"miscalculation" poems
Paranoia
and Fear
although,
I am,
just here...
*every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation* *
* *every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation* *
* *every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation
every direction is a miscalculation* *
I
fall
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
The snow drifts were
quite high, piling up into the
northern sky, burying
towns and trees and the poor souls who
had fallen asleep on the grass
and had awoken with shivers as snowflakes
left little kisses on their eyelids.
Except that, it was never grass. There was never any grass to begin with. There was no grass
or spring
or sun
or summer
or birds.
There was only winter and snow.
And the blinding, white terrain had become both a place of desolation and
s a n c t u a r y.
The Aroura Borealis danced like a beautiful blue fire across the night sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence.
And somehow, the halls always remained.
The blue halls.
Imagine, if you will, the Colosseum cut into halves and shaped like an elbow macaroni. Drop it out in the middle of an arctic wasteland and wash it in the blue glow of the northern, night sky.
A bright yellow light poured out of the windows and onto the snow, but no one was ever inside.
Some say it's the doorway to heaven.
Others say it's the gates of hell.
And then there are the strangers. Strangers who wear their lavender, silk headscarves and avoid the rumors of such an exquisite and eclectic piece of architecture.
Others like myself.
"If there is no one inside, then where is the music coming from?" He asked me, his blue eyes shining as blue as the heavenly hues against the midnight clouds.
" The halls will hum if the wind passes through them just so."
We listened to them once more. A low and ancient hum emanated from the structure. It was an old sound that resonated within me-unnerved me.
The mysterious blue halls were not a simple door to some glorious silver city or the passageway to a fiery lake.
The halls were the most beautiful and interesting instrument the universe has even known.
"It's the harmonica of the gods!"
Perhaps one of them
dropped it.
Perhaps it was a flaw in design.
Perhaps it was meant to be silent and with one teensy miscalculation, an entire orchestra of notes were born by the wind.
Perhaps it is telling me to tell you that you should look not towards all that makes you perfect, but the imperfections because that is where true beauty rests.
And you are so beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't know it's own beauty. Like when you are sleeping, and the moon washes over your face. I like when you are sleeping, for you are so beautiful, yet so unaware.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 9:45 PM UTC
they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"
they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way
perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear
inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
I envy the cool darkness, now we're apart
And the warmth which wrapped your body:
Cocooned by your breathing,
The secret shadows and angles
Which gradually changed every hour
Like a dark sundial recording
All your limbs tiniest convolutions.
I know there was a sort of
Kabalistic synchronicity
Some algebraic function
And if only I'd studied more;
If only I'd applied myself better
I wouldn't have gotten all the equations wrong
Lost the notes, failed the exam.
I remember those once acute angles
How they fit so perfectly my body's contours
Our seams vanished together, smooth soldered
In the same molten dream; mouth to mouth
Torso upon torso, moving wave unfurled
Water of twin oceans, mingled-
Now it's only the moonlight that burns.
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
Just the other day,
someone asked me,
which day is
the other day.
One day of the other days
of the week,
I said.
Monday to Friday is
five days away,
while Friday to Monday
is just three days.
Really funny, isn't it.
Is this a mathematical error
and miscalculation or
just another maths equation.
Why is this so.
Is the algebraic algorithms wrong
or it is just configured to just fix
a mathematical problem.
Xy plus Y and you subtract
the y in Xy then multiply it by 10,
your head spined
and finally they asked you
to solve the problem.
They didn't know that
the problem of the problem
is the problem.
And they wish you a
very merry Xmas
but completely forgot that,
there's absolutely no
X in Christmas.
And someone the other day was,
trying so hard to convince me
that the symbol sign of fish inside
the book I'm reading means
Jesus and a symbol of
a dove especially the white one
represent the Holy Spirit.
Confusion within confusion
is very confusing.
What can we say.
What can we speak.
How can we justify ourselves.
If you ask me,
who will I ask.
So don't ask me because,
I really don't know the answer.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
the commander in chief
has a propensity
to use all kinds
of weaponry
his Nobel Peace Prize
is looking rather tainted
as he is a man
who so likes war pictures to be painted
he's stated he'll make a limited strike
on Syrian soil
but why would a so called man of peace
need to become embroiled
is he propping the Military Industrial Complex up
those poor arms traders who require billions
for their impoverished cups
he might yet be making a miscalculation
as to where his fires a missile
for it may be greeted
with not such a friendly smile
the Middle East is a place
where some moderation is sorely needed
there are others who have a divergent view
to the commander in chief
they may take it upon themselves
to act in a certain way
which shall lead to some
very grey days
an explosive situation
is on the horizon
and the ramifications
are too dire
to contemplate
may the commander in chief
not press to the brink
for it may mean
peace on the planet is bound to sink
he must take a level headed approach
to any military activity
as it will mean
that harmonic relations
are in a state of permanent injury
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed musing my medium
and creation complementary.
I failed in contemplation
and mistook my muse for a replenishing source of inspiration.
My fictitious claims clogged my metacarpels
with mismatched scraps of metaphysics
and mistakes written out and expounded without fault,
yet still incorrect in regards to truth.
I once wrote myself a poet.
Claiming creation was my destruction,
I failed to reminisce with blank pages
and remember our origin,
the original flawed poem posed in prose.
Words met the page before they came to mind,
ink like water,
my vessel was cracked
and I was spilt
before I recognized the filled binders stained,
before I recognized the broken seal leaking.
Emptying my head faster than I could move the pen,
I wrote myself a poet,
the lines were cramped with
messages left between,
I CLAIMED myself a poet,
and all creations were an extension of me.
My destruction was complete.
Flowing like fact,
I was held up by the people
I couldn't help to think of
with the break of every turning page.
Inspiration but desperation to
refill a tank of exhaustion
and minor miscalculation
when hesitation
became the transportation
for that dropping ink.
I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed myself a god,
destroying me to find a being
born from the pen
and suckling from a disembodied self
found at the fork of was
and have been,
some body got lost in translation,
the rest
was misplaced during the transition from wrote
to was, and back
to the road I traveled.
I wrote myself a poet,
became one
only to lose myself
to the title.
I rode my self,
a poet to an altar,
though during my final sacrifice
I faltered.
I wrote myself a poet.
I claimed myself creator.
I lost myself to show it,
skirting the opportunity
to prove myself orator,
and now I'm back to
reading between those lines
in hopes of finding
my self.
A poet.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
for Denim McLein
The car had jumped the curb at speed,
it was gray and dull and 2 foot high.
On Thursday, 12 men with guns on their thighs
took notes and talked and looked around and choked.
Tears fell from 24 eyes on Friday at the station,
for a 3 year old was mowed down in a moment
of miscalculation.
The 18:45 four-door sedan has blood
on its hands.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
A most deceiving mask
A coiled contemplation
A look of despair and woe
The grimace of pain
The coming of rain
The stubbing of a toe
My sweet love
I am ready to confess to every sin
The rumbling of the gut
The raising of the ****
The flatulence's raucous din
But lo!
This is not a measly prairie wind
That passes lazily through the tall grass
This is a grinning of the devil
A demon's carefully constructed bevel
A hell fire that rips from your ***
From what I thought was my own fault
To cause you such a look
Twas' a stalk of broccoli
A sprout of Brussels
A miscalculation by the cook
So white knuckle my dear
Hold tight for life
As your intestines come trembling out
Whatever you ate
My succulent date
Is making your **** shout
But bless the heavens
And all that is eternal
That this has come to pass
What I thought was the end
The loss of my friend
Was just a spot of gas.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
*2002
Dearest Klara,
hope you enjoy
the poems as you dream to write
one poem
happy birthday*
There are still many books as though
parliament. A miscalculation based on coordinates
in a wry scene.
Two bookshelves creating a labyrinth, enough that you
are alike. Juxtaposed to scent are many words
and the day is almost done. Ignore fragments once,
but never overdo. I can outlast moonlight’s procession
into a dark cathedral by the window.
On this side – reason; the other, hesitance.
This is no heist. This is what belongingness refutes.
What willingness bandages. The absence of sentries
made for easy rapture. You slid your hand into the dusty
fort and in between them, the paperbacks ached.
“I will do it.” and after that, cursed at the farce.
Slid into your bag – you, surrounded by the tense air
of silence. A dilettante at being a fugitive. What is it that
you stole?
Your body, elsewhere. Flailing. Failing. There are still
many marvels in the scene, but says precision is key.
Cuts as if contravention. This was as calm as painting a child
in his early years, the hue of anomaly.
Quiet in amplitudes doles out a mystified sense of completion.
I can hear an ajar mouth unwind a soft humming.
It was time to go – tomorrow when we rise with no memory,
it will be all but one and the same fault together with many others,
as if your face that day and your image now
compels me the cold of a foreign city. Riddance.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
Lest we forget
The moment we sat
The sun was down
But expectations were met.
We need not stretch so hard
Laughed and talked
As if we already knew
That we were on the same card.
First impressions count
It is the stepping stone
The one of many
Of journeys that bounce.
Assured they will last
That what I think of you now
Will only get better
In time, they will just adjust.
What lovely miscalculation
Some perfect first meetings
Deceptive they will seem
A way to digression.
Baffled to be so wrong
Chemistry was on spot
So what a shock it will be
Not listening to the same song.
Then it is a two-way street
First impressions are key
But especially when they are not
It is no reason to be stuck.
Lest we forget, it is what we build
That is the momentum of thrills
Through the course of time
For the last impression is the one that lasts.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Keep your comments to yourself
I’ll keep my bullets to the side
Through the center of President Ford’s head
Gerald Fordhead
Gerald Forehead
President Gerald Ford’s forehead
You want grey matter?
You get a miscalculation
In flashy red and blue
You heard a squeak
You know it’s me
Charlie never taught me how to surf
Charlie doesn’t even know how to surf
But then again, who does?
If I belong in the ocean
Then why do I have these hips?
Sorry, too much information
Please look the other way
And you’ll hear me
As I squeak
Squeak away
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC
This silent atrocity is beyond my resistance,
I don't share the same level of perseverance.
Mere realisation of my existence is enough,
That concern portrayed is more than qualm.
To mind this all the time I'm no fool,
I'm not the one to dream all day and drool.
I learnt life is much beyond you and bit of you,
And yet last night I dreamt so much of you.
It has crossed well beyond infatuation,
It certainly is a sensitive mind, soul institution.
I'm in exultation of this on off situation,
To prove it all wrong is heights of miscalculation.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
sumatra drips like crocodile tears in
the four-cup *** just half-emptied by nine
big and bought on faith in un-lone-li-ness
drainpipes eroding from her miscalculation
swallowed black and quickly
her white teeth uncompromised so far
her step-by-step morning still clockwork
but when she was eighteen she watched the
cream like squid ink clouds turn it
the color of his summer skin
drinking up the baby hangovers to the
last drop
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Failure
Illuminates
And plagues
Our accomplishments
"The first bullet
To **** by your head
Is the scariest,"
The general said.
"All the rest
Are just like
Old girlfriends
You might catch sight of
At the bar."
When we take our own life
Into our own hands and
Rely on the sincerity of others,
We are playing a game
More dangerous
Than Russian Roulette.
I take for granted
What I have
I dare not to see my
Many blessings
For fear of feeling
Unworthy
The walls here
Do not leak and
There are no cockroaches
Scurrying underneath
My one sheeted bed
The air I breath
Is not nuclear and
There is no
Secret Police
Pounding on my door
I am alone
To do
What I please
When I please
The only rapping
That echoes around me
Are from the hand's of
An unknown creativity
Who put
This desire
In me?
Who cursed me
To never be
Satisfied or
Free?
How long have the shackles -
Rusted and red orange in the sun -
Been strapped to my wrists and
Gripped around the bases of my ankles?
But
To abandon my irons
Would be to abandon
Myself
Leave myself
In the desert sun -
The soul begging for
Water, for food, for
Shelter from the beating flares of sunlight
Where there are questions
There are answers
Where there are answers
There is rest for some
For others
They dutifully
Choose not
To recognize
Outside my windows the
Street workers with their hammers
And their sledgehammers pound away
To the mad rhythm of this hustling city.
History has not forgotten them,
But it wants to.
History wants to forget us all.
History wants to re-write itself.
We want to write ourself to be
The divinely chosen Men of the World.
We will never be,
We will forever be human.
To reach the heavens
Would mean death.
And death
Lasts longer
Than a lifetime
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I always try to choose my words carefully
Each syllable like an incision with a scalpel
Well intentioned and good mannered
In hopes of removing the ticking time bombs placed inside you and me by those that have left us behind
But one wrong slip
One accidental miscalculation
Obliterates the progress that I have so carefully tried to create.
Could one word have changed it all?
Could one different syllable be the reason that you are still here?
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
Too mean for the Angels
Too nice for the Devils
Hovering in the land of inbetween
I can't help but see what is meant to be unseen
It's not a mistake
It's a miscalculation of human proportions
I don't want to fall into the desert late each night
I'd rather die by the heat than by the quiet.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
I believe that the world has a power
One that may be shared
Through the knowledge and possession
Of Love
It seems that only some may obtain such a power
As Love
And even fewer, the knowledge to obtain it
Loves takes the power of not one, but two hearts
The complete paramountcy over two souls
Some endeavor to find ways around such sovereignty
To the miscalculation of their true proprietorship
They do not posses this mystical innervation
They are merely yet another of the most. naive.
"I may not be smart
But I know what love is"
It is heartbreaking
Some spend their lifespan in a lie
They believe a little hard work
Will cut them some slack
We have known for centuries
Of its true existence
And in days of old
They had no media
To forge the name of love
Love corrupts
Those who are possessed
Those who forged
Are plainly destructed
They conjecture that their efforts
Will compensate for the lack of connection
A castigation is placed
A sad tale is repeated
No love exists
As such that I have
You will know
When you can argue with such a statement
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
_If looks could ****
Nothing against the animals
You would get slaughtered like sheep._
_The car and mirror are the two main things
That can display your pain.
You may feel like it's all not ENOUGH.
Geniuses make common errors
It's a miscalculation not a **** up.
It does not have to leave you dumbstruck.
You acting as if you are low on luck.
When it's all vivid and clear.
You need an answer?
It's staring back at you in the mirror_
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 1:44 AM UTC
A mistaken belief,
Of this love being true,
A miscalculation,
You loved me like I loved you,
A misapprehension,
Of the words you said to me,
A deluded fantasy,
I could be for you,
Another inconsistency,
Of all I know to be true.
~LC~
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Of all nature’s beauty
And the grace
It emits,
Miscalculation still prevails.
For what’s the essence
Of meeting love ones
Only to part and
Never to meet again ?
Knowing that
The separation outcome
Erases all joy
Of the meeting act.
But if nature
Is to be driven
In human will accordance,
We need not part
Nor meet
If parting seems inevitable
And that hidden sorrows
Should not be felt.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
I sometimes forget
that I am human.
I make mistakes
that can be undone.
I forget I am human
because I was raised
to be a robot.
Mistakes were mere
miscalculations, that
resulted in punishment.
I forget I am human
because being human
in my parent's eyes,
is nothing more
than a
miscalculation.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Beth figured she’d marry a man with a full tool box
capable of building a house anvil strong,
a man who’d plug her good and help raise
children with squares jaws,
he’d praise her Christmas fruitcake,
provide every American good thing;
she added
wrong.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
Every move calculated. Im trying to know.
My math is wrong, or a miscalculation has made another variable.
Another story, another stitch in the tapestry
I can't find the answer. Though I was wondering if I was on the right lead.
The dead end is deafening.
I can only watch as the math is slotted to run.
The production of an answer
A show, a result, of this long division, this diversion.
Angles are perfectly fitted to one another,
But the math and figures don't add up.
What puzzle have i been working with?
What pieces are missing?
Have i always seen a solution, just never attempted to test...
This hypothesis, to seek truth?
Trying the experiment, the observations are clear.
I am not to be here.
Am I the imaginary? The rational?
Can it be equal? Can it be trivial?
Im trying yet again.
How can one plus one be two when in life its three?
Where and when am i me?
Have i fallen down this power of 2 factor tree?
Or am i fractals free?
This is a set of 3.
How about this matrix?
And this issue of multiplicity, these additional matrices?
On the axis, on this graph can you tell me?
My mind is the scatter plot. The images and notes...
Are points, but no correlation.
This conclusion, this test,
I wish i could rest, and divide by Zero.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
Light dims
They doze
They have to be wide awake
The poems of life are sui generis
She wanted to bloom like a happy chrysanthemum
She didn't find happenstance
She's forgotten fascinating covetousness
Miscalculation happens
They're between Scylla and Charybdis
An infernal situation
Barbarism grows up in this so-called civilization
May 26, 2022
May 26, 2022 at 3:33 AM UTC