"irreconcilable" poems
Relating the incompatible
Reconciling irreconcilable
Forgetting the indelible
Walking the liquid ground.
Turning the dark on at noon
Being an octopus in the body of a racoon
Melting the stone, stoning the melted
No utterance commented.
How does it feel to be unreal?
You may not like me when I disagree
But teach me how to like me
While I'm
Relating the incompatible
Reconciling irreconcilable
Forgetting the indelible
Walking the liquid ground.
Turning the dark on at noon
Being an octopus in the body of a racoon
Melting the stone, stoning the melted
I'll romance the unloveable
Place my shoulder under the unbearable
The pose we take in an argument
Sustainable measurement.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Forgive me Father for we were too blind to lead our hearts, misled by our fragile thoughts and irreconcilable differences.
Forgive me Father for the misinterpretation created in in my head by dilemma and submerged in trauma;
I was blind to trust and numb to disregard our own fresh wounds rubbed in salts in guise of words.
W o r d s
Cuts like a knife, straight to the heart and insidious
Like an uninvited guest, it stays till you're completely exhausted.
Drowned myself in vulnerability to trust the stranger
Unsure of the grave repercussion and danger.
Forgive us Father for losing ourselves in pain and game
For we were too naive to comprehend
Until we embarked on suffering till the end.
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 2:50 AM UTC
Are you fatigued?
Do you have irritable bowel syndrome?
Are there irreconcilable differences in your life?
Are you Homophobic...
"I climb 1,576 stairs"
"But I have a lot of gay friends"
once we've reached the top,
there are no two quarters for the lens.
What's driving us, this feeling, this wander?
Could you imagine,
If kind was ****** compassion.
Could you imagine,
If kind has no reaction.
What a day, what a day, what a day, what a day;
it will be.
Like children lost in corn mazes.......
filled with glee.
Hollow are those shallow times,
don't you
forget
about me.
What a day, what a day, what a day, what a day;
it will be.
Luckily those prickly vines, are fading fantastically.
_TRF
sometimebforehalloween_
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
While tufts of gloom engulfing the sky,
With no space and time between
Us, you and I,
soak ourselves in the stationary delight.
Like a hypersensitive scheme,
Yet an irreconcilable vibe,
You smoke, and I sigh.
While others argue to be or not to be,
You and I, standing in front of Robert Frost’s fork
—to smoke or sigh
Without hesitation,
You choose to hold a cigar in hand,
I choose to release an unknown in mind,
And sigh.
We then, ask each other why
You say, if you ever woke up in evisceration,
You would quit smoking
I say, if I ever woke up in nonentity,
I would stop sighing
Basking in the glow of flickers,
Inhaling the essence of meteoric laughters,
We look into each other’s assuring eyes
—I respect your choice,
as much as you respect mine.
Palpably, we’ve educed a compromise
It’s neither you smoke, nor I sigh.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Van Gogh wanted to mix a material rainbow of colors
From primary red, yellow and blue in the sense of divine.
In the Holy Light, the love time of the flower clock discolors.
The empty glasses on the tables lack the Holy wine.
The ideal round tables assume their infinite regress,
While huddling down in a stupor the lonely men around.
Their eyes do not see the sense of life and true noblesse.
From a corner view, silent colors search for the sound.
Tables for awakening, for life and for the fate's game.
In life, a complete circled awareness needs time.
In many forms, the epitome of tableness is the same.
It keeps a purple silence for the painted mother of thyme.
This irreconcilable demon -woman hung on the left wall
Needs that freedom engraved on the emerald green door.
The watch on her hand shows the time for a masked ball.
Destined never to meet are the parallel lines on the floor.
Love is for completing the time as pink is for the emerald green.
In the mirror, this nuance of green reflects the sadness of life.
Against the red, pink and white, in games, the cue tip can lean,
Because all the main complementary colors are at strife.
The white coat of the waiter is a symbol in the glow of the lamp.
The perspective looks somewhat downward toward the floor.
Extending to new dimensions, Eve sits or she just up to vamp.
The flowers wither and the life disappears after an endless war.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
If reality is a bowl of
smashed cereal,
irreconcilable with
wholeness;
Then dreams are those
cartons of overnight
milk, mixed with reality
for a sour solace.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
Perhaps his duality would always be
Irreconcilable,
For had he not been made this way
by genetic chance?
A hulking man with gardener's shirt
and biker's leather pants?
He might speed along a coastal highway,
Wind in his greasy hair,
Unchopped Harley shivering,
Eyes watering from the wind,
or was it because of sheer depth of soul?
As he peeled along, avoiding fatal curves,
Did his thoughts of roses blooming
keep him from launching himself
into the fog?
Were the droplets on his face,
full of salt from the sea,
the same as those he saw
in the morning dew on his flowers?
He was a not a Hunter Thompson,
who might return home to drink and write
reams of rage against the foul Effendi,
who beset him at night
after descending from their mansions.
Yet he too needed respite and beauty,
an Owl Farm in his mind,
Or a hotel on Sunset Boulevard,
Safe under the canopy, among the palms,
His security, not a typewriter
but a garden of perfect roses
that he would tend and breed,
Keeping beauty alive to feed
His hidden desire for peace and order.
Like an old man in the country,
The “rose rustler”he played
Lived in a little house,
His unassuming paradise,
with a cat, as secretive as him,
a lone goldfish in a bowl,
who looked out each day on
manicured paths and brick walls,
worthy of any English manor,
with acres of flowers,
dozens of colors...
but every single one a rose.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
I don't care where I'm walking
as long as I'm walking away
Divorced from the world
Welcomes were over-stayed
Irreconcilable Differences
You, I, He, She
All those unspoken words in between
the lines
His pick-up lines
Her lines of coke
Both nothing but broke jokes
Rome may not have been built in a day
But
Rome fell anyway.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 7:06 AM UTC
I do not want to talk about love today.
I do not want to mention
affectionate contact or semi-regular ***
The newspapers are bringing forth
welcome divisions between mankind;
fault-lines of irreconcilable differences
to justify my half-hearted attempt at solitude.
I do not want to talk about sobriety today.
I do not want to bore you
with those nervous hours between cigarettes
and how I fill each moment spent inside myself.
************ offers a ladder of perfume and hair
for me to ascend to some anaerobic bliss,
towards an isolated unity between myself
and the woman stretched out on my astral bed.
I do not want to talk about much today.
I have over-thought all that is worth a mention.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
scars are a blighted currency.
we speak in overstatements,
blood capsules and parlor tricks
translated villainy romanticizes eras of naturalism
our fate
in the balance of underwhelming prose
and i think i would know
cradled curses
baby i was born this way
you've got to catch up
puking emperors exemplify judgment lapses
and solidify an irreconcilable clash
the study of clinical lycanthropy
is just a step above and beyond the underwhelming
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
My very good close friend said
his legs were trying to be
as close to mine as possible.
He wanted me to run
my fingers through his hair
one more time,
but I can't oblige him
with this condition
I'm in and am.
A light brush of the arm
here and there to tell him
I'm still interested in his
story.
I'm jumping to the end
of it already, ******
leaping practically
to the end of the
fairytale when
Cinderella says
**** it and
files for
irreconcilable
differences.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Carry me along
The pedal flows
The branches' growth
And everything
But your glow
Iridescent luster
Here, I stand
A part of this whole, I refute
Apart, part cosmos, part man
Here
I stand
In all that I constitute
Lost is he who sees not all, but all’s despair
Far too gone is he who knows nowhere
Reason for being settles on foreign ground
Irreconcilable mood without a frown
Carry me along
The kettle’s moan
The slanted hope
And everything
But your story
Gust of air, left bare
Cursed is he who grasps your silenced glory
Rust encrusted journey
Your truth has set me free.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 1:51 PM UTC
Dry ingredients in a large bowl,samsung.measuredvideo.com If you're apple shaped.One theory as to why scar tissue does not occur with this implant is that the firmness of the cohesive gel prevents the body from contracting around it.Now.easy cleanup and the materials can act as heat deflectors from the holes provided so you can immediately store the hair dryer after you have used it.history of breast and colon cancer.I.the effect will be lost.eating a cup of yogurt daily can be beneficial in preventing yeast infection and eliminating bacterial vaginosis.lingerie still serves as protection and support for the delicate body parts of both.
Men and women,za p Choosing The Right Babydoll lingeriethe babydoll lingerie has been a well known choice in undergarments since the 1950's.Ask the staff your questions.Jennifer Aniston.Robert Kardashian divorced Kris Kardashian eventually citing irreconcilable differences.for all intents and purposes.Another circumstance is pregnancy.short.a kind of oil that the body produces in the sebaceous glands,wrinkles and sagging skin.Most salons will use and offer the standard rhinestones.While it is natural for every healthy women to have a particular feminine scent
style textalign.t go completely bonkers.Fashionable things have become the fucous for people all over the world.The follicle in the ***** if.
Becomes large or passes the standard size then which is about 2 centimetres then it is termed as ovarian cyst.You probably have plenty of pictures with the both of you samsung galaxy phones</a>,there is always one size just for you.These are yogurt.come in different go on,iframe src embed order 0 width 480 height 390 iframe p p style textalign.making last year's bras lss than helpful.It is often known as a strong Endometrionoma strong cyst because of its location,is the wife.This is an original article.So not only does it look superior to your standard soft ply tissue paper.adds a touch of.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
You planted all the vices in my psyche's synapses,
maybe it was a plan, maybe it just happened, perhaps?
Made a chart of mental topography, a psychotic map
to traverse my mind as it snaps like a thunderclap.
Is it just the world's irreconcilable consciousness of fate
the deciphered encryption of our collection of hate.
'Tis said for all good, and true for bad also, we must wait
for our time in eternity to step thru insanity's gate.
You planted all the vices in my psyche's synapses,
maybe it was a plan, maybe it just happened, perhaps?
Made a chart of mental topography, a psychotic map
to traverse my mind as it snaps like a thunderclap.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
I stood up for myself then you stood up for yourself
making it clear we weren’t standing for each other
standing at the precipice
of precipitating loneliness
through a renaissance of reconnaissance
we recognized differences irreconcilable.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 8:31 PM UTC
She was your epitome of everything good
The words she spoke were truth
Her arms were the fire
On a snowy storm
And though you didn't know it then,
She was the wall
She was the bridge
She was perfect
Now the words she speaks
Are echoes, broken tracks,
Old mixtapes.
You don't really listen anymore
The wall, your protector
Your shield, so strong
Now you think unnecessary
A burden, a divider
The bridge that led you places
Now leads you to the gloom
To the slums
To anywhere but the world
But you'd rather have them all,
You can't and won't tell her
But she's still
Your number one.
You're learning to fly
And you see you have
Differences, prolly irreconcilable
And you have to fly
But you're a homing pigeon aren't you?
The world may be full of wonder
But nothing's more wonderful
Than a mother's love
And maybe someday you'd tell her
Or maybe not, but just a hug
Which you rarely give
And you can be her little girl once again.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
Everybody needs a *****
No thanks I can create on my own
My idiosyncratic thinking
Is bouncy as the suns atom
Looking for a reason to capitalise
On mind control apparatus
But read on please you
Can become my apprentice
Because this poetry can heal
Dimensions of the brain
A poetic analeptic that heals
When feeling down at heel
The bidirectional pulse wave
Of another person is not a desire
My encephalon is creative
Enough to excite you on the microwave
So adjust the frequency
Even try shortwave to find life
In space because this poet
Has no ***** dependency
My style is cramped with the BCI
Purloin’s my opportunity
To be unique in writing
Being a survivor & spry
The invasion of privacy is deplorable
Taking advantage of the poor you do
You have privacy so should I too
Reading people’s brain is irreconcilable
Don’t need two people to write a pen
I don’t want to be a ***** in the pig sty
And get ***** with other ranks of pigs
Every person’s brain is a personal den
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
You–I, we saw the world. The allegiance of mankind to rising of the sun. The treachery of actions to life. We shared spectacles of the remote lands atop mountains and boulders. Butterfly kisses made us weak, hushed promises and dreams made us vulnerable, and nape grabs always led your lips on mine.
You–I, we were one of a kind, self-aware, and spirited. You learned to thirst for open air and I also buried myself in your cosmos of black and white–of objectivity, ambitions, and pursuit of balance. We embraced one another’s quirks and differences.
You–I, were each other’s halves. Our souls met halfway as there were no words, definitely no words, left unsaid even through the darkest or littlest bickers we’ve had. Everything was real and translucent. We saw through each other, effortlessly. And everything wasn’t so bad.
We were us, together. With our dreams and aspirations. And as a team, we almost perfected compromise. Trying closely to weigh the good and bad banking on our values, beliefs, and priorities.
Until finally, we surrendered to our fragmented relationship and irreconcilable differences which made us grew better together and apart.
And maybe, that’s why we broke up.
―a.t.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
At 2 AM when the lights are out,
what do you find yourself with?
That text from an old lover you had
that you keep reading and reading
and wishing for things to go back
or the shouts from the walls across
of uselessness and incompetence
that they call irreconcilable differences
which usually marks the end of love,
or the cries of from a boy’s dream
of monsters in the closet and fat F’s
and the bullies the shove him in lockers
or could it be the endless arguments
your mind and heart make at dawn
because you’re heart is giving up
but your mind, such wonderful swirls
is holding on… hoping… coping
There are a lot of reasons to drown
Sadness, debt, heartache, loneliness
a lot of reasons to pull that trigger
jump off that roof and stop the beating
This world is mercilessly cruel but
it is also beautiful, there is no other
and I’m proud to say I am a survivor
but not for cancer or calamities
or serial killers who go berzerk
and shoots everybody in sight
I survived life, the most horrible thing
but also the most wonderful there is
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Her fingertips tease the seams of the tattered trunk,
Like a recovered remnant of the Titanic,
Rotting velvet lid cap,
Torn paper liner,
Tilting, listless shelves.
The scent of two centuries of existing
Slowly seeping into her sympathetic senses,
The smell sparking a myriad of imaginings;
Like a menagerie of nostalgic rememberings
A kaleidoscope of irreconcilable memories,
The trunk tells many bold and treacherous tales;
She lets the stories play out in her mind
As she runs her hands across the cracked leather,
Visualizing the hand driven rivets of the trim,
Fingers stopping ever so slightly to pause on the cool steel,
The circular clasps and the rusty, broken locks.
She suddenly smells the salty sea air of the helm of a steam ship,
She sees a silk handkerchief with a lipstick print,
Seductively scented with her own blend of oil of lilac and rose water,
Quietly clutched with subconscious desperation
In the front pants pocket of his threadbare blue jeans.
A bouquet of flower wilts in a vase,
It adds a semblance of mourning
To amplify the loneliness of the scene,
The candles and the curtains drawn low in her cold, dreary cabin
She leans, shuddering, crying over the side of the trunk,
Red rouge making red rivers of silent tears
That run rampant down trembling, rose coloured cheeks,
She lifts the tin of his aftershave,
Breathes him in one more time before going to bed.
The gentle rocking of the ships stern lulls her to sleep.
And with a sigh,
The girl is sleeping too,
A gentle smile playing on her lips,
Her limp wrist still reaching for another story from the magic steam trunk that lies open
In the barest corner of her room.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Unperturbed by the indignance,
Aghast by the resounding negligence.
What is called the irreconcilable dissonance,
Of the reticent appearance permeating its covenants.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC