"miscalculated" poems
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
for vicki who loves this poem for the best reason ever: just does...
<•>
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.
If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough
love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution
love has both constants and variable factors
so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings
you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?
one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving
when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation
perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory
and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated
this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance that is the only concert
the imbalance that is the the only constant
how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know, recall of these matters?
I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner;
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give
but that's not fair!
silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred thousand poem times
you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less
a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move off
begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked.
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
---
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
well...
she didn't want me...
because i didn't
want to do **** with her...
and because i cooked
better than her;
or as one homosexual said:
**** *** isn't really the norm
in homosexuality,
most **** *** takes place
between heterosexual couples;
maybe i just don't feel
like talking about curtains
and napkins growing
old in front of a television screen?
i think it's called companionship,
without the authority brigade to
get alimony and other stipends
for a degree designating milking-it...
as might require a woman shackling
a partner with a few witnesses,
like priest, lawyer... psychiatrist;
god they're scared... they don't even
fear murdering you,
and when they try to, they just
bellow out: 'my brother is dead!
my brother is dead!' no, he's alive,
he should have been dead 8 years ago,
but you miscalculated;
they're just scared of something
that doesn't resemble a cage,
as every housewife might tell you:
a duck in a cage kept for petting
rather than sloth for quickened
fattening and eating will
make the one eating it loose the plot...
the duck will just pretend to be stupid.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Know that feeling when you see the most sexiest man alive...
Without a shirt on?
You feel all goey inside and warm
There's something wet down there
You wonder what is.
Did you ***
Spill water?
Perhaps you miscalculated when you were due for the month?
Honey it's none of those.
It's what my friends and I like to call the female *****
A...
wait for it...
Tidal...TIdal...TIDal...TIDAl...TIDAL...WAVE
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
i'm not sure what to do with all the distance
it's been months that have felt like years
i can remember when you came into my life in the winter
and I can remember when you left in the summer
arrival and departure
the distinct difference between the two
i'm only at the thin line of division
the way my emotions don't add up
like miscalculated algebra
all to your advantage
i kept your love letter
the letter where you plagiarized a novel
because i wasn't good enough for your own words
that was my only closure
i wanted desperately to burn the stuffed bears from the carnival
i could only part with one
when i hold it close to me
i feel like how a child would
expecting prizes only in fabric and cotton stuffing
not words of affirmation or love
i almost drove by your house
but i knew i would only go mad thinking
of who has been touching your new furniture that i helped pick out
leaving their fingerprints in place of mine
i miss my t-shirts that you still have
i hope when and if you wear them
you can feel me close
my heart beating where yours is
sometimes i feel like i miss you enough for you to show up
as if my pain could teleport
the craving of a complete closure
one where i don't need liquor or a lighter
others bring up your name
as if i'm not in the process of misplacing the letters
or dismissing the syllables
i've been trying to forget your face
your face of sharp bones
flaring nostrils
and nostalgic lips
i've been trying to imagine if that night would have never happened
when that veteran couldn't take himself anymore
he chose you to be his last interaction
it was all in hints
he was screaming for help without making a sound
how were we supposed to know
i still wonder where that blue jay is that he buried behind the building
i just couldn't bare to see it
now i wish i made a map
X marks the spot where our love died
i remember when you had to bury your own blue jay
you never saw it coming
you took the wrong step and it was under your foot
just like he said his bluejay was
fidgeting and fighting for life
i'd like to think it was a sign from him
to let you know it's possible to move on and forward
so you did
you moved on to scabbed skin and worn-out lungs
i moved on to scholarly headaches and false pretenses
back then i could never fathom my days without you
now i find it difficult to recall how we were
it feels like our romance was a dream
because it only felt real when i was asleep
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
When wisps of dandelions lay still in the blanket of your hair,
and your eyes can no longer say I love you,
without your lips moving.
I know my world has ended.
We stood on the porch
with the wind chimes blowing songs through my ears.
There's still something there through this Armageddon. I recollect the curve of your smile or the shape of your face
in every single pool of water I come across.
Your eyes had a haunting quality about them,
as they look through my hollowed out frame,
and see what wars I've fought.
It was your time darling,
your time I bought.
I know,
my world is ending.
The skin of strangers bone's looks dimmer,
and your heart looks darker.
When it's revealed in the quiet of our room.
That distorted haziness your voice gets when you're tired, is there all the time.
I can never help but wonder what I did wrong.
Asteroids come hurling towards me
at a thousand miles an hour,
The world is ending.
Just as predicted.
Where are you now?
Clairvoyant and always knew just what to do.
What happens now that I've been left behind.
What happens now that I can't pick up the pieces?
Your promises never looked more beautiful,
than when you couldn't keep them.
Lies never seemed more eloquent
than when you couldn't stop telling them.
Your face it haunts me.
Your words they weaken me.
Your hours we devoted to one another- cut through me.
I'm not afraid anymore,
to do this alone.
Let the flames engulf me,
let my skin hang loosely from the bone.
Let me drown.
Let me fade.
Let me waste away.
Let me be reborn.
Let me live again.
Let me find a way back to earth.
Let my soul go on.
There was a time I thought of adoration
when mention of you,
but it's now replaced with bitter resentment.
In the miscalculated performance,
you couldn't be faithful.
And now I see-
dandelions are just weeds.
And now I see-
I see everything.
The honesty your spirit lacked,
the lies you spoke from cracked lips.
And the venemous kisses you placed upon my skin,
I was poisoned- to think I saw everything from your perception
and ignored my own crumbling world.
Now, we are nothing.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
.
*”If you are to love,
love freely and unburdened
by the tombstones
of past miscalculated regrets.”*
But the heart
inadvertently beats
to the mismatched rhythms
of a hundred
caged doves’ wings.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.
If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough
love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution
love has both constants and variable factors
so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings
you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?
one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving
when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation
perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory
and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated
this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant
how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of these matters?
I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give
but that's not fair!
silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times
you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less
a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off
and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
I have no ear for disaster
I just master
The art of self destruction
fire-building construction
Production of serotonin
A lacking pain, moanin'
A silence because I can't find the words
fly-away blood like birds
In my bath
Miscalculated math
Who said to climb this steeple?
Made out of a pile of people
On my cracked plate
Oh, you came to save me?
Well, it's far too late.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
I have never believed in the principles of physics because they do not apply to girls like me. Girls who disobey Newton's straight-mouthed rules with scarlet leaps of blind faith, girls with hopes soaring past our pastel heavens, never weighed down by any mystical force of gravity measured by dead men. The audacity of the physicist's rotten rules anchoring themselves into thick velvet skin-- as if to stifle the daydreams that keep twirling unpredictably even if acted upon by an unbalanced force. There is no way to silence my momentum, I will keep blooming-- slender hands outstretched toward the flickering sun, past all of the white numerical lies and formulaic cages that ache to confine me. What a perfect contradiction, that a soft-spoken girl can rise at the break of Einstein's miscalculated morning, illuminating the sky with the poetry of her defiance.
She, who loves gracefully without friction. She, whose bones cannot be broken by the laws of heat. She, who keeps herself warm when the cold mathematical wrath of their graves fails to keep her quiet.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.
If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough
love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution
love has both constants and variable factors
so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings
you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?
one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving
when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation
perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory
and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated
this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,
when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant
how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of this matters?
I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give
but that's not fair!
silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times
you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less
a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off
and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
She left me with nothing but math.
Bedroom walls miscalculated
to the color of a bruised plum.
Sheets tangled into
isolated geometries.
Even the nightgown
hung on the closet hook—
its three buttons, opaline,
an insoluble equation.
And the moonlight,
subtracting itself across the floor,
proves distance by degrees:
light slanting
in the hallway,
the acute angles
of an open door.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
A tree whose roots lie deep within the earth
stabbed into the stone foundation of faith
a place of shadow - obscured and often miscalculated
whose leaves seek sunlight
and the warmth of glory
as they unfurl
from the trunk rooted in the past
from shadow to lightgrows the tree
especially when it catches fire
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
These treads of death, trends of aerial creatures.
'Twas a drama queen miscalculated affair.
She thought to herself, she wouldn't make it
To her planet.
Her eyes twitched. Her smile frowned.
She ditched her stilettos inside a hole
Floating on her bourbon, not drunk,
She hadn't seen the sun.
'Twas an alien Joan of Arc impersonating
a gymnast trying to drown
within purple clouds.
These lives of velvet, made so sweet.
I'm 'bout to pull out my rotten teeth,
And feed the devil, underneath me.
His skin so white
It glowed beyond your regular -
Transparent ice blue.
It made her shiver
Beyond his coat,
Faux-fur – smelt of blood,
So disgustingly dark.
He was my devil, made from snow – so pure.
He melted at my feet,
I hadn't shed a tear.
My white devil's inside me.
He found his way.
He is wrapped around my Intestines
So hard. He's left his cigarette
butts,
on my liver.
But it didn't hurt,
To burn
Like they said it would.
I loved my devil, made from snow.
These brown angels, stealing his lines.
These brown angels, how could they.
These brown angels, sold their wings.
For three ugly wigs.
He told me once, beaming in the dark
With several fish lying around dying: "Angels
Will never be brown."
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:02 AM UTC
Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?
Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten
with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction
and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,
1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?
**** you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
whose life and love deserves to be held in my palm?
the trail i leave behind stains of you and mine
the heart is not a fragile glass,
it is a miscalculated bomb
alongside us,
the stars kiss the reservoir
inaudible thoughts
you press on the clutch
and gears start shifting
i am
the great white moon
you see
his wet wavy reflection
when something grips and takes you over
a fleeting thought of remembering
a post-season bird misplaced and depressing
one word they said that triggers your next
whatever it may be,
look at me
look at this place
look how hard i am trying
for sense to someday make
inevitably you are lost,
like a flower in the snow
but my darling, can't you see?
don't you know?
love is ticking
love is finding
and deactivating
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.
She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers
enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down
and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time
she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;
it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.
She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat
them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs
on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me
as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would
scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,
but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had
miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.
Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;
she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window
and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking
pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.
Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.
They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him
before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes
to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t
reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off
his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches
merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
insanity, begin;
PLAY
foam born (A) of the ocean
the backtrack (B)
to the origin of human emotion
before hue and saturation
my life may be black and white
but for the next hour
- quite frankly -
I don’t give a **** because
I am a spaceman looking down on you
no, literally
I am
[above]
you
the decade of statues into which I was born
begged to be forgotten
left behind
communication with my own kind
redundant
boring
meaningless
humanity, mother earth
nothing worth living for
no one worth dying for
because of the
informal gluttony
a sickening acceptance
of the inherent claustrophobia of the human condition
I’m floating
floating
floating
further away from you
from any possible natural surrounding
or human connection
[claiming to be part of humanity always secretly disgusted me]
everything is beautiful from up high
I am a spaceman, a future butterfly.
wait.
something isn’t right
I’m further away
more detached
than I intended to be
further away
the safety of my orbit overlooking you
deconstructing in front of my own eyes
now floating towards the sun of nothing
perhaps I
miscalculated my own superiority
I am the one floating towards eternity
after all
to an inescapable fate
while you are back home
with your (our) own kind
perhaps unhappy
but not alone
I am.
watch me pass by
one last time
I feel my soul breaking apart
my eyes glaze over and
sha/t/te/r
atmosphere
burning
mistaken for a shower of stars
an acceptable way to leave the third
dimension I suppose
perhaps you will see me as the ants of the sky
scattering
glowing
burning
as I find the sun
hello?
am I still alive?
are you still there?
perhaps all I’ve said
and lived
was nothing more than a prequel to the sequel
life before death?
or the other way around?
I am no longer confined by four dimensions
even time is irrelevant
everything is different
everything is right
bleeding viridian
feeling the sensation of nothingness
seeing the sempiternity of the galaxy
hearing translucent shades of the endless chasm
that now surrounds me
falling
fallin
g
falli
ng
fal
l
i
n
g
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
into the depths
until I land upon a new horizon
I am a spaceman
I am discovering everything
I found death
surrounded by white walls
the greatest journey
of our [lives?]
happens only six feet down
surrounded by white walls
this is what we have when we die.
this is what is left of us.
white walls.
White Walls.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
I am left with this impression of deception,
stamped upon my own misconception.
I miscalculated when I walked out the door,
how many nails from my coffin were sticking out of the floor.
I tripped on them as I made my way across the porch,
and then had to run from your pitchfork and torch.
I see it now when I look in the mirror,
this monster looking back couldn't be any clearer.
But even Frankenstein was just scared and alone,
so let thee without sin cast the first stone.
Right now "sorry" is too loaded a word,
to be even slightly properly heard.
I don't need forgiveness I just want some slack.
I want to stitch up the knife wound I left in your back,
but it sure does make sense that you don't trust me with sutures.
I only hope you can again in the future.
I never did mean to turn into a liar,
or set my own pair of pants on fire,
but no matter how hard I want to put it out
there is no water during a drought.
I walked across bridges in these same burning pants.
Of course they collapsed, they stood no chance.
I've exiled myself to an island of fire,
and as I look around I think...I deserve to die here.
Betraying your trust hurts worse to me
than a burn of the worst degree.
I just wish I knew what to do to fix it,
but this isn't something I can patch up with a tool kit.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
a toast,
a toast to every moment of clarity forgotten,
to every splendid line i put off writing down
until i could conjure it no longer,
to every sentence i should have spoken
and every silence i should have kept,
a toast to every deception i miscalculated,
to every promise broken, every bond neglected,
to every question i failed in formulating,
to every time when i should have wept
and every time when i should have refrained from weeping;
a toast, a toast to every embarrassment, every disgrace,
every regret,
to every time my hand should have been extended
and to every hand i stubbornly refused to accept,
and the rest, too, a toast to all the rest.
what else is there to do on nights like these
if not to get drunk
on memories,
the stronger the better? every spectacle
of microcosmic tragicomedy,
that makes up the vortex of my life,
is sublime before these disordered senses,
before it's revealed to be
pathetic and melancholy in the morning's lucid, lurid light.
a toast, then, that the night last the longest
and the next day pass by quickly enough.
a toast to every moment of clarity forgotten,
to every splendid line i put off writing down
until i could conjure it no longer,
to every sentence i should have spoken
and every silence i should have kept.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
if you can promise me privacy,
then i can lend you all of me.
i could be the miscalculated rain,
intended for the sea-
but destined to be
splattered on a window,
exploded like the galaxy.
did i paint the pretty picture
in a way that you can only see?
pull me in, pull me close-
and strip me of my sensory.
if this is it, let's make the most-
and shred up old philosophies.
while i still have cancer-less *******
let's look past the human fallacy.
while my heart throbs with unrest,
come divide me with your symmetry.
while i still produce a shadow,
while blood still floods the wound,
while we still have tomorrow,
paint the words to me in truth
am i bound to live my life with a craned neck?
stiff from that which i no longer possess?
scared of the sunrise, starving for the sunset?
i'll never know the presence of now
unless you teach me to forget.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
covid -19
a killer unseen, without uttering a threat
it has the world pulling at every nerve, it has them down on their knees.
It has people creating songs about going crazy in quarantine
While Trump is really going crazy,
he cant throw money at it
for someone like him, this is unseen,
now his true colours shows
his fake, while the world bleeds
he is still trying to save his stake.
he has ample, yet he still pulls at every last cent.
If you cant see this, he must have stolen your eyes
he keeps it with all his supporters minds,
it's in his refridgerator, he keeps it on ice.
locked in a safe
now they all mindless, so they play by his rules
yet he control the outcome of dice.
he dont care about the human race
you can clearly see it on his unsympathetic face.
Why dint he react in haste,
maybe his just slow?
He is worth 8 billoin dollers, i really dont think thats the case
he cares more about the economy,and losing face
he knows if the US economy drops
at the table in the whitehouse, he has to set china a plate.
give them the morning paper run their bath
and under his breath, he would have to quietly hate.
He would rather let the world burn,
They miscalculated this whole situation
they thought they were unleashing an attack
they forgot to disable the homing pigeon
it did a 180, knocked at their door, politely disclaimed Hi , I'm back.
Talking about money he has to track, that they paid to create this monster
is it just me or has the whole world been smoking crack.
we glossed over that, i get it
He can even in song confess, our hands will still be tied
money is power, an intoxicating lust
the jury has already been bought, the justice system unjust.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
So I keep asking myself why I keep trying to fight these battles
I know I have already lost,
And never looking forward enough to recognize the cost.
When this had been a train with no stops to let myself recover,
And I was constantly leaving my imprint in the thoughts of all the others.
I was trying to heal without letting it cross my mind,
Of the time I was touched and the choice wasn't mine.
I kept building all my relationships on vanity and lust
When I realized there wasn't anyone left I could trust.
Maybe I needed to grow up a little,
Gain some self respect back,
Stop smoking cigarettes and drinking six packs.
Maybe it was my fault and I miscalculated my moves,
And I was a pawn in chess and he was a black shadow in the corner of the room.
I wish I could've told someone earlier,
Rebuild the barriers that were crossed,
I just keep asking myself why I keep trying to fight these battles
I know I have already lost.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
She wore legs of velvet lined with skin of silk. And as her legs churned like the sea, her eyes began to glisten with memories of the past. The past was laying right before her, gazing deeply back at her, threatening to penetrate her iris and on into her brain. That was the last thing she wanted, for him to be in sync with her thoughts and heartbeat. So much so that it was only by the pure twist of fate that she lay here with him on this night. Tonight was supposed to be free, supposed to be without worry or fear, she did not plan on meeting him tonight. And yet, though she carefully planned and negated any sort of interaction with him, fate had its way in leading them together. She wasn't supposed to have missed the train, she wasn't supposed to have had to walk to the corner store and buy an umbrella. Yes, if she had not missed that steaming, insignificant train, she would have not had to wait in the rain. And if she had not walked into that stupid, tiny corner store for an umbrella, she would have never bumped into Angie. And by the grace of God, if she had not met Angie at that corner store, she would have not been talked into catching a few drinks with her. How could Angie have known? And if it wasn't for that naive, miscalculated decision to step inside the bar, she would have never seen him. If only she could turn back the hands of time and leave the house a few minutes sooner, she would not be laying right next to him, trying so hard at not falling in love with him again. And yet, there he was, laying right next to her, stroking her forehead as he slowly kissed the trail of his fingers. Behind her smile and closed eyes, a war raged. A fight between head and heart, a fight to the death, a fight that had been raging for years. And as her breath deepened as he kissed down her chest, she decided that for tonight, heart would win.
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
said a few things
that i shouldn't have said
made a few choices
that i definitely regret
a casual mistake
with all the stakes
everything on the line
just not the right place
or the right frame of mind
a point in time
gone bad
or just miscalculated
the landing didn't stick
the take off was faulty
we started too hard
all those words were shoddy
comin out the ***
love came too fast
and left too quick
i got pain in my heart
that just won't quit
so now i'm sitting here
already quit the bottle
stopped smoking ****
cuz it wasn't making it less harder
but why even bother
who even cares
about this man in the room
who ran out of prayers
and cried all the tears
that could ever be cried
to drown a thousand people
i'm buried alive
and i can't even breathe air
i wish she'd be here
or someone
to take it all away
i need to be saved
jesus, where u at?
i feel like a slave
and all i see is rain
cloudy day after cloudy day
in my world of pain
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC