"miscalculate" poems
Opposites attract.
An object with a negative charge will attract an object with a positive charge–
Until they touch.
This collision transfers electrons from one object to the other–
Distributing appropriately.
The objects are now equally charged–
And repel each other.
Was that our problem?
We became too close? Collided too hard?
Does this explain why our spark fizzled out?
Why this attraction became repulsion?
Did my desire for intimacy lead to our demise?
Did I miscalculate the consequences of our contact?
Was our embrace the end?
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
I shed everything but
the pencil skirt and stockings.
I suffocate and sundry and
drift into my boy's case of
suede leather, where he
trusts me to miscalculate
his competence and its
Saturday, the morning,
and he says, I love you
in the morning, Sarah.
There's stroke and nip,
at every turn of the trail
an adoration for what
he calls my soul, and
he asks for the routine
obliteration. A violence
always whispered.
I'm velvet everything.
Velvet tongued.
Velvet pussy'd.
Each portal and contour
a soft place for him to
land, to dispose of his
fear of death,
but what am I supposed to
do with it, the fear of death?
But this is my burden
with the light skipping
through the blinds. Simpler
times, there were, I think.
And a last name he means
to hang on me, always soon
and very soon. Dishes in the sink.
Eternal moonbeams and sun rays.
This is it, I'm afraid.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Please, don’t count on apologies
when you miscalculate all my tears
Jul 3, 2021
Jul 3, 2021 at 6:48 AM UTC
To the man who digs graves,
do not do it in the light of day
unless you want your secrets revealed.
To the man who digs graves,
do not miscalculate the placement
unless you want someone to find out.
To the man who digs graves,
do not turn the tables on me
unless all will know of your misdeeds.
To the man who digs graves,
do not tape your victims mouths shut
unless you know they are dead.
To the man who digs craves
do not run
unless you what the police to find you.
To the men who digs graves,
do not leave evidence
unless you want to start digging your grave.
To the man who digs graves,
do not heed my warnings,
unless it's too late.
Now, start digging.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
In what mind does perfection exist?
In the mind that thinks it knows the answers?
Or in the mind that always searches and never becomes stagnant?
In whose thoughts must I structure my words?
In my own or perhaps I should buy the mold from you
So that my mind can become like jello
If these are the words you are looking for
It doesn’t take effort only the feeling of rejection
But it is what I see in your ink blots
Unsavory words flung about in madness
Miscalculate, unworthy, and even insincere
You don’t want the truth, you want your truth
So here are my words flung up in the air
No real thought, and no effort
Let’s see where they land
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
From peaceful silence,
I'm watching you,
Your scattered black hair,
Your childish white eyes
Noticed my gaze,
You get filled by silly thoughts,
To start a havoc,
To ***** this phase
I'd rather you sit still
And guess how I feel,
Although doomed to miscalculate,
Not just mate,
But to be real
Don't separate your lips,
In attempt to make a sound,
I try my best,
For my thoughts to be loud
Keep your treasures,
Make them secrets,
Until you are assured,
That you'd like me as your guest
Stay silent,
Don't just "maybe",
Save yourself for me,
And be a lady
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 4:56 AM UTC
i can feel you fading away
with every moment that passes
i miss you
the way you looked over at me with intent,
the way you caressed my hand softly,
the way you smiled at me when
you thought i didn’t notice
did i miscalculate everything?
did i over-analyze every word you were saying?
i can feel you getting further
your absence is becoming more evident
i don’t want to say goodbye
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
more insulting as a presence,
it is all feeling,
the offensive defendant,
moving towards something,
perpetuated with intention,
miscalculate inertia,
the unfortunate ricochet,
the inner eye once turned.
she still sees nothing inside,
only I remain,
but it's still lonely.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
At times we miscalculate the moves,
We acquit at our peril,
With the irresistible vocals,
And beats louder than words,
Why we dance at our insults,
We are painted in black,
With crooked and spotted legs,
Yet, our desire is to glow,
Why we trusted our painters,
They dressed us in long white dresses,
Well, Mr Tailor knows about the front slit,
We dozzed in our drinks,
With olives for grapes,
In the serene choral,
Whose refrain was,
'Move, we stepping on you'
It's our minds that killed us,
We lived in the trust of their smiles,
And in their cold fragranced hugs.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 1:21 AM UTC
I miscalculate my fortunes and searching in pain
Find my lovely and ask her for another change
She says “no”, to my requested exchange
Baffled, I make myself clearer but she still refrains
I pull out crisp bills and push them in range
She shakes her head but doesn’t explain
Yet we’ve done this before, it’s simple and plain
Traded currencies without concern or complain
Her thoughts are riding some otherworldly train
Finally her lips depart and she exclaims
That I must leave her station without a backward glance
So I walk from her in a dazed, dull, trance
Then a friend lets it slip by happenchance
That I confused the words change for chance
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC