone
Of the love
Manufactured in Sunday night sitcoms and materialized on Broadway.
Simple actors, we betray our inner wishes,
And sell them in the form of words
To a greedy audience, yearning to be reassured
That they aren't the only ones who mistake pain for something
Pure.
Time and time again,
I repeat my cynical mantra
Through the motion of my feet upon the ground;
Because, history repeats himself
Until emotion can no longer tread
The freezing waters of existence,
Leaving nothing but a trace of
Something that we foolishly lament with the names of a lover,
And drape with the revealing veil of time-
Mistaken for the truth,
And worshiped at the alter of God.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
The Big Boss
My manager is a locust brain
He doesn’t know what he’s doing
My manager is a locust brain
The job is kaos when he’s in charge here
My manager is a locust brain
Production takes a dip under him
My manager is a locust brain
He got the job by kissing arses
My manager is a locust brain
The supervisor is much more skilled
My manager is a locust brain
I ignore him due to his utter ineptitude
My manager is a locust brain
Even the toilet cleaner hates him!
My manager is a locust brain
Because he can’t read or write
My manager is a locust brain
Due to his lack of experience and *****
My manager is a locust brain
Simply because he’s my manager
My manager is a locust brain
And we’re gonna set him on fire!
My manager is a locust brain
Is my manager no longer cos he’s dead!
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:27 PM UTC
I am a gorilla,
I am an ape.
And I’m trying to escape
This Golden Cage of youthful age,
I grace myself with the withering ineptitude
Of a penguin in commons.
I have the ambition of a pumpkin at Halloween,
That wants nothing more, than to be lit from the inside.
But my fiery breath is nothing more than whiskey
And cigarettes,
A lose regret of swollen knuckles,
Reminiscent of the iron age, I’m blowing off steam.
But it’s only condensed water on the inside of these windows.
Where the lights are off and there’s no one home.
Steve left me on the edge of moon rock,
A town that missed the stars of the night when they looked to sun,
So I sit playing ****
Puffed out like a swan but,
I’m all neck.
I wear a leek with pride and Yes,
I am a dragon on match days,
With claws and shrills, and right I’m sky high,
Cutting through your fluffy clouds, soft and weak.
Copper clad in pennyworth jeans I never chose.
Flaws that will be the floor for me,
Because in my town we never heard of stepladders,
We reach for the sky by climbing hills on tip toes.
Mountains we made with mole hills
My mother wont let go.
With **** so deep even spuds wont grow.
Apologies like auburgines, may be good for you
But I don’t like the taste.
So I’ll continue to squash the marrow between my knuckles,
But you can go gaga if you want to,
Because, I was born this way.
Great pun.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.
Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.
Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.
You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.
Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)
Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.
Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.
Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.
Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.
Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.
Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.
And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
I miss being filled with a sense of here and now from
the unclouded mental vision of youth before
the eclosion from adolescent reverie to
adult delusions.
Every moment thereafter
being crystallized with serene debasement of self.
With age eagerly gripping the hand of heartache,
will you worry about losing relevance?
survey says, an astounding "YES"
Frightening,
knee-knocking
shoot the stranger who walks at dusk questions arise...
How long will my mental faculties survive this torment of existence?
How long till I am the stranger blinded and in the dark?
How long till I am the fly caught in a web of ineptitude?
Forever the convalescent,
I revel in and reveal the depths of human insolence.
For, ever striving to be the emotion-less outsider,
I become buried beneath the
inherent
ephemerality
of
cerebral
acuity.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
a minority of surgeons need
to have their knives confiscated
their ineptitude with these instruments
can be clearly demonstrated
injuries from scalpel croppers
are carried for a lifetime
poor usage of a cutting tool
causes culpability every time
litigation in court is awaiting
those who can't handle a knife
they'll be tried for maiming
their patients for life
redress must be sought
in the form of compensation
by those who carry scars
out of botched up operations
we entrust our limbs and organs
to the medical fraternity
and they are obliged
to treat us with the utmost care and dignity
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Trolls may rant and trolls may rave
But they have hollow minds and little do they gain
I've not yet seen a single troll get the daily poem
Perhaps it's their ineptitude caused by stagnation of the brain
They choose a victim without conscious thought
Then attack with words of bitter bile
But then forget the Wolf bites deep
But still retains his smile
Now trolls are big and ugly
With the foulest words and breath
But, oh yes trolls remember
THE WOLVES ALL RUN IN PACKS
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
i am the ******* puddle
sired by a spilled drink-
a brackish mix of
anxiety and ineptitude.
last night looms in the morning eclipse,
regret stews a visceral broth;
vengeful, my gut reminds me
nausea is the world's truest thing.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.
There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.
Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.
Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.
Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.
Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
Under a shady Banyan tree,
i am a unicorn, my lone horn is shining,
front hooves raised, set to gallop, to help
dreams and desires to materialize...
:::::
on another day, i'm a silver-haired erudite,
amidst scrolls and volumes of tomes,
pondering on THAT, which ruffles my waters,
and defies what i've known, what i believe in;
i'm challenged, i pursue the topic.....i write,
and when pleasance rules.....verses swell...
:::::
however, when my mind is drought-driven,
and my days fail me, i become a banshee,
wailing my ineptitude...my inadequacy,
warning myself...of worst days coming...
there's nary a line, or a verse to celebrate
when exists, this poverty, in poetry......
:::::
i see a poet sailing on either one of two rivers
one always moves on...wind tiptoes on its
surface, its ripples are soldiers marching on...
the other river is snagged...flows off and on;
but, water always finds, creates new paths,
eventually, it flows....at times, it overflows...
::::::
the urge to write is water to the poet,
touching his/her toes...always reminding,
there's plenty to write, out there...in here...
you suddenly hear rain hitting roof like nails
or, the neighbor's car revving up, the smoke
and noise ruin your morning air...it irks you,
giving way to an angry 10-word....or haiku...
in poetry...bad and good days occur, whether
near, far, or under a shady Banyan tree....
Sally
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 4, 2019
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
fate befalls coarse dissonance
heartfelt plight, undoing thralls
stalwart cries beckon home
staunch hope redoubtably prevails
pithy, barren, crass, vile
Morose echoes, tinged denial
bemoaning daunting harrow
withered bridges surmise winter's defeat
water flowing effortlessly beneath
ineptitude solemnly secedes
decaying frost bereaves Sun's kiss
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
Now we're addicts looking for the hook
Starring into the sun
To be sold to a higher calling
Its the cog that drives us, defines us, binds us
The rhythm that we carelessly slap with our toes
on paved sidewalk stereotyping others
with ineptitude for rhythm.
And fingers that we caress in passing
each lip fragment truth talking deliberate dunce
pretending to be further seeking the void
To be true of the void. Truth in the void
But in fact finds nothing more
than the torn, callused tips
Lost in a nightmare daydream
weak-spell walking.
Who find themselves winded in middle journey
across open ocean plane infinite starring.
Sublime line of silver. No haze thumbed-pressed
opaque steam cloud on the horizon.
ready to land in open stretch in forever
wild stillness cured of all mental illness
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
I don't believe in God
I'm sorry
I'm not actually apologising
for the fact it's just what I've been conditioned
to say by society
Sorry?
Don't get me wrong
I was shackled as a child
to Sunday school after Chuch
and my informative
young woman years were left dead
by Girls Brigade
didn't make me less wild
Mother was Presbyterian
Father was Methodist
(You don't think I was messed up by this?)
Christened as Chuch of England
Raised as a Baptist
I think, all of the above
fall under 'Christianity'
but I'm not sure of this
So many secular emotions
under one umbrella
I'd bet, someone's gonna get wet
Then there is Islam and Hinduism
Sikhism and Judeaism
and spiritual beliefs like
Bhuddism and Druidism
How do all those different Gods compete
for our favour? To get us to lay down
as followers, to be the mat for their precious feet?
It would have to be a pretty mean feat!
I imagine them as Gladiators
fighting for the right for the masses to cheer
Winner takes all but, Losers get the non believers
What do you think the Ancient Gods
think of their petty squabbling?
The Eygyptians, the Greeks?
who simply stated humans
were to worship them religiously
and it was done, because they can
They seemed more fierce to me
sitting on Mt Olympus and coming down
occasionally, at least they had a face
What's been touted today to the human race?
I don't know enough about Religion
to make choice or want to learn
I married a Roman Catholic
that opened a whole new can of worms
An Irish Roman Catholic
Yeah, I see you nodding your heads
Suicidal, I think is the term
So I decided my children would not
be burdened by my religious ineptitude
They can choose their own beliefs
for I surely won't intrude
on their individual right to make
a decision based on their own feelings
I know I'm probably wrong, I just want
them to believe in something
Anything that makes their day better,
that helps them sleep at night
I won't choose their religion for them
I don't think that's right
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
I see my reflection in the mirror
I see others holding hands
I think I found out long ago
I’m not your average man
I’ve missed opportunities a plenty
I've had more than my fair share
Great tragedies have befallen me
And have caught me unprepared
My ineptitude to reason
Is what’s breaking in my heart
It’s left me pondering the future
That has torn my life apart
I’ve not yet recovered
My inner cupboards are all bare
My bleeding heart feels for another
Even though they're unaware
As I take steps in moving forward
Leaving my sorrows in the past
I’ll trade grey days into colored ones
While lying on the grass
I'm picking up the pieces
Where I once felt solid gold
A melting *** of memories
Some new as well some old
I cast shadows in the bright lit sun
I set my bar too high
My feet are knee deep in the sand
And I have no reason why
I conjure up some courage
From where, I’m not too sure
Maybe hidden in my reflection
Or whom it is I’m waiting for
I’ve taking steps to forge a bond
I’m bound to see this through
With the waving of my magic wand
I’m relinquished and anew
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC