"miscommunicated" poems
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).
you will not win.
- m.f.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
John Scalla remembers
plain–clothed white coiffed nuns
in sunday school classes
who were the sweetest things
you’ve ever seen with a razors edge
carried proudly from an emerald isle
John Scalla spent his sundays digging
through big soft Bibles discovering
a father who loved everyone
as equally as he was thorough
a son born to wear a crown of blood
but never lost his most sacred heart
and a universal spirit’s open-armed
quiet embrace of your trembling frame
John Scalla was born to hold a communion
with something far more complex or
precise then our poor sweaty coils
wondering how bread could be body
and blood so eagerly consumed
John Scalla stole from complex pages buried
deep beneath outdated expressions
and miscommunicated messages
a simple cypher that condenses
all the rhetoric down to it’s square root
love
John Scalla locked the cypher
in that secret spot between heart
and stomach holding it close
dreaming on distant playgrounds
where it was slowly worn away
by bullies still casting long shadows
like limestone sphinxes now noseless
John Scalla’s distant playground dreaming
of a personal relationship with God are gone
because if He was there then that makes him
a single string of an infinitely intricate
vast woven narrative where he is only aware
of adjacent pieces unable to take a firm grasp
of the situation continuing to grow
John Scalla weaves narratives through
his prayers sending them nowhere
because they wouldn’t know where to go
with so many far-off stars dead and leaving
cosmic vibrations both here and everywhere
making it hard for them to escape with
their best intentions unmolested
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
We Create Our Selves.
We Are All Works of Art,
Playing With Each Other.
Identity is an Accomplishment,
a Message, To be Delivered
MisCommunicated,
Communicated, MisInterpreted,
Interpreted.
Our Actions, Our Expressions,
Are the Paints, the Music,
the Clay with which
We Bring Form to Our Selves.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
Intentions intertwined,
woven between wrinkles in beach blankets.
Underneath the glow of revolving lighthouse beams.
A taste of hops drips from your lips.
Your fingers tangled in mine.
Your mind tangled with hers.
Our tongues tangled together.
Miscommunicated body language hangs off your hands,
hugging my hips.
You, stuck between skinny dipping in the swells,
and scared of getting a little sandy.
She calls.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Dear soldier,
Though my heart is a warrior
It’s been broken one too many times
By the broken people who tried their very best to fix it
I am a lonely traveller looking for a home
A home for the leftovers
For those that were left over during the long walk for freedom
But freedom is a hard fruit to come by
Especially for those seeking salvation
A new foundation
To lay their fallen bricks anew and start over again
I’ve heard that silence is concession.
Though I guess that the other day when we kissed in silence
I must have miscommunicated my affection towards you
Maybe I will wait for you there by the riverside then?
Where the air tastes sweeter than the fruit life bears
Maybe there both of our heads will get dipped in the purest of waters;
And maybe then will we be saved
Maybe the Baptists can convince you to take off the pain you wear so well-
How it hangs so loosely on your fading shoulders.
You used to be so big and strong
But you are getting so thin now my love
I asked you to eat
But you told me that freedom was only for the forgiven
And that?
That was a hard fruit to swallow
I wrote you a letter the other day
Written in an ink so peculiar a shade of red-
The richest of reds, though only fit for a soldier such as you
I came home from the forbidden forest with a basket filled with a variety of fruits:
Love
Freedom
Happiness
And most importantly forgiveness
I offered you the entire basket for it was a basket for the hurt
One for Soldiers such as yourself
I begged you to eat because it was too painful to watch you whither
But you looked up at me with those heavy- same-tired eyes
And told me that you were leaving.
I guess the fruit I bore wasn’t ripe enough to be consumed by sinners yet.
Like a caged bird sings a song of sorrow,
I too shall sing many lamentations in your honour
I will tell the people that you were braver than most,
Even though I felt your fears when our hands touched
I will tell them that their father was a fighter
A soldier is what I will tell them
And when they ask me where you are at the dinner table
I will tell them to wait patiently by the riverside for their Father
Because I know that freedom is a hard fruit to come by
Especially for worn down souls such as yourself.
By: Lulwama Kuto Mulalu
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Robotic legs, robotic arms some how lead me to the kitchen.
Once I get there, I mean no harm until I can't tell the direction.
Between what is right and what is wrong, and miscommunicated affection.
I drink the poison back as it beckons me and I can't find the description.
Between what is pain, and what is loss, and what is simple addiction.
Oh help me father, oh help me mother. I don't believe in religion.
But tonight I'll pray that the next day doesn't have so much conviction.
Robotic legs and robotic arms made me take the knife, and robotic legs and robotic arms made me write this fiction.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
his is my conception flawed
most Patina proned
the imperfects,
they
fragment
become
at its surface
wanting
life's reasons
cracks
chaffe
of this
creation and eternal question
the layers meaningless therein
the death of sunlight
setting perfected
another day
to feed tomorrows imagination
much
displayed in each rotten liars face
covered over some past
smothering and building above
and fragrant dreams
should fuel brashness misdirected
purpose that
for all it is
be it found to be lacking
it bears the knowledge gap
famed no known muse
or compostion worthy
notedly proportional whites and
other shades, emotionless
calming,
the sediment settles
to touch the muddy surface
consideringly well intended
another day,
another to shine
less than
perfect
is
and those
that demand
a concept placed uncertain
determined and truthfully in the rught
hopefully atleast as to face
forced gazes
accusatiions
a reflection
my face
that
looks back
upon one
uwanted.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
i'll never say it out loud
but i'll write it down
i miss your car
late nights
endless fights
wanting to understand you more
ill never say it out loud
but i'll write it down
as we miscommunicated
wanting so badly to not
i'm caught
wishing i was her
ill never say it out loud
but i'll write it down
i miss time with you
it feels i've been lied to
do i trust you?
do i trust You?
ill never say it out loud
but i'll write it down
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 11:35 PM UTC