"maladjusted" poems
Nerds, Geeks, Fanboys or Girls
We are more than your Sheldon
We love our worlds
Our passion is more than T-Shirt Deep.
You've seen Spider-Man?
Good for you!
I can tell you in which issue Gwen Stacey dies
I can spoil 4 future seasons of Game of Thrones
and no I didn't need a ****** show;
Walking Dead.......whatever
been doing that since 2001
Our entertainment is far from the television or movie
You buy your toy or your ticket
but don't think you know us.
We created these worlds
they are by us and for us
We are not just maladjusted brainiacs
we feel deeper and want more
You watch; we experience
We fly through the sky
on the backs of dragons
We know the regenerations of The Doctor
We don't just relate To fiction, but THROUGH fiction.
We know the Allomantic properties of pewter
You don't.....?
Wait a year, you will...
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Departure lounge. Crown of tears
probably dried upon my father’s shoulder.
One year before I touch down again.
Everyone will expect some change.
Tried to swallow consciousness on the Bangkok streets.
Too much heat. There is no familiar face –
I cannot even read the road-signs.
There is no culture shock:
I had lived with that my entire life.
Made friends with the strays
for we had a common place.
Caught in no man’s land:
a need for hunger,
some awful drive to be free.
Left Bangkok for the coast.
New faces to hear old stories.
Born new, kissed each night on the mouth,
shared a hotel room for the month;
relinquished every memory
in a flood of beer,
old tears, the reservoir
to cleanse ourselves of doubt.
Dictated each depression
to a room full of strangers
until I could frame every disgrace,
put them to bed
until I slept full and new.
Fell in love with a singer,
red hair and a voice
that climbed a ladder to heaven.
Bid farewell in a country of mourning,
wore black until I found colour again.
Descended each rung
until I found that rock bottom
was still much higher
than where I had come from.
Wrote poetry and songs
nine hours from the foundations
I had built upon.
Black-eyed and clueless,
wrong side of the classroom,
I tried to teach a foreign tongue
in a place where I knew nothing
and no one. Far from every addiction
that once anchored me in place,
I shaved my face, pressed my shirt,
made amends for every cigarette end
that once painted the frame
of all I had amounted,
all I had done.
Fell in love with a town,
a pink sunset, stretch of rice-farms
and apple trees that patterned the view
of all I could see.
Still broken, still maladjusted,
still craving those twisted words.
Take my motorbike off into the drumlins
each time that I fear the worst.
Still broken, still singing
a song I cannot sing,
yet each muffled string,
each half-worn verse
is a half-formed reason
to rehearse
the melody I gather
each fateful, live-long day,
I cry out for meaning
before it fades away.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
You took me to the Mekong River,
handing my documents over the border,
to the temple of the left-handed Buddha,
in the hope it would all make sense.
You took me to the brink of a stolen calamity,
you stayed with me in poetry; my eventual insanity.
You kept me with your golden voice,
you kept me with your wit.
You lost me with your genius;
how you discarded it.
You drove me to a calling that I could not fulfill,
just make statuettes from the ash that lines my windowsill.
Call it art, or call it a longing,
call it that animal burn for some kind of belonging.
You were a father, you called off the saints,
you cooled my tongue, my off-white yogi;
taught me these songs of pain, these songs of love
were meant to be sung by everyone.
Not the clever mind, nor the metronome heart
that keeps time with this life, that keeps pace from the start,
but for the stumbling folk, the slow off the blocks,
the maladjusted, the criminal; those who only see dark.
That this chip on my shoulder is a flute in which to sing,
that each failure I live, is a story I should bring
to the table of life, to the feast of recovery,
for every impatient soul with a hunger for discovery.
Each broken chord is a chance to sound alive,
amongst the crackle of the static, there is another side.
Another wasteland companion, another strangled voice,
that amongst all this hopelessness; we always have a choice.
To bend or to break in the shatter of our soul,
sometimes the glass must be half-empty in order to feel whole.
That some convenience pleasure is not always enough,
sometimes we must bear the burden;
sometimes we must hang tough.
Because the words will come, the sun will rise,
amongst the debris of yesterday, there is another side.
You took me to the temple and on bended knee I pray,
that I could lift a suicide, with just the words I say.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.
Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.
Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.
A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.
Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.
Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.
This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.
And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.
The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.
And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.
As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.
He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write
To forget.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Pretentious smile,
I wish I could drown myself to sleep for a while.
Silver jubilee ringing,
yet afraid of the dark.
When the night haunts and loneliness arrives,
I'd still cowered in terror, hidden under the blanket
Like a broken mirror with shattered glass,
All the gamut of emotion laid scattered with each passing memories and bygone days.
"Don't you dare to speak.
Don't you dare to rebel.
Don't you dare to resist."
Else the shame and label of Traitor would be hung on your image for decades to come.
I Spoke, I Resist, I disobeyed
Not in the eyes of God
But in the eyes of men and women who couldn't find flaws in their own life.
And finally rejoiced to embrace the black dot in the perfect delusional world of normalcy.
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
What is this hold upon me?
It constricts and stifles every thought that appears,
with a chloroform rag drenched in discontent
Mild perfectionism, if such a thing, and procrastination leave me
frequently wondering where the time went
The questions I ask myself repeatedly
never receive answers with credibility
A rhythm with no rhyme; a melody in offset time
A misty meaning behind glossy eyes
that I’ve tied together with endless lines
of verbose attempts to explain my mind
No feeling is palpable, no imagery fabricated
Only an idea of what could be,
of what I cannot grasp,
and what I cannot convey
So I’m left with this clouded mind
jostled by ambivalence
(this word ceases to elude me)
on a maladjusted playground,
teetering and tottering on the fine edge
of sanity in this bleak reality
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Everyone has *** darling,
you cannot claim that as your own,
nor your past of broken heels
and your father's broken home.
I scored blood over my wrist
and toiled, toiled, toiled
in the sun.
I stood in line for my freedom
to find that there was none.
We are all maladjusted darling,
all singing to an empty sky,
all pastured by the government
and living amongst The Lie.
You cannot claim your illness
as the dissolution of G-d,
you cannot find a kindness
if you do not spare the rod.
Everyone loves a ******* darling,
in that you are not alone,
your father with his whiskey breath,
all cancer and flesh and bone.
I scored a high in an empty field
and howled, howled, howled
at the moon.
I stood up for the years that I had crawled,
for all our happiness that came too soon.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
1
In this dark, cruel and callous world
it’s optimists ar’ always good to me -
they lend me a thousand dollars
and when I don’t return
they don’t get discouraged
they convince themselves I’ll pay up soon
“Tomorrow,” they nod sagaciously
Yeah, tomorrow
And even when they get mad and furious
all I have to do is to offer them half a glass
2
To ‘em optimists
I’m full of gratitude
cos when I ‘s a kid
and skinned their cats
and stole their lawn mowers
and silverware
and put them up for sale in the same
street
they stood agape and said:
“This kid, one day he’ll be a great entrepreneur”
3
I love optimists
cos even though my parents cursed
“We never really wanted you”;
and my wife confesses every other night:
*“I married you for all the stolen money
and will dump you
and claim half of every dollar and property”;*
and my kids keep pestering me:
*“When will you die?
Have you written your will?”* -
optimists tell me:
*“The universe loves you;
reach out, and the universe reaches out to you”*
Hey, you get more love from strangers
than from family
4
And of course
let me not forget Destiny’s plan
for optimists in my life
cos even after the fourth ******
for which I was found guilty
(never mind the six undiscovered)
the optimists in the legal system and
Friends of the Maladjusted
got me out in seven-a-weeks, with the hope:
*” This time, surely, he will change
for the better”*
Ah, what’ll I do without ‘em optimists? -
bless ‘em all, and keep ‘em alive
for I’m planning my next killing
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
diamonds and navy strung together by a row of brass buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
tumbling through the footnotes of books i pretend to have read-
searching for applicable knowledge and definitions that at least begin to pay you homage.
blissful in the sun beams and sullen in sudden rain-storms...
though,
you glow,
regardless of the natural disaster trailing in the wake of jet-streams out your window.
you translate the smoke signals trailing from the tails of our cigarettes,
and the morse-code transcriptions of my off-beat heart.
such a beautiful transistor of the divine gift of speech.
such a handsome mystic.
make me magic-
paint me natural...
leave me stranded in your starlight.
a tidal metronome to my unsteady pulse,
composing arrhythmia's barefoot in the night.
tap-dance with me in the graves we're digging deeper with every passing instant.
in comparison,
this could be penned a bad decision,
but those seem to be the only kind that the creatively maladjusted are ever capable of making.
perhaps we're cliche...
but the only person i care to find in a crowd is you,
and you stick out like the sore arm of a spiraling universe.
pearls and coal grey strung together by a row of silver buttons trailing up your chest;
your flesh is the night sky,
and i...
have always been a clumsy astronomer.
let me study your pulse through a fogging telescopes lens.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
in the words of
a reverend and a King
human salvation
lies in the hands
of the creatively
maladjusted
defamiliarize the chaos
an absent-minded apparatus
addling brain cells
checks and balances
proliferate a status quo
of enmity and aggression that
propagates oppression and
dismantles genuine political
expression for those outside
the whitewashed coffin
recognize the enemy
in our own eyes as we
eradicate the apathy that
leeches liberty and
fabricates freedom
reformist rhetoric is
too little too late
revolutions are cyclical
and ultimately infantile
so fan the flames of rebellion
destruction precedes creation
raise hell and raze the system
of enmity that pits
7.4 billion
brothers and sisters
against each other
anarchy is order
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
The aching way my back will bend in
The unwanted gratitude
From bones maladjusted
Somewhere they could say im on
My way to victory
Behind every moment suffered
lives a note
A gift
with no other purpose
simple and fickle
With wounds on the hilt
Everyday they say
tommorow will begin anew
with little evidence
of any empathy
the blooming day
a slander on proportions of aptitude
gives no meaning to these endless meanderings
the timeless thoughts of generations
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
Home is a funny word.
Home is the napkin
That you use to wipe the salt from your hands.
It is found on dime-a-dozen
Christmas cards and TV meals.
It is paraded by the letting agents;
Founded by stay-at-home adults,
Who will do anything,
Anything.
To break the monotonous tug of home.
Home is where you mind your manners
And comb your hair.
You plaster your flesh and bone
With a bracing tolerance
To hold fast against the moronic company,
All with no nicotine in the bloodstream.
Home is the shrapnel of memory
That has been so scattered in your mind,
And home is the filing system
That finally puts order to it all.
It is a mug of tea
Poured in your favourite mug
But not to your favourite taste.
Home can be the well-adjusted face
To the most maladjusted of bodies.
The gritted teeth,
The clamour of attention,
The lack of comprehension,
‘You don’t understand’
No you, you need to understand.
This might not be home anymore.
Until I am gone.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
wearing your brand-loyalty like a politcal campaign t-shirt
cute
you almost seem proud to be so very confused
walking to the beat of the same **** pop-song that every ******* radio station's been blaring for months
designer cup of sludge in hand
and the billboards tell you that you might be pretty
maybe
some day
if you drop thirty-five pounds and buy an over priced bottle of this seasons heavily-scented false sense of "belonging"
that outghtta do it
tuck
lift
plump
fake it
cash in your mail-in rebates for another hunk of junk with a heavy price tag
determined solely by how badly sad saps like you
will want what the magazines say that others have
how sad
you lost sight of yourself years ago
somewhere in the housewares section of the Elmhurst Target
you drifted off near the alarm clocks
whilst day-dreaming about wall-paper schemes
and zebra wood cupboards
and an apron that would match your sunday dress
you got it mixed up
worth isn't measured by cost
beauty isn't measured in inches
and wealth most certainly isn't measurd by a bank statement
but scoff
and laugh me off
like i'm some kind of eccentric fool
rendered maladjusted after years
of steady
concious
thought
leave me to squelch in the riches
of my own cosmic existence
penniless
and proud as a king
leave me to find the mountain's top
and ocean's floor
and black-top's end
leave it me
to be me
i'll go ahead and leave it to you
to be them
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
In a day, it’s all a waste of the allotted time
A mostly broken door incites a sudden need to weep
Functional but an eyesore nonetheless
Indicative of this and that, those yet to come
Unchangeable weighs, maladjusted they seem to say
Copyright © 2011
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 11:34 PM UTC
Slashing, dashing,
The blade through my arm.
Bleeding, bleeding,
I don't know why it works like a charm.
I wouldn't be surprised,
If they'd be disgusted;
They'd want myself revised,
But I'm not just maladjusted.
Wear that mask again,
That mask that hid your pain with fakes;
And try to clean the blood-red stain;
And keep doing so until your sanity breaks.
I guess that words keep me intact,
Even just to reality, I hope.
Though, with my demons, I made a pact;
It's no use; I can't seem to mope.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
There's a place
deep within my soul
i fear its forgotten
become very cold
it's where doubt lives
and breaths are structured
mechanized devices
half created
maladjusted
to reap the rewards
of this great despot
the truth must be bold
the suns heat adjusted
don't live in the heart
and let the brain become
congested
open your lungs
deep breaths make you disgusted
the world as we know it
has become something else
were very far behind
from when we were tested
we humans were put here
to protect this delicate planet
to live our lives
not create such havoc
"its our nature to destroy."
says the man to the boy
its each generation that learns from the last
i fear they have forgotten how to look in the past
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
I felt the heat of the thing.
Dragon breath,
Silk skin stirring
Slurring snakelike. flowing
mouth muscles maneuvering me like a map.
meaty fleshy heavy
strongly, musky, dewy bodied, dense demanding maladjusted dragon
of-a-thing.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
The greatest writers in the world
Use the language of simplicity.
I strive to be a beautiful writer
And to pepper the page
With every colour on my pallet.
However like a photograph in grey scale
The most beautiful writings
Come in the most simplistic of forms.
Only once you get through the spew and bravado
Do you begin to find the reasons people turn to words;
For solace.
For companionship.
For honesty.
For memories
And for the confessions of another maladjusted soul.
I still hide sheepishly behind my words
And twist them into a maze
In which I can hide my true intentions
And the reasons why I ***** these blank pages
Every time I find myself alone.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
A poet doesn't lie,
a poet omits
the suppressed thoughts and sensations
she will never forget
The painful memories she hopes to create,
The ill-tempered words
tied to strings of hate that
L o o p--
a reoccurring
pattern of
maladjusted
thinking
A sense of dread churns in your gut,
writhing behind your chest cavity,
invading your consciousness,
shutting it down
Perspiration begins,
and the rattling in your bones
Nausea sets in,
reeling your blood
It's happening again,
this you know,
but time will not tell
when this attack will go
Your throat constricts
while time afflicts
everything you've kept inside--
the emotions you've kept alive
when you should have set them free
captives of your debauchery
they've transformed into something ugly,
the wretch of scorn and self-pity
and have unleashed their vengeance
for smothering them with poisons
depriving them of breath,
and of their destiny
They're doing unto you,
what you did unto them,
killing you tediously,
disrupting your mind with
irrational fear
and depleting the dopamine
transmitted through your system
to plague you with indifference
towards reality
The symptoms it carries
manipulate your thought-process,
restarting the l o o p--
a reoccurring
pattern of
maladjusted
thinking
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
What callow and dead words have you written?
Your sword is but a nub; a shadow of the weight it once held.
Deftly attuned to the foray of maladjusted thoughts
That seeks an ending but can stop at nothing
At one time, feelings were sharp and new and uncontaminated
Yet further on it is shaved down
An inner core as black as the raven’s eye
And when the nub has lost its reason to yield
Will it be retained for posterity?
Like the memories of the freshly dead
Your written words will decay into oblivion
Until a new soul is shaved sharp
Forever willing and ready and equivocal
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
Do not weep
for your
imperfections.
Like love
they make you
human.
They are
the facets
that allow
you to shine.
Keep them
polished.
Send your light
into the world;
it already has
enough darkness.
Consider yourself
creatively
maladjusted,
not broken.
Become an eagle
or a flamingo.
Soar into
the night sky
seeking love
and knowledge.
Who knows
where you may
land.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
When you can feel your temperature change a degree, it's strange
When you are sure calories have just converted into energy and climbed atop a great cell divide,
When you fraction yourself merely just to survive
When who you were turns blue right in front of you and you don't do all that you could do to revive
When you feel like feeling isn't fair,
When you think knowing too much is as certainty a disability
When you are so far out of touch you're self reflecting
When you are so tired of hearing it you close your ears to spite your sound ability to listen
When you have said all that is in your head,
Maladjusted as is everyone you once trusted
When you fall to the ground because your heart aches, and not a soul is around
When you begin to realize to really realize
Decipher the real from the lies aka the truth apart its guise
It is so crippling ..
You immediately begin to paralyze
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Instructions unclear
Uncommon is not a word I often choose
Over zealous usage has left it maladjusted
I feel too frustrated and abused
Fear the fearful and ****** the transmute
In terms not so blatant
Put it on the back burner
Pack it up and go home
For a moment
Calculate the risk in ******
Before you know you'll be encroached
You're killing it
And yourself as well
Although I'm not convinced you see it
I know your will is right, heart straight as an arrow
But strung up on the wrong bow
And swiftly you'll be deadly
buried in the things you used to know
People die and turn to snow
To bury you alive
And leave you feeling cold
It might hurt to take a knife
I know
Your back is riddled
As it goes
But hold on tight
I see the rope
Is burning bright
But flames drive back
The dreary nights
And warming up, going up in flames
Avoid
Blowing up, reaching out in vain
Endless as the days
Ticking clocks all look the same
Hear them spelling out your name
Is this the way it stays?
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
Boring modern trials of tomorrow
For my sake look at your sorrows
Do they reflect the pure struggle?
Of past men getting lynched, hanged,
Do you feel them? And their trouble?
What is it today that makes you true?
Does it often come across as the colour blue?
Or is it them who hold you back
They who collect and use the phone to attack?
Are your trials related to love?
Do they mimic, resemble the lack of a hug?
The reasons you are so troubled are fixed and forgotten
and not terribly difficult to end that which they blatantly soften
A release from their warm embrace that holds you oh so tight
Given up on that satin, silk laden with frosted delight
Is it just me or've we all come maladjusted
Complacently numb, given in to the "trusted?"
I will hold dearly to what I am made of
Not accepting the gifts that wave in front of us
To what makes me is so more important
Than what makes me resemble "true"
For I am wide awake.
Are you?
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:46 AM UTC