"misfire" poems
Lost Love
He remembers that day
many sad years ago
it was sunny out,
but soon a storm raged.
He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.
Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling
from the rafters of contempt,
as her fireplace warmed tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
it wasn't.
He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
the devil speaking louder.
He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame.
Their eyes catch,
both flush, and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
his melancholy eyes asking why?
Why?
What about the future lily pods,
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds,
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried, loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted
not before passing the mill.
He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
what words or light can be exchanged?
Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.
That was thirty years ago
and he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.
LR-5/4/17
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
Another misfire for heaven's weapon
threaten lesson second session
another confession of deception
we are headed toward armageddon
truth seeking and eating reason
demon sleeping will get even
secret leaking ****** heathen
unsweetened creeping deepened
lesion from the freedom legion
eden eaten and not breathing
region of the code adhesion
needed beacon beaten defeated
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Oh son of beginners mistake
Son of pure unclean intention
Son of mothers midnight run to bar
Son of broken swan wing
Son of brokenness
Son of lack of sunlight
Son of ***** laundry
Boy of unknowing
Boy of drinking antifreeze
Boy of missing eyed crows
Boy of missing childhood
Boy of sorrow
Boy of stitches
Boy of afraid of manhood
Boy of afraid
Young God of suicide attempts
God of lying to himself that he ever wanted to die
God of lying to himself
God of lying
God of unholiness
God of shotgun misfire
God of unkempt basements
God of homeless dogs
God of death and life all at the same time
You ain't no God. You are a poser with wings and a capital letter to begin your wretched name.
You won't be happy when you die, you are split between so many titles and you do not know which to choose. You are no one. No one. You are absolutely no one.
(Say, do you know the route to the nearest bar? I'm going to drink myself open, flesh off bone, apathetic skeleton, closest thing to happy. I'm going to drink myself away from you, this world, myself.)
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
She looked at me and said
I think you could be someone
Who I would want to cry at my funeral
Because you would have loved me forever
By then
Even in my nightmares
You have no clothes
And I wake cold-sweat
And my ***** is confused
It would be cliché for me to tell you about
The doves
Beating beneath my heart-heavy breastplate
Only most days I feel like a sad piñata
And I want you to beat the heaven out of me
I know what Satan saw
In his decent
And it was worth the trouble
It wasn’t you
(Conceited)
He didn’t see you
Just the passion
The things I want to do to you
Like a lynching
After being dragged for miles from a horse
By the throat
And called a suicide
Only because I didn’t try to stop them from taking me
I want to love you like I should have known better
I want to catch your breath like a harmonica
With my hand over your mouth
A bent note all heave
Slip between my fingers
Let’s be wrong together
Like a nun in a church
Playing I Want Your *** on me
As if I were a ****** pipe *****
Tuned to the key of hallelujah
With a distortion pedal set to laughter
She shook like a love letter
Dropped from a balcony
I didn’t offer my jacket
Just my arms
So much rusty bear traps
Their damp hinges closing is a lonely song
I want to leave here feeling like a shotgun shell
Thrown to the floor hot
And used for killing something
Like the time between now
And your next misfire
Even if we’re just friends by then
She says
I would want you to be there crying
I couldn’t imagine you
anywhere else
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
I need a
hair cut delilah
and a shave- but ephedrine?
endocrine? disorder
and testosterone soars
I am what chemical?
what neurological miracles?
an infamy
in synapse symphonies....
a biological fool,
short wired fused-
refused the complex misfire
when estrogen fuss
messes with my desires.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous.
Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus.
Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest.
My sneakers meet familiar soil at last.
Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill.
Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill.
Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony.
A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory.
I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight.
Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight.
Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze.
Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze.
Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate.
Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate.
Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp.
Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp.
Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy.
Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery.
My affection for her nets only melancholia.
The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea.
Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy.
Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies.
Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks.
If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks.
Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty.
Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity.
Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities.
Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
proud buck
frozen, close
heart in my
cross hairs
I squeeze
the trigger.
nothing
happens
except birdsong
as if
they know
some doe was saved
from widowhood
by a
mystic
misfire
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
the m word
Misunderstood misfit making my way to next monday morning, minute by minute. Many may call it the mainstream kind of life. My mind maybe misleading, maybe only to myself. Mauve colors in meadows make me mesmerized. Mind over matter, boredom melting away. Made up make belive, make up with me. Mistakes being made, measure up Misfire...misery make it meet you. You might think it is modest. Mute minute......I'll still take it. Mirror----- Miraculous mistake made mother. May I make a toast to your magnificent majestic miny me. Magnify meaningful memeries in the membrane
Mighty all Mighty monument...I'm the monalisa.
Luv-kat
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
run into the crested shorelines where the greatest empires have fallen,
and kiss the tides of the salty sea in hopes of calming your clumsy pulse and flippant thoughts.
stretch your legs.
limber up like a prideful little boy before a rigged game of lava-monster...
and run!
run like your shoes will never untie and your heavy feet will never misfire.
run to the reams of yellowing pages you cling to,
full of ball-point memoir metaphors and pithy,
expressive descriptions of the beautiful women you've trained yourself to hate along the way.
don't get friendly with your paintbrush when you reminisce this time.
run.
full-fledged, snot-nosed, scared-shitless-grinned
sprint.
run to itchy cotton bedding drenched in the stench of day-dreams and nightmares;
peppered with heaps of insight they've yet to diagnose,
and one cold pillow
that can never seem to lull your static head to sleep or fully support the weight of your heavily burdened shoulders.
run like it doesn't mean anything for once;
like a wide-eyed kid who's never seen a map or compass,
he just zigs and zags through the seemingly limitless emerald velvet at full speed as he navigates the backyard in pure and honest bliss.
run to sun-soaked golden fields where the night sky tints itself purple to reach the perfect shade of darkness,
and your breath hangs low on the tops of the tall grass like the fog hanging over a prehistoric low-land,
and the stars shine like slicked-up pebbles about to let you decode the mystical secrets they hold...
and everything comes clear
and clean
and calm.
run free
and wild
and nameless
like it's the only thing you've ever known,
until you're ready to run back into me.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
it took you
a grand total of four days
to sew up your patchwork heart
pack your tatty suitcase,
ricochet off her like a purposed misfire
and attempt to lodge yourself into me.
four days seems about right...
took you four days to go from ME to HER
in the first place
good thing i took that target
off my chest
you'll be missing
this time.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
a sheer misfire.
soul searching as we lament
bliss that could have been.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
I’ve been thinking
about death a lot lately—
or, that is, I think the image
my brain’s been showing me.
The vestiges of the visage
of who I used to be haunt me;
and in the crickets of my slumber,
I couldn’t help but wonder
about death a lot lately.
The quarks and the quasars I inherit
from the big bang of long ago—
elements that form Mercury—
collide back and forth, and
these are pangs that wouldn’t go,
and it has been deathly difficult
meandering out of this hole.
I’ve been lost in myself—thinking
about death lately so droll.
The synapses fire and misfire;
the subsonic trappings bellow
in the cave of my deep below.
These black-and-white films
feel rewired [rewritten annals]
of which I existed since long ago.
I resonate now an unholy see
of white-noise hellos; or:
the slow slipping of my psyche
around death a lot lately.
The string of unforced errors
does all but help me be still;
yet still the terror rises each
time I open my eyes to this
farce that I’ve been waking up to.
Since your “I don't care for you,”
I've never felt so unwanted;
as my heart opened and bruised,
my soul aches for yours dotted
along my arms so they feel whole.
I unravel when you’re in my mind;
in those twilight hours of just us,
for those unmeasured hours,
you were irretrievably mine.
And doubt may blur what we feel,
and walls may [and can] fall,
and in those moments so real—
yes, surreal—
and for those days that we were,
I haven’t thought about
death at
all.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.
Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
I struggle when I have to write
rhyme you see naturally I'm slight
towards the free verse, trying to get
it perfect, just right I start to sweat.
My words syllables are just what ever
comes in to my mind, Im not words clever.
For some this comes naturally, I have to
use sites as my words need to be next in que.
But to some this is a natural progression,
is it for me worth it which is the question?
We say to learn is to elevate ourselves higher.
Using this metaphor in hope I don't misfire.
I'm poetic blue, I write on cold white warming
it up with words, hopefully there correctly forming.
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
There are crafts of countless drafts on this blank page,
accounts of my days of happiness or rage are on this blank page,
hinted goals and affirmations are blueprinted on this blank page,
look and you shall find that my mind roars it's thoughts unfiltered on this blank page,
Behold a story begins to unfold on this blank page.
Ink jives it's hips, thrives in it's own motions and clicks it's fingers in rhythm to the writers melody that lingers,
In order to transcribe what you're trying to describe to the mass of one or many on this blank page,
Sentences are redacted,
subtracted from the line of sight equating to something that now means nothing,
Why?
It could be a mistake,
a misfire of the message I attempted to make,
thinking I had it locked and loaded,
Ready to shoot it across this blank page,
Or...
It could be that I find it unnecessary to reveal deep parts of me,
So...
I become hell bent on destroying any trace that may possibly leave my scent in this blank page,
The land of doodles,
far and wide is it's reach,
with the population consisting of ...
stick-mankind,
Talking poodles,
Confetti filled with noodles,
Whatever you can think of is there in this blank page.
On this blank page I stare deep into it's void and wonder....
What shall we do today ?
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
1. Lay flat on your back and staple yourself to a falling star, make yourself look like a wish burning out of the sky to save the person desperate enough to wish upon you.
2. Nail rose petals to your hands and offer them as the apology you won’t give them after you've left, but they don’t know that yet because you said you were different and they trust you.
3. When things start to fit together make sure you cut the silence with lies sharper than the razors that tear through skin cleaner than a blank page.
4. Tell them to take a breath of fresh water because rivers will fill their lungs better than any summer breeze ever could.
5. Tie yourself to a lightning bolt and hold it down. Keep its light to yourself. Make sure you convince them that you’re not as lost and hopeless as you seem because no one wants to love someone as broken as you.
6. I've heard it said that human ashes make great fertilizer so turn yourself into stardust and pollute the galaxy with your remains. Make your debris cloud the night skies. Grow false hope in everything you touch.
7. Find someone extremely flammable, make them trust you, then strike matches across their weary smile. Even if they don’t deserve to burn in your wake.
8. Make your touch feel like a gun in their hands, heavy with the weight of black steel promises to never leave, and then once they take the safety off…
9. Misfire straight into their chest. Let the impact of your leaving tear through where their heart used to be and mistake the throb of ripping skin and the dull snapping of bone as a heartbeat.
10 .Reload.
So… you want to be remembered? It’s easy really…
1. Make someone love you, and hurt them.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
my clockwork's not quite working right, but it's too late to fix me
they can't see breaking from the outside, they only see I'm living.
Moments; twitches,
they told me I must be careful not to rip my stitches.
Not yet turned to rust inside---
I've been waiting for the moment---
to join the glorified
the few
the beautiful
the delicate souls who cry like mine
those so filled up with life they died;
too attached to the delicate sway of life to live
to connected to the pulse of earth to give and walk about on
two feet, called bipedal motion, supposedly coming about as our ancestors moved from arborreal terrain to grasslands, some millions of years ago...
Science disects the tangible, but we've yet to find diamonds in our eyes that might cut what we cannot hold.
And so we'll never understand our souls.
If it has no bones can it break?
can it shatter if you shake
it too hard, will it fall off of its shelf?
Is our soul collective, or only in the self.
it's clockwork, pure clockwork
we're wound up and allowed to wind down
out
understanding that gears might fracture
misfire
malfunction
give out
go backwards
then perhaps even forwards again
how tightly are you wound?
or lubricated, my friend?
could you use a helping hand? a smack to get you going
the question's not where
nor when
nor how
nor apparently even... whether our insides are showing.
Break me down like clockwork,
take me to a shop but
they'll only shake their heads and tell you
this models got no replacement parts
best throw it away
get a new one
but I can't.
This ticker's all I've got.
it can't go backwards sideways or in circles
but time
travels
and I'll work it until I drop
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
At the edge of tomorrow,
we can see the end of an empire.
Past the line of the gunfire..
all that's left is deep sorrow.
All creation ends in destruction.
Becoming dust after the hellfire,
after avarice's greedy seduction.
Burned in a cruel selfish desire,
following a small mind's instruction.
In the death of a lifetime,
the system begins to unfold.
Shifting humanity's lifeline,
war begins to be retold.
Kingdoms rise and fall.
No beginning without an end.
Death triumphs over all.
Victor's history penned.
A crumbling nation of one.
We cant escape power's misfire.
Through society's expecting gun,
it's the end of our empire.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
Maybe it's the faulty wiring of my circuits,
I don't seem to understand those around me,
I tell them don't trust me,
They say they love me,
But I will glitch, synapse misfire,
I'll become a villain in my program,
With no rhyme or reason,
I'll fail miserably to the hero,
That is my destiny,
But at least I'll know my fate,
Better than these faulty wires,
A maze of circuits that never know where to connect,
Is this what it's like to be human?..
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
his loudspeaker thinking
shot through my eye
as he passes me in the crowded room
its over-speed thought process painted on his sweating face
he fingers loudly the moist pages of his life
wishing to replay the better moments
but just like everyone else
cant relive the moment
but you can live in
the pain of its regret for the rest of your life
if that's what you want
he's a follower of the herd
he sits with with them
and pantomimes their moves with precision
she sits in the exact centre
of the same corner each day
making notes of the coming and goings
and draws the faces
the funny faces
spiral notebooks full of faces
her glasses held together with scotch tape
her mind held together with
reruns of nineteen seventies sitcoms
and heavy medications
she is lonely but will never admit it
she watches him
and wonders
at the days end
she convinces him to walk her home
and together
they set out hand in hand
the sky and world around them a tourist picture perfect whitewash
he fingers her medicated mind
prying out the soft meat
looking for the dark stuff that tastes
like chicken
her misfire engines let him get only so deep
before her childhood memories
of a beautiful blue dress
and a apple pie brings enough
reality to his palate to end his fascination
they will end up married
because being misfit is better than
being alone
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
See a problem
Not sure how to deal with it
Eventually it must be dealt with
Size up the strengths
Focus on the weaknesses
Upset this fief has begun
Lose a friend or family member
Those are the worse rival
They spread the poison within the family
Does everything right but other medal in the chaos
No their problem don't know the situation
No one asked them to be involved
Dealing with problems easy hard with family in the misfire
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Words shoot and misfire
Misunderstandings were caused
I just wish it ends
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Disconnected, dimented
In a dimension
With no mirror to be reflective.
Thinking ourselves outside of the collective
Using abusive excuses as justification for the sedative
Flick of the stick, and the ash scatters
Serving pesticide on a ***** platter
In this scene it's easy to see we don't matter -
Never relinquished from the mind's ghastly chatter.
Just a solitary paint splatter,
In a basement of a home that holds no life
Blended into everything unless otherwise stricken by sunlight.
Rocks rain on our soft spot
Mental blocks stain those I wished would "forget me not"
Almost immobile, breathing in disease, watching the body rot, wash me clean
It's hard to stop
When the pain is adorable.
Ingested my finances,
I was too broke to afford your whole.
Your happiness I stole,
but I swear I don't have it.
My frown is right-side-up until I've found a way to mask it.
Gonna grasp this vessel by the foundation and collapse it,
with a relapse hit, staring at the flame as it burns the fabric.
Waiting for magic in a sea full of plastic -
Setting the stage on fire,
only to create something - tragic
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
I'd take endless casualties to stand by your side
even if the gun's always in your hand
when it comes down to ride or die
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC