"misdeed" poems
Master, have mercy.
I am Master. I
Have no Master.
The planet
is atrocious.
I am It.
Planet Earth
is atrocious.
I am It.
Why is it so hard
to see
be yond peace?
Why is it so hard
to be
who you want?
The mind, secluded
in a prison rift
of copy paste
makes waste.
Where is my paper?
Where is my pen?
I write for me!
I repeat as if I
will soon
believe.
I write for me!
(logging on again)
The planet is horrid.
I am part of It.
Oh, Peace & War,
do we know it.
Yet with an audience,
my imagination
grows stagnant.
The once in abstract
gathers into form.
I did this misdeed.
A disservice.
Once a dreamer.
Now a journalist.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
Mother nature we're killing you
Pumping your air with a toxic brew
****** is the path we're taking
And it's you we're forsaking
Our need for industry and tree clearing
Is for you not so endearing
To our peril we do you a misdeed
Humanity doesn't hear nor does it heed
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
JACOB’S LADDER (Written by Susan J. Hunt 09-29-09)
I’ve been told I have no coping skills
More than a few times. It’s the same old line.
Then what the hell am I doing here?
I’ve survived up to this time.
A big fat zero, the test spits out.
Yep, that’s me no coping skills, probably ready to ****
I have nothing to help me become my best.
Honesty is an asset, but doesn’t appear so from the tests
So sometimes, I have to lie. I don’t like to, but I must.
Otherwise they’ll t to run at me with a restraining jacket
Before I jump out a two-story building and land in the brush.
I’m very quick and wily.
That’s got to count for something.
I break no bones and run away.
All are amazed at my escape.
That’s what I’ve learned as coping skills.
I drink and do other sins, but I would never ****
Even to my detriment, I just don’t have that will
I’m not crazy. I’m not insane. I just see things differently.
I’m not Sybil or Ted Bundy, I just have issues within me
The fact is, I see more harm, I carry it inside of me
I’m working on my coping skills
and my social skills as well.
I’m working on them the best I can.
So far, it’s gone not so well
You couldn’t tell how sick I am
as we cross the street and pass.
Not that I would harm you,
I would offer you my flask.
My sensitive nature is on overload
I see every misdeed
Not that it matters much,
I’m too involved with me.
There must be a way to crawl out of this pit
I need a Jacob’s ladder.
May I become more alive and aware
Of how I can sincerely, matter.
Oct 15, 2009
Oct 15, 2009 at 11:22 AM UTC
It lays amongst an earthy mound
sweet venom rests on top
Strange figures pass without a glance
Until those old days stop
With not a whip it rests and hums
Lets out one desperate sigh
But petals hide it's secret dream
To make an easier fall and die
To be killed for a small misdeed of another
Must be an awful way to live
But to you, a precious little flower
Is all that you can give
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement
to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination
some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime
*my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime*
may1 9:19am ‘19
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
I regret to never open up before anyone
I regret too be caged in the wall of my own house
I regret to boxed up my emotions
I regret doing make up and wearing jwelleries for others
I regret that to allow others to badmouth me
I regret too never raised a voice against any misdeed
I regret that am not that much brave to even do fight for myself
I regret to let go the culprit who have touched me in a bad way
I regret for becoming toy in the hands of this so called society
I regret that I ever agreed to marry a guy who ***** me
I regret that to save the so called reputation of my family I have sold myself
I regret that not even a one person from my family have ever come to save me
But I never do regret to have my last breath as a brave warrior
Who have lastly raised her voice against all the crime
I have no regret over raising my voice and losing my life
I have lived all my life with regret
But am happy I am proud of myself that I am not dying like a coward
I have fight and dying like a brave warrior
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 9:04 AM UTC
I see a girl with an intention
In her eyes I see nothing but tension
So, I walk in front with great caution
She has a cruel heart
Who tear his love apart
Dashing forward like a dart
Her name stuck in my head
I think about her misdeed even in bed
Warning signs I wished I have read
An evil girl
With bad intentions
Please be aware of her possessions
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
This strange egg you've incubated
has sprouted skinny chicken legs.
It follows you around clucking at
every throaty word you nasty-utter.
Pointing and pecking at your guilt
borne by some years ago sin which
all others hatch from and you keep feeding,
Remorseful grains of misdeed shell grit
to harden its anxious green shell.
With no law outside itself the taint faint
heartbeat of your reproof I hear beating
like fear's unglued false eyelashes
You soft swaddle it with empty gestures.
It gestates in every grimace of piety.
I watch it govern your vocation of drab
and undramatic mastery of feathered illusion.
I want to tear shreds in your black satin cape,
To avalanche your fears into frosty exile.
Burn them screaming in the blinding white of
anemic unconscious,
the blacking out.
Hang a trophy **** of your winged demon
taxidermied with glass eyes above my bed.
My compass needle has lost your polarity
there's just a crude representation of pain
I will plant this seed you gave me, in Lethe;
The River of Forgetfulness on its grey shore.
A watery landscape without vanishing point.
Where a white heron will weep tears of sorrow,
like a human to feed hope's tender shoots.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
Who will remember us,
or is it not infinitely
more important that
we come to know our
real selves? Statues,
whether marble or steel,
will whither away in time
or be pulled down by those
who come to see misdeed
from magnanimity. In Cosmos,
only the real self is everlasting.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 29, 2023
Apr 29, 2023 at 1:20 AM UTC
Beauty, like ice voice
Our foot betrays, no choice
Who can walk on sweetness
Slippery track meetness
Satisfied with the elegance surface
Quickly skid on the face
I saw the dangers for a mile
That I cannot avoid in awhile
But I always drawn to it
I can't get enough from it
Forgive me for my misdeed
I am just a beauty addicted
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 11:34 AM UTC
I started going to church when I was
about seven years old
when my papa was still
alive
I remember because he's the one
who dropped me off there
for summer camp
I think that was one of the
last moments
we spent alone with each other
before he died
I wish I could remember whatever
he might have said to me
Anyhow
I went to this church until I was about
fourteen years old
then they fired our youth pastor
for reasons I'll never know
but everyone will have some sort
of answer for
because this is a small town
& everyone is in trouble
for some misdeed
I started listening to rock music
& dressing in nothing but
black
oh the look on the face of every
respectable adult in this
withering town
I could have painted them all
petrified
but it didn't matter
because that's the year I met
some great long-term
friends
& we would have many
drinks and
dark stories to tell each other
later
I never attend that church anymore
but I got married in another one
& the pastor shared our last
name even though we
weren't related
my sister-in-law tells me he reminds her
of the fake plastic Tim Allen Santa
I wonder when I'll ever
fall asleep
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
I yurn for you to fill me up
With the knowledge that he forbade.
To touch me;
Soothe my soul in such a way that i am condemned.
See me with your ravenous eyes;
Wild and searching from the woes of damnation.
I beg of you to lead me in this valley and show me where to lay.
Guide me;
Sway me in the darkness and bury me inside perdition.
Hold me down with lustful longing;
Dominant and surging through the hands of greatness.
I need you to choke me with your forked tongue.
Whisper in the air;
Taunt and tease me with promises of sweet rapture.
Build me up under your lips;
Allow me to splinter and shatter in the aftershocks of your kiss.
I desire the release that you have promised me.
Soak me;
Drown my sorrows in your philosophical misdeed.
Promise me;
Write an ode to me and swear it must be prophecy.
I crave your full undivided attention.
Moan in my ear;
Sweet talk me with your biblical verse and *** loudly for all to hear.
Gut me;
Cut me and fill me with your untainted seed and know that ill only bleed for you.
I have fallen from grace and i have done it all for you.
I demand you tell me that you dont love me too.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
Fidelity vows were broken,
Stolen moments kept disclosed
thinking no one would get hurt,
No one would ever know,
calling out to her as you lay sleeping
in my bed-Day dreaming of her in my home!
Words said to a would be Mistress's.
"I Love You more than You'll ever know"
Whats left for me then huh?
these scars this un-mended pain?
how can this broken heart mend?
You didn't or wasn't really willing to try
to identify or understand me
or this pain you caused inside.
Your insecurity from you misdeed
got you trying to turn it all around,
Pointing fingers & blaming me
when you know & knew I did nothing
wrong.
Check out your own history &
your present behavior,
You had me thinking I was insane.
You & I been betrayed in the past
But I believed you,
When you said this
we shared was different,
you never hurt me like that way.
I'm more than qualified to help
you through anything
Been all that you wanted,needed,
But not this, not when
you lied then tried to hide,
Covered up like national security.
I admit we had unresolved issues,
nothing we couldn't have worked through,
You could of been honest, confronted me.
Talked & worked on us.
You tried so hard to justify your lies,
try to make excuse,
Reasoning your deceit
dictate & make it my fault...
Chemistry between us
was beyond anything
I've had before,
You let your greed destroy us.
It's like you spiritual dumped
hydrochloric acid on me,
my love for you & my feelings.
I never once controlled you,
never tried to use
or ever tired to manipulate you,
As you emailed text talked & wrote,
You insulted our relationship,
my trust and love for you.
Broke your vows,
Your promises went astray.
my love for you
was almost equivalent
of the love I had for my children,
my daddy & grandparents.
There wasn't nothing
I wouldn't of done for you.
It's to late to apologize,
to late for forgiveness,
I told you Begged you to
come clean,
over & over
I said baby let's talk,
YOU had your chances-
You refused
and now I refuse to ever
be with you after all this.
Never Ever Again!
Always Me Ayeshah
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
They recklessly mowed the grass everywhere
Cropped the lot !
(The city council landscapers)
No verge
park or public plot
is left any freedom
in its fertility
misdeed
With no places remaining
no long radiating grasses
for quality summer fornication
retreats must be made instead
to the usual abandoned properties
and construction sites
Giddy romantic tangles are given over
in their place
rutting animals
quick shameful *****
graffiti tagged
***** soaked
damaged concrete
exposed hazardous detritus
damp, rust, broken glass and mutty
Absent are the breeding meadows of the gods
this year is no span of leisure
this year is smutted
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
Through mist I wander slowly;
A mist of six odd years.
Of misdeed, dreams, wearing seams,
Of trial, thought and tears.
In this forest bleak, lonely -
Blank, damp and bare,
I stretch a hand to high above
And call out: "Is no one there?"
A ghost of brick, dust and rot:
Amidst wind, the structure groans.
The space contracts to shaded grins
And at once
I'm all alone.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
let's cry together shy
for all the souls who are
gonna die
not knowing
the beauty of the forest glen
the fair shine of an evening sun
the smoke of fire
the mountains shoulder
the sea's vapor or
a young deer wild
loose upon the prairie
a goat baying
a horse gallop between their thighs
a river cold wash
their cares
away
the lover's paradise
that joy of a child that comes
when they look at you like god hisself
a new day unfolding
where dread or misdeed
gets put away in bright yellow
praise for
this is just another day
dead have seen as much
poets have felt
stroked
the felt of that fur
called forth to the God's the Earth's majesty
so much better
yet
it is until
I die when
I will shut up
and quit trying
to capture
this life
as well
as enjoy
it
in the meantime
let us
cry together
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 3:48 AM UTC
"*It was a dreary night of November
That I beheld
the accomplished of my toils
Remember that I am thy creature
I ought to be thy adam
But I am rather the fallen angel
that now drivest enjoy
for no misdeed
everywhere I see bliss
from which
from which
from which I alone, am irrevocably excluded
I was benevolent and good
misery made me a fiend
make me happy
and I, again shall be virtuous
but soon he cried
I shall die and what I now feel
be no longer felt
soon, these burning miseries
will be extinct
I shall ascend fume up higher
triumphantly
and exalt in the agony of the torturing flames
my spirit will sleep in peace
for if it thinks
It will not surely think thus
Farewell.*"
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
Your mother would be proud of you
That's what you told me
When I asked her, her opinion, she turned and said to me
One day he will be jailed, or my four will become three
When I pointed out your white lies
And each great or small misdeed
Objecting, you'd cry, "I'll make
"Something" from my misery."
I cried, and I tried to tell you before it happened
What comes from this foolish pride
& You cocked your head, laughing back
While spitting in my eyes
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 7:46 PM UTC
Somebody once told me, about a thousand years ago, that she would yet arrive. Not through the frontgate, nor the sidegate, or any gate. But she'd come straight for you. Rushing in to to save you for the tragedies that have befallen you. She'll cure you of all ailment and cleanse you of every misdeed. She'll love you and absolve you, absorb you into her skin. But let that never be the end my friend, for you are not ever to comprehend.
She'll flow through, you, straight to the other side. A luminescence with wings, you'll feel her every delight. In spite of the world, in spite of every fight, you'll love her for never and gift her your sight.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 5:06 AM UTC
Cherry lips ripe for the taking with a pomegranate cracked hue just to the left corner
Spiced vanilla into twisted locks of dry abstinence in which filled a lusterless waterfall
Crystal and star dust weaved into the midnight ink of dead eyes
Slick satin clinging onto deadened skin, to bring out the warm glows that used to hue the soft skin
Red oak coffin barely containing the life force that once lived in vibrant life, only now been dulled
This thing, a person, the one I used too know, now a painted mask of lies and deceit
Quietly glares back at me as I close the lid to the coffin, pulling back upon rocking heels
As if I am the creator of this "disease"; conforming it to her form, breathing in her soul and life, the soul devourer, if you must
Can one so minute as myself truly have become the cause of this abominable misdeed? Yet, should I feel no remorse as tumult plays me like a startled violin?
A thousand dusty eyes watch me in pairs, two by two they came and went
Observing me kneel beside her raised pedestal, with tear glimmering eyes as mine remain an arid desert
The final riddle in which I cannot fathom, the spinning web catching me in its snare
The deer in the headlights, a fish in the proud eagles grasp, gasping for air
Disoriented turbulence on the inside, with naught a blink to show
Where did the time go, as I sit in tolerated silence, plagues me like shadows
Silence is not intolerable, but mostly, magnificently and implacably trying
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
There is a misdeed where,
on a corner of Hunter Street,
a phone box sits in a puddle
like a flamingo in a storm,
yet it's not pink. It's a dull
shine with legs protruding
out of its sea, a lone oil rig
with an open mouth to enter
in which (you would hope!)
some black gold would pour
out of its receiver and say,
Press your fingers to me,
then my hand to your cheek
and I would stand there
drowned in those thoughts,
my feet also being rig stalks
as I would hold your hand
to my face, my other leaning
against your body, then only
to gather a simple “Hello.”
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Avarice and greed
Has nothing to do with need
So it’s to deaf ears we plead
Cos they ain’t paying heed
To them from what I see
Everything’s a commodity
To be bought or sold
It clearly is that cold
Avarice and greed
Just wants to succeed
They’re blind to other’s need
So it’s alright to bleed
Common folk bone dry
And this situation repeats
In actions and in tweets
And don’t dare ask ‘em why
Now did I tell a lie?
Avarice and greed
Are holders of the deed
They’re of a common breed
And few things will impede
Them from getting what they wanted
Cos they remain undaunted
And the things that they have vaunted
Never leaves them haunted
Avarice and greed
Or the two-percentage creed
Doesn’t recognize misdeed
Before choosing to proceed
Where angels fear to tread
They go right on in instead
Despite the things I’ve said
And we see where that has led
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
Roses once red,
Are now good and now dead,
Violets once blue,
No gone, left and rue,
My garden is empty,
No poor and unseen,
My garden once temptly,
Now worn and obscene,
Winters cold,
Did its damage,
Flowers once bold,
The chill did not manage,
My roses they bleed,
And my violets they’ve wept,
My garden by uncared,
And now by unkept,
My garden demolished,
By colds misdeed undone,
And unpolished.
Fruits will never bare,
Because of lack of care.
My flowers they’re gone,
Demised by weeds of wrong,
My garden it’s life,
Damaged by life’s strife,
My garden of Body,
My garden of mind,
My garden it bleeds of a past unkind,
My garden of soul,
My garden of me,
This garden is dead yet you cannot see,
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 6:05 AM UTC