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Eilis Ni Eidhin Sep 2014
Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
Go **** yourself.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
I don't follow.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
You can't generalize like that.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
All conflict in the world cannot be attributed to a single root.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
That requires the assumption that, basically, all human values are the same.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
That is very naive of you.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
That is because communication and language are the only means of expression and different words acquire very different meanings not only from culture to culture but even profession to profession.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
That's why the government is investing in that new fibre internet.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
Well of course, all human values are essentially the same.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
It's actually a lack of technological progression that restricts us from contacting aliens.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
Religious conflict is far more complicated than that.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
Go to Hell.

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
Yes

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
No

Did you know the root of all conflict in the world is miscommunication?
What do you mean?
April Hapner Jul 2013
i am up too late w/o reason
a date in mind, i'll find the season...
to jump and sit back, relax.
as the waves of the day relapse,
the winds behind the drive,
to see a smile in innocence,
to repeat later in a over done line
of repetition, recognition, rephrase,
words recycled, garbled, rambled,
all in miscommunication
crying to help, choking down a shot of hope
but this is a end of a rope
severely torn and frayed
at the beginning or at the end
i cannot remember if a day or night
there is always more than enough light.
the engine in my jeep just went, and where we were-- to get a signal is the equivalent of hunting for a bar of service. Good Luck!
Licking lips and tasting purple fingertips,
we paused to sensually share from each.
You,with your mulberries of juicy richness,
and I with naive blueberries without guile.
Cyril Blythe Nov 2012
Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”
Attempts to read between the  lines
Can be painful and it’s true
That one must first ensure
What they interpret
Is what is meant by you

The next time you get your feelings hurt
By what you thought you read
Make sure you read the lines themselves
And understand what is said

So many misunderstandings
And arguments that ensue
Are caused by not understanding
What is said to you

Listen closely truth is silent
Let the silence speak to you
But remember to listen carefully
To what is being said too
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
Noah Martin May 2016
I'm not sure what they said
what is done really messes with my head
Communicating with butterflies always ends with them in your stomach
then we age and wonder why we're aneamic

just say yes or no
there is no pain in rejecting a question
there is only pain in a lack of communication
as messing with the senses creates an awful sensation
so just stop ******* around
and say what you mean

Anxiety, depression, migraines, mysteria
they never make much sense
now i know this isn't in your criteria
but just be honest
be blunt
it will end all pain
I may be ambitious
you may be delicious
but miscommunication is disatrious
T Nov 2011
Now blinded by the world that let us see
there is confusion in our bodies as we breathe
The other day
When I said that your face reminds me of a rhinoceros
I wasn't saying that you look like a bulky box
Or that your skin looks grey
I was really trying to say that
You make me feel like there are a hundred
5 ton mammals stampeding across my heart
And sometimes when I look at you
I can't even breathe
Because all the weight of wanting this
Crushes my lungs til my chest burns like an African desert
Consequently most rhinos are found in Africa
And I researched all of this in the hopes that
Maybe you would understand

You see the thing is I am not good with emotions
And I know as much about love as I know about quantum physics
And I don't even know what quantum physics is about
Or what it means for that matter

I've been trying to read all the romance novels that I could find
I've been trying to watch all the rom-coms I can torrent
Hell I even watched Valentine's Day thrice
But I still don't know what to do when I'm with you

I am unsure and clumsy and petrified
So much so that I can't even work up the courage
To hold your hand
I'm trying, I really am
It's just so **** difficult
When falling in love feels more like
Jumping out of a helicopter
A hundred thousand feet up
Without a parachute on

One day I will be able
To directly say what I really mean
Without metaphors involving animals
That only I understand
But for now let me just say
Your face reminds me of a rhinoceros
An old piece for the new year
Tatiana Dec 2023
Split seams on the dress of my daydreams.
No needle or thread in sight.
Where is the seamstress who'll fix this?
Why is she never here on time?
Lost on my way down the aisle.
Commit to a man I don't know anymore.
You don't get to sweep this under my veil.
You claim love but won't let me go.
I asked that you didn't tear my dress,
since it was my only protection from
the elements.
You agreed with me
but then snipped at the seams
when you said "Just trust me."
Was it all for your own pleasure?
To play with my own nerves.
You bought me a drink and played a sad song.
Then apologized for the miscommunication.

There was no miscommunication.
*Tatiana

I've been gone a minute. Got into a relationship, experienced the absolute most stuff someone can experience in a relationship. Will probably write more about it all while I try to process the whole thing.
This was the 1st thing I wrote when we broke up the 1st time. I should've stayed broken up with him. It would've saved me a whole lot of pain.
5tar Jan 2011
When
I
told you
that I did
not want you, what I
meant to say was that I need you
Maybe, people think i like to talk a lot,
but there's no real consequence in what i say;
if you listen very carefully,
you can hear the silence in my words.
You may realise that the nothingness you hear
is really what i am trying to convey.

I am very unlikely what you have percieved me to be,
i'm not a contradiction, or a justification,
i'm not an ephiphany, or your solace.
I rarely make sense to you, but i know i understand myself
i'm not too good at getting across what i want to say,
sometimes i understand i'm not built that way.

I am not attention seeking but demanding,
I am not confusing just misunderstood,
I am not what you think i am likely to be.
Happiness is only a thought away
a determination is what is needed per day
don't try to understand me, when you can't speak me.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
As easy as
accidentally
falling off
a log into
a vat
of ****.

As a poet,
you might
drown.

Watch
your step!
   - mce
Cass Apr 2013
oh dear, oh dear
i knew that you don't really know me
which was just how i wanted it
but it really does seem
that you
don't know me
at
all
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Eighteen misses and three survivors
Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love
Two warring sisters and too many brothers
Numbers don’t always make the lives of another
Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs
Gone are the days of each of those
Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled
Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication
Ghosts of the past
Harried, busy, and distant
Buy back the time
Patience, hope, and acceptance
Crowding the cast
Three lives play out creating six more
One life still here caught in time
One life locked in with ghosts of the past

cc062611
Sjr1000 Aug 2018
Friendships that go the distance
Make all the difference
Through lines of continuity
Lasting a lifetime.

Acquaintances come and go
They don't really know
Same team
Same office
Same school
All friendly and warm
But when you part ways
You'll never see them again.

Or there is the reminder
everyone is a hero in their own melodrama,
hurt feelings
falling outs
blocked
miscommunication
blame

Let's let'em pass

Friendships that go the distance
Seen you throughout, inside out
ugly and beautiful
Know all the idiosyncrasies
Know what to give for your birthday
Know what your all about
Willing to work it out

Friendships which go the distance
Are friends with benefits
Unconditional accepance.

Acceptance connecting
Both ways.

We can surely say,
It makes it all worthwhile
When you have friendships going the distance.
For my dearest David on his birthday, the friendship which is going the distance.
Birdie Apr 2013
maybe if we laced our fingers together and made wings out of our mistakes,
we could fly off together forgetting where we came from

or maybe
if we spoke even
allowing our words to curl around our naive bodies
of uncertainty and happiness
we could go somewhere.

or maybe if time allowed us
we could understand an ounce of how far our souls reached into the universe
eternally

or maybe if we both were ready
or maybe if i was ready
and you tried on more time
(you didn't have to stop after fifty)

or maybe
there's a reason we didn't work out
maybe
it was never a maybe
but a clear
defined
nahhhhhh.
WS Warner Feb 2012
Miscommunication
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.

Mere seconds
of scrutiny
inferior,
I am shown.
Her appraisal
eviscerating
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.

Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
currency
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
incendiary,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of
nothingness.

Bruised in
abasement,
I'm not the one -  
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.

The allure of
the illusion,
transference,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.

The escape into
fraudulent
sadness,
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.  
Should
I not mourn for
the one I'm
deferring?

Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
sequestered,
in my pain,
self-imposed
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
renewal,
mystery and destiny
providentially,
I am free.
My brain speaks in a whisper:
"You should be angry;
He should be afraid."

My lips speak just loud enough to hear:
"I don't love him;
He never loved me."

My heart beats thunderously in my chest:
"He is the best thing that's ever happened to you;
How could you ever forget?"
I'm going insane~
Beebz The Queen Sep 2016
I've said it in different ways
and a million different times
but no matter how I tell you
you can't believe my crimes

I'm a criminal among criminals
a murderer in the midst of thieves
a liar surrounded by players
but I've got nothing up my sleeves

I have laid it all out for you
piece by piece by piece
my misconceptions; false truths
but still you don't believe

I'm a criminal among criminals
we live each day a lie
for when it comes to tell the truth
we all would rather die
dj Mar 2014
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:

overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.

[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything

[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.

[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Colm May 2019
No more multitude of messages
Wasted words poured down a cavernous collapsing career of communication
Instead, crashing doors will be all in ears
Reverberating, on the day I leave this place for you
I much HATE miscommunications.
Chrissy Jan 2019
You said I love you in a language I couldn’t understand
Jordan Alexander Sep 2010
I want to be a good person
for you.
I want you to look at me
how I look at you
without feeling the pain.
When we finish a conversation
I want you to smile at me
and say
“We must do this again sometime”
And I want to do it again.
I want to leave and show up again
and hug you every time.
I want to look into your eyes
and not blink.
I think I love you.
True, it is possible you are
like all the rest, and that I will
forget you and move on.
It is possible, that I am just
going through the motion of loving you.
I don’t think so though.
I think you are special.
I think that when you smile,
G-d remembers why He loves the human race.
You are the most beautiful girl
I have ever seen,
You always will be.
If only this love was
without pain.
If only you could stay,
or maybe I could go with you.
I think we would be good together.
I think you make me
truly happy, and that I
can cheer you up too.
I want to spend a day
with you.
And talk.
About anything. Everything.
You are beautiful inside and out.
It kills me when you walk by.
I know you don’t look at me
like that. It’s okay though.
It’s just, well, I think
if you thought about it
you could see us together too.
You inspire me,
but you are unavailable to me,
So that inspiration only goes so far.
And not far enough.
I love you.
It hurts me.
I even met your family
and I think they’re great.
Why are you leaving?
I can’t believe this.
My parents like you too.
I know they would.
How can’t they. You’re perfect.
I’m trying to imagine
meeting someone I’d
be with, but I can’t.
Because of you.
Because of your kindness.
Your long lovely hair.
Your unimaginable smile.
Your wit and mind.
Your laugh and your humor.
It’s all beautiful.
Everything about you makes
me hurt when I don’t
tell you “I love you”.
But I know my place.
And that’s weird.
It’s not the time or place,
or maybe even the person,
but our friendship is good
and I wouldn’t trade it for
the world. Perhaps I
will tell you some day.
Perhaps.
You are so wondrous.
I apologize that my vocabulary
is small, and I can not
do justice to you.
Perhaps I will write a song,
maybe I can tell you like that.
But words come too fast
and have too much possibility
for miscommunication and error.
I love you.
So much.
I’m out of place.
That’s why I won’t say it.
So I’ll keep it on this paper.
If only things were different.
I swear it bugs the hell out of me
that things can’t be different.
I knew a pretty girl, and I still know her. I hope to know her in the future.
There will always be strangers
They just walk into your life
You don't know for better or worse
Through the days you smile or cry
There will be many types of relationship
Aquintances, Friends or even life partners
There are times when you face hardships
Where there are certain miscommunication
Which would certainly rise the tension
And would lead to certain decisions
Sometimes your heart will surely tore
Watching people go right out the door
This is something we have to face every single day
amber Aug 2016
I'm seeing you around again
But this time, not as it seems
Now i can see you walking down the streets
Of my imaginative and delusional dreams

In my dreams, you would hold me
Like you always said you would
Way before i pulled away and
Said all of these words neither of us understood
Taylor Rehsif Jan 2014
I’ve never found charm in speaking
words that you don’t mean
or falling over sentences
struggling with broken speech
the same way that I have never found home
in the body I call mine
that internal war I fight
between my heart and between my mind.

The world will never understand
why I tremble in daily conversation
I cause confusion in my thoughts
skipping over words in trepidation
But miscommunication then turns to judgement
without a second glance
and your lack of hesitation destroys me
tracing it’s steps into my one woman war

Well isn’t that just like your fears,
setting you up for failure?
Olivia Ventura Aug 2019
A tragedy of conversation
Can bring a tremendous friendship  
To an untimely holt
P E Kaplan Feb 2014
They meet once again,
One teary, one leery, both weary,
Daughter, mother, cut from the same cloth.

They meet once again,
Sense one another's desire to be,
Forgiven, understood, loved.

They meet once again,
To talk, to listen, to avoid,
Mistaken, misunderstood, miscommunication.

They meet once again,
Shuttered down, boarded up, fear within resides,
Mother, daughter, cut from the same cloth.
Lydia Samantha Nov 2011
For as long as I can remember
My daddy doesn't cry.
Ridiculous, I know,
But I never saw a tear leave his eyes.
When his son got sent away,
My daddy didn't cry.
When he lost his job
Again and Again and Again
My daddy didn't cry.
When his brother died
My daddy didn't cry.
When we found out my siblings had autism
My daddy didn't cry.
When his sister in law died,
My daddy didn't cry.
When his mom died 26 hours later,
My daddy didn't cry.
But when my father realized that he was slowing losing me
When I had failed to tell him how much I loved him
He sat in the car
Tears shining in his eyes
And he begged me
He begged me to give him a second chance.
And as a single tear streamed down his face
I couldn't help but tear up myself
At the thought of all the miscommunication
All the fights and all the misunderstandings
For the first time in forever
I actually felt loved by father,
That first time
I saw my daddy cry.
Steve Jong Un Apr 2015
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:

overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.

[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything

[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.

[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
No copy pasterino pls
Twinkle Jul 2014
Each day when I think of the way you hurt me
when my heart wrenches in pain.
I think of what I did to deserve this
When u know that there was no other way.

I don’t know why u can hold my heart ransom
Crush it with unkind gesture of yours
When I loved you so truly and madly and
didn’t think even once of the loss

U see it is I who stand to loose from what you’ve done
Cause for me there can be no one
not after what you have done
The doors of my heart have closed forever
Never will these open again for anyone.

For you this was just an attempt to see if your charm worked
For me this was a soul shaker, the one that changed me forever.

I resisted every attempt of yours
For your eyes scorched me day and night
Still I bore down your charm
and stood my ground alright.

Our chemistry was in the air you see
We could never hide it from prying eyes
Any blind man could have told
they way we looked into each others eyes.

I fought and resisted you for long
And thought I was strong
Till that fateful day when
I decided I would have it my way

But fate would wish another way
For the day I decide to part
That was the very day I lost my heart.

Your fun and jokes and childish pranks
Your endless teasing had me in splits
You knew very well that
it was beginning to grow in you as well.
A strange feeling of falling head over heels.

We were one and we did not need those words
Until you started expecting me to cross my limits
Limits I had set long ago, and you knew
I would never never cross them for anyone.

What did you want me to say, say that I love you
I already did it a million times
Didn’t my eyes say it all.
You knew you felt it too.
But now, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.

I am done with the deciphering
I am done with your cold ways
I am done with your pushing me around
I am never going to stay that way

For all that could have been done is done and over
My Lord, my energy’s drained and u have run me over.

I wept and cried and wondered why I deserved this fate.
You see miscommunication is to blame that closed the gate

For I cannot reconcile the same heart that rent sweet words
were tossing me out cold and dry.

I could not let u go for you were the sweetest thing my eyes beheld,
and I did love u truly, but you’ll never understand.

Its over now..what a mess!
The only prayer that escapes my lips

May our paths never cross again!
For I cannot afford loose my heart again.
Broken miscommunication,
building on our frustrations,
with the strangers that we live with.

Fabrics of our families fraying,
our history, we love erasing,
anything to break the natural bond.

We don't want to be alone,
but we don't want to share the world,
so instead we live in darkness.

I live for the people I meet,
my neighbors aren't strangers to me,
why close the blinds when you can let in the light?

The world we know lives in the dark,
hoping to avoid that benevolent spark,
that's why I'm here holding the torch.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Hunter Taylor Feb 2019
please excuse my miscommunication
I didn't need it growing up
all I needed was the consistent dedication
to escape from where I was

please look past my fragile heart
it grew in place of the stone
I don't care about my emotionless art
by to lose the few hits solid bone

reprieve the foundation I can never find
stability was never my forté
I seek instead for a solid state of mind
or at least that's what I claim

forgive me for my transgressions
they were not meant in vain
I don't live up well to expectations
I only thinly mask their blame
Anna Jun 2015
his lips made scars bleed
fingertips traced over the
pocket knife, the razor blade.
his blue eyes clouded my heart
and it sunk into the graves
of silenced words and emotions.
his tears wrapped around my lungs
and stole the comforting lie
from my tongue.
I wanted to run. to join
substance with the chair
or drift away with the air
just so he couldn't look
at me anymore. to remove
the sadness from his eyes.
but I stayed there, visible,
where he could see me.
he could finally see me.
M Clement Mar 2013
He sat, completely repentant
He had hurt her before, he knew
There was defeat in his shoulders

"I would like to pray about this," he said, searching for change in a greater aspect.

Beratement
Scolding
She needs a husband who's going to be around
Better around beating than away?
He had put that past behind him
She felt reason to bring it up
Over
And
Over
She needs a husband
He's there, but apparently,
Not enough
Miscommunication
Frustration
Defeat in his being

She keeps talking and talking
Saying the same things over and over
Beating him with the same verbal stick
He feels awful
He knows his wrongs
He lacks self forgiveness
He fears himself
He fears losing her due to his own actions

He desires to pray
He wants, and is seeking change
She's stuck
Stick in hand
Ready,
On the attack

Prayer
She's stuck in a
Loop
No forgiveness in the
Hardened heart
He's defeated,
Wanting so badly for change
I watched this scene unfold before my eyes. I'm not sure why I was a bystander, and I wanted to speak; however, it was not my war; it was not my place.
Nick Durbin Oct 2012
The cold distance between two hearts,
Once beating simultaneously, in unison -
A small disconnection,
A simple malfunction,
Unforeseen miscommunication amidst unvanquished certainty -
Muzzled, tightened grip,
Cloaking an angst shell of a body,
Harvesting repressed emotions,
Alluring a passive tongue -
Releasing an outpour of an outcry in an outburst,
Retribution -
Freedom released from with-in,
Healing of a contorted soul...
Commence.
Sam McCullough Feb 2013
I am a teenage introvert:

My bed is unkempt and I long for forgiveness - mainly from myself and possibly my mirror

I worship the cynical and complain how much I hate school - even though I hate when I stay home

My fingers are etching maps in my head, while I form an excuse to skip, even though I never do

I look for acceptance, anywhere. No one uses words anymore and the rooms are silent.

Miscommunication starts fights so I never speak up. Late nights on Netflix - succeeding at nothing

I am a teenage stereotype:

I save for concerts and buy cd’s. I long to drive someday and having the prospects of college. Filled with wanderlust I cry myself to sleep. Dreaming of not waking up - but getting home sick at home.

I am confused.
JR Falk Apr 2015
This was never meant to hurt you.
It was a simple miscommunication,
a stumble of words.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.
drabble.
Tina Fish Sep 2013
We’ve passed resilience.

It’s not a question of getting with it,
I’ve pushed it to the limit and now it almost feels repetitive,
this sedative motion of
Day to day,
Pay to paid,
Lay to laid,
I made up the rules to a game,
and find it played exactly like how I said it should be…

And now that you see this new light,
you also see it right to put boundaries
that might have been better well placed.
Has the student risen to put master in his place?
Are words truly used in my own face?
Your wasting empty breath,
since love, I wrote the test,
and it frustrates me to come out last.
…But I’ll write this for myself,
and cross my fingers and hope for the best.

You went east and I went west.
And lest there be no miscommunication
let me be put your equations at rest…
I was moved by temptation,
locked and loaded and triggered with anticipation,
I’ve been waiting to have a taste of this elation,
to experience a fraction of the exhilaration
that could possibly course through these veins,

But I guess I wait in vain if I ever thought my name was about me.

Just a reflection of what you’d like to see.
And integrity finds itself dragged through the mud,
and affection finds itself waiting for no hug,
like a virus lacking the bug to go and do the ***** work,
and worth depleted to no value.

Like a ****** with a $1 rolled up bill
but no will to take the line…
I find myself in suspension.
With just an occasional call to attention,
calling for attendance,
(Should I lift my hand up like this?
Would I get extra credit if I blew you a kiss?
Should I cover up or lift my skirt,
should I shut up or continue to flirt?)

- I can’t seem to understand what works anymore.

I can’t seem to understand where to go
when you’ve asked me to leave,
yet lock the door and swallow the key,
and get on your knees,
claiming understanding please…
I wore my heart on my sleeve,
but you just picked so much at the seams
that it seems I’m unraveling away...

Just a little more every day…

Did no one teach you that’s not ok?
That people shouldn’t be played with?

And now I find myself on the search for revenge,
with humanity posing as my victim,
affected with a venomous vision
of alteration of the soul.

If for a moment you thought you were whole,
we’d like to say: Who told you?

Can’t be whole if humanity didn’t mold you.
Didn’t scold you for what it didn’t like,
or tell you what time to be home at night,
and to say your prayers right,

Because He ‘might’ be listening.

— The End —