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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs

noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?
ryn Sep 2014
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy

Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract

Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing

When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations

Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some

Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned

Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat

The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music

Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
Many of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,

but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,

without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,

it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,

I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,

as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,

and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”

I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,

as lovers or friends,

either way I am here,

and I’m open,
completely,
devoted,
and cleanly,
unfolded,
and ready,
high voltage,
but steady,
I told ya,
I’m ready,
I noticed,
already,
that you noticed,
me so deeply,
that I broke open easy,
as our emotions,
became confetti,
I told you I told you,
I’ve already been ready already,
and we’re in a storm,
and we’re lost at sea,
but we’re almost to shore,
so please just hold steady,

steady,
steady,
breathe,
steady,

steady hand writes the words,
before fingers become spaghetti and I can write no more,

because honestly I feel like I’m losing all control,
and honestly experiencing strange things then staring at screens doesn’t help,

help,

this is a cry for help,
I’m not scared to admit I’m scared,
I actually have only one fear,
I’m only scared of one thing and nothing else,

being alone.

I am alone.

You are alone.

But we can be alone together.

I told you before I’m totally open,
I told you before I’ve already been ready already,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as possible as I wait for you,
and that’s why I wear these sunglasses so that the EMFs don’t extra affect me,

many,

of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,

but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,

it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,

I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,

as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,

and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”

I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,

as lovers or friends,

either way I am here,

wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Bring back The '80's...
Sonali Sethi Aug 2014
She stands before the class
Her voice rings loud and clear
Each word beautifully enunciated
For all who wish to hear

The perennial English teacher
She reads with such dramatics and flair
Such a pity that its only noticed
by students in the first few chairs

She's reading out my poem
She paints pictures with her words
But honestly? Sometimes I find
Her explanations quite absurd

No, That's not what I meant!  
Dear teacher, stop twisting my verse!
Dear students,  please notice the flaws
In the story she so carefully rehearsed

It's amazing how sometimes she understands
The thought and feelings of what I wrote
And sometimes she gets it so very wrong
That I want to strangle her throat

She continues unperturbed
By the lack of interest in the room
Students only see her smile and energy
Not her disappointment and gloom

She worked so hard to teach them,
A little appreciation would go far!
But they just sit and pretend to listen
As they wait for the end for the hour

Finally, she comes across
That fateful line
The one that sparks a discussion
I watch the class come to life

In a tsunami of opinions,
She smiles proudly, riding the wave
She launches into her explanation
And it's the completely wrong one she gave

Its one of many misinterpretations
Of my carefully crafted work
There! That student! She understands what I meant!
Now now, don't tell her she's wrong. Don't be a ****!

A debate ensues and words fly
The classroom divides into two.
Half are on my side, dear teacher
And the other half believe you.

Out of the blue, the bell rings
For once the students want more time!
A pat on the back for the English teacher.
This victory is both hers and mine

So what if she gets it wrong sometimes?
So what what if she's too dramatic?  
Sometimes she's just unreasonable
She's your average literature fanatic

She always gets her point across
Without having to scream and shout
She teaches the students the value of words
Isn't that what it's all about?
I'm sure we've all at some point disagreed with our literature teachers! Honestly, sometimes I like to imagine that I'm a world famous poet and that my work if being discussed in a classroom somewhere. :D
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Being cared for
Here's the  adored door

Inside playing he pours the hearts

So like him the ricochet
Deeply love so cultured
My pearl crochet

Deeply cared about I got you
under my skin
I win your love ticket

The spool of
wool hit the floor
To the extreme
The sensitive mind

  And his feeling like the escapee finding
the higher
religion keeping that in mind
The everlasting  to be cared for or
not to be never lasting like someone
lost its hunger fasting

Waking up deeply recharged or
reproducing to
her neverending fairytale

Much deeper than 69 eye love shades
Deeply cared for beyond his loving
It comes and fades
Like Monopoly  "Godly Sun-Seeker" keeps
passing us
The game of life charades
Like Persian babies their
button nose deeply cared for to cuddle
The warmest meows hug and save

Like flour to sparkle, it deepens
like our mix, a love needs
to be worked on 
 do you really
care to fix?

But sending all the details
the lines soften pale pink rose
I felt your red fire putting
out the coldness fire and ice
To be saved on time
Like the fire chief,  
Acted like a French chef what
a love roue of the hose

Like silk my millennium  milk,
He held my finger but not
to sulk he said buckle up
What firmness and tightness
arm to arm wrestler such
bulk

Never to swear but a little lie 
  Wouldnt hurt my delicate
pinky finger
In her loop with her fur
deeply
Stepped into her mink

He's the frontman
Fresh cut lemon
Yellow sunshine
happy medium

I was wearing my hair middle parted
The picture slide the made man
Tied back my hair was deeply
Smooth talker well conditioned
With what conditions all recollections
But three strikes when you care for
someone you  don't fall out of love

  This world loves to be pampered
Cared about not scouted
All hole marks in the road badly routed
 With tons of work with the question mark?
The sign stayed with her
Deeply care about?

Like a play date let's pretend
You're both a handful
Like beer malt lips
Engraved love in the barrels
To feel deeply loved  he acted
Like the riddler

The beach her eyes were waiting to be reached
Sunset playing the fool marionette overly preached

So I  Bette
Beneath her wings
In the middle of their wed to be isles
The Green Gables emerald rings

Miss spinster-Sara Lee cake
His jeep was all she could take
How it ended up
In Greenwich Village then shipped
To Mystic Seaport Connecticut
The movie cut Cape Cod Massachusetts
The four letters in his pocket
Deeply 1 care 2 about 3 love 4

Needed a jump kickstart
Her breakfast  start of the day
 deeply cared for his way
He stumped over her honey
bunches of oats lips

The website
Go, Daddy acting love silly
The hot fun in the
International city
The UK that's OK
Mr. Bo Jangles spoiled deeply
*** in the City single
Deeply getting hurt
The Sin City

Did he see her progress
All over Twitter
He was so suited but lost
his tie twinkle tweets
Do I really live my life to dare
or deeply care?
I am ****** British give me
my English breakfast teas
for keeps
The King ain't got that swing
She acts too much like the Queen

The Royalty of love sanity
The heaping fine grain sugar spoon

(Duke of Earl gray) Deeply love Thee
But always came way too soon
She is the domestic cat going frantic

Great discoveries, and that's that
  Internships tug-cash or the hogwash
our colleagues  
The deep end "Crazy Eights
On the tenth physio natural
phenomena convent

All the Kingman no swords holding her
wrench
and knight horses unfortunate events
One day creation camel ride for miles
Reaching higher levels of toxins
and morons
Or teaching MLM  you asked for it
"The millionaire lost minds"

Were human TLC tender loving care
Like some playdough to the rooftop
Of Mentors, did they care
Who we deeply care about family
But more concerned
about the rise of money inventors
Even if life really *****
Oh! Fiddlesticks

The Moaning of life
Bring the Idiots aboard
The ***** of the night

He kinda ducks by the end of
your ***-light
Flex-body deeply cared for
Rumors and all philosophies
The shower like you was slashed
Left you bone dry without the cash
The thrill is gone your lovesick

She-devil  coffin red nails split Twilight zone

  The stars were in your corner
He deeply cared for you he was
your health kit
The Botanical Gardens

Like a figment of your imagination
Se demure you needed a
Florence Nightingale flower cure
To lift your depression to smile
You thought someone cared but all
misinterpretations

All misconceptions and misdemeanors
She takes so long putting on her
French lip glide Chanel liner
What could be ever cared for finer
Deeply digging holes like a miner

The solar rhythmic pointed finger
to the stars

So systematically
making a wish
just like everyone else
To plan your game
the game makes the plan
You deeply cared for delivery
Was I the care package

You weren't someone
just anybody like
A city dump garbage

Deeply wanting and waiting
So merely or rarely was it coming

Deeply seeing the next generation
The spectacular sunrise
White wicker twin set swing
Your heart pulls back but it was
so close to swinging forward
Moving towards your
accomplishments
The mess was all ****

"You have the exceptional mind like the beautiful mind"

People, you came across friends
Also, contributors  not the enemies
The country and the continents
Deeply cared for landmarks
The monuments how you love
her birthmark taking her hand

The Godly land such will command
moonwalker deeply cared for
All watered deep soul of lovers
The world of hands and
words became
such an impact

You felt like the creature so extinct
Things we deeply care about or no one doesn't understand our feeling we move or fly in all directions just to get the right affection
Not Lauren May 2014
"don't waste your time on me you're already a voice inside my head"

funny that you didn't realize those were my favorite song lyrics, not my conscience telling you to go
Jay M Wong Jun 2012
If this is the last poem I will ever write,
Maybe this last time, I will get it right.
If this be the last poem you will ever read,
Maybe after such, will you do your deed,
And tell’st to all the folks who live without sound,
Living carelessly inside their own unknowing bounds.

For this is indeed the last poem for one to regret,
Oh, undoubtedly will never this I forget.
For a poem is but merely a coalition of this and that; all but mere words,
Only to forsake in the burden of misinterpretations of the general herd.
Oh, what is but speech too, when one is two,
Should I mouth one word and mean another to you.

What is a man who speaks one and means another to you?
Tell me then, what is, what is a man who fails to speak true?
So, then in the midst of his heart may his true word lies,
Only to spill to you the frills of his mere ungrateful lies.
So, please take a’mind that he regrets to speak,
The words of hurt and coldness that he had leak.

Oh, may the greatest of trees nest the horrid fungus and sin,
Then find’st that great man who will honor his kin.
Then find’st that great man who will eat so heavenly true,
And live the greatest life before his passing time is due.
Then find’st that great man who will give that faithful trust,
Before his gallant knight self will turn a’rust.

And if before you he stands, might it be not me,
But let merely this heart wish that happiness be.
But if is indeed this idiotic author you chose,
He is unforgivingly torn to have your heart be bruise.
And hope that never will he again speak one,
And mean a different another in a stupid pun.
And tell you that he treasures you so dearly,
And forever to hold you in heart sincerely.

If this is indeed the last poem I will ever write,
Maybe this time, I will read it to you right.
The title is a reference to the artist David Cook's song, "The Last Song I'll Write For You" in which he says "The lyrics talk about saying goodbye to a chapter of your life. Just like a girl breaking up and closing a chapter in life..."
Jett Harris Feb 2016
Where do we stand?

We’re cool enough to check up on each other even though that makes me sadder./ Cool enough to make small but not enough to talk about something that matters

. I wanna work it out, but all you seem to want is space,/ i just wanna tell you how I feel ,and the feelings you had for me seem to have faded without a trace.

I love you so when you when I ask if you wanna talk and you tell me “I’m not free today” I try to have patience,/ but the thought of you with someone else got me Layin in bed like a mental patient.

I don’t know what to do because it kills me inside/… I see your snapchat story of you and other guys.

I wanna flip out , carry on yell and cry/ But all I can do is be jealous and sit at home as my chances passes me by._

So I sit and wonder , when does patience turn into a missed opportunity?/ When does respecting your space turn into you foolin me?

When does me offering my heart become not enough?/ when do I stop trying and start givin up?

What do you do when there’s a chance your love went from something special to unrequited?/ When does it go from holding a flame to going to parties uninvited?
Pallavi Goswami Aug 2016
If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert

Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion

Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,

let go

Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.

An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.

A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.

A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.

A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.

Come in, know me better.

-Pallavi
tread Jul 2011
Had I fought the minds marginal error by staring into the glare of the granite counter,
I might have found myself to be haunted by the thoughts of misinterpretations as I cowered,
Hiding in fear from the thoughts I had misread;
Perhaps I'm too tired, or perhaps my body is made out of lead and has therefore rotted my mind to the core..
Something like an apple in the compost,
Or the composite measure of a lamp-post in juxtaposition from where I stood most often on the night that she died.

And I cried, and I cried, and I cried, and I cried,
But for the most part, it was irrelevant. For the hell of it, I didn't fight it, as the pain had hit the pit of that slit in my heart where I held her so close;
And for too long, my heart fell into a state of comatose, but I made the most out of all I had lost,
But nothing worth gaining can come without cost..
So it's for this reason I ceased measuring what I had gained, or how differently the furniture in my minds living room had been re-arranged by the causation of my future elation that, for the moment, was making me sick to my stomach...
As I found that inside of myself, comparison can only take away from my shelf of rational wisdom and heart to be handed.
Forever, your name on my heart has been branded, in a form I find quite candid in comparison to what later came to be,
The future love I didn't truly feel until I looked back in alarmed retrospect
And realized, I had just missed the border post where it was the point of my comma that they checked,
So as such, it appeared I was under-arrest,
But while my mind was in jail I toned my behavior to the very best and later broke the vestige of ignorance that had previously vexed that place in my mind I had forgotten to check.

And aw, what the heck, I'll blatantly honest.
I've always thought of myself as modest artist whose realized that the world can't be changed,
Only temporarily re-arranged;
And this current arrangement has gone completely insane,
So I'm waiting around for some revolutionary rain;
*** the clouds are quite visible,
But our confidence is divisible by factors of 300 invisible and miserable Marxists stuck in a closet of oblivious self-denial.

All I know is this world is on trial, and if we don't march the final mile in less than awhile,
We're going to miss our chance to plant the seeds while the soils fertile.

So I'm ready.
Everyone, get ready.
It's time to make this world a bit sick and unsteady,
Because it's time for the furniture in our minds to be re-arranged by the causation of our future elation that, for the moment, is making us sick to our stomach.
And don't turn around, this is the worst time to turn back;
Just cut the slack; freedom is behind those great walls we have yet to attack,
So sit back and wait for the call of the words which we lack,
*** they're coming,
And they're coming real soon.
So soon, I can already feel the monsoon sweeping across the exposed cityscapes,
Tracing the skylines shape in the clouds while I sleep.
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Emm Mar 2018
Engulfed in emotions
Everything's a blur with tears
Silly old hopes
Silly old misinterpretations
of generic pleasantries
and politeness
expressed into something more
Let the water flow through the creak,
over the hurdling stones,
let my thoughts move on from this day
Charging forwards leaving your stone behind
Adieu!
Jordan Harris Sep 2014
I once thought big words
held more depth
than small ones.
Now I know they just cause
macro-cosmic misinterpretations.
Michal Shilor Jan 2014
your screaming cigarette smoke rises and i,
in anticipation,
know not
what
to make of you and your-
my!
my misinterpretations of you.



your exhale clouds my kingdom and i
am walking with intention,
trying
not
to mention
that my bloodstream is swimming with-
(drowning in)-
the friction
between us.

soft-spoken?
a shady spectacle,
that cigarette is,
exploited by your splendor…

bear with me! I’m
baring my soul, your
spirit-
[make me drunk on your truth!] i
know it-
(tho’ hidden by soft petals,
pollution—{your
body}) – exists, it
is brimming, is
dancing
at the edge of
your smoke, (your
exhale clouds) my
vision,

…, my apocalyptic intimacy:
pure, untainted thought
shared in mind- (no words required)-
a b s o l u t e l y g r o u n d e d !



your
inhale, (i
watch you dying!), you’re
still alive, my
(cough) inhale, I’m
dying!- you’re
watching and I’m
still alive,

on the brink of chaos, i
watch,
on the brink of perfection, i
write
you
with
fragility,
but speak
in harsh ironies- you
do affect me, i
regard(less of) your
opinions,
the ones clouded by the ocean
of your self-imposed
poison, (this
catastrophe of your
tidal tombstone).

condescending? i
told you, no, i- i
just speak in
mundane repetition
of scarlet lies,
mundane motifs
in this life.

It’s just that…
(no. never mind.)
laura Apr 2018
slate sleepy streets wet
you make like a wizard
funny feelings from your fairy dust

is the wild prospect of
misinterpretations making you hard
for me like your fear of my flirt

gets me turned on?
these warm shadows sail
dumb conversations at a coffee shop
the core of you is warm and i am cold
he’ll chicken out
Angela Rose Oct 2017
Follow the rabbit he will take you to happiness
Do not be late, do not miss that date
You could get lost in a sea of confusion
You would be deceived by the ostensible outlook

You could go fetch seven little men
You could be the fairest of them all
Beware of the deep and everlasting sleep
You would be deceived by the apple's red color

Worry about the petals, they are falling so quickly
He will be stuck that forever if you cannot make him love you
Keep an eye on the rose, it is far too beautiful to let go
You will be deceived by the appearance of a beast

Stuck in a tower, do not ever look down
Grow out your hair past the tall brick walls
Spot a good man, make him rescue your heart
You would be deceived by the family relations

Cleaning the bathroom, making the bed
Sneak out to town, be invited to a dance
"Fairy Godmother, please just give me once chance"
You would be deceived by the loss of one shoe

So waiting, I am waiting for an answer to come
Looking for one man to be the one that I want
A fairy-tale ending is nothing I am after
For I would be deceived by the misinterpretations of the story
This little poem is something I wrote back in high-school, but is one of the pieces I am most proud of and most impressed with myself over.
Am I in Love?

At night, laying sleepless,
I bemoan the treacheries of life
with my love
and appreciation....
And though,
in my dark,
and cavernous foundations;
Roar the pillars of stone,
and shake them.

Waked,
by curiosity,
and interest,
I stare intently at you,
and though I cannot see,
You are there.
Tangible,
by my creativity,
and invisible,
by my negativity.
And through the secret game
that to many, has forbidden name
we speak.

Fear,
and pride,
my greatest hatreds,
now run through me,
though the game of
Predator, and Prey.
I am the prey,
of myself,
in the black vapors
of my confusion,
you two rought me
with confusion
elaborate,
and woe,
despicable.
My thoughts now strand
off into many divisions,
all joining together,
to reveal my fear,
of disappointing you.

The thing we connect through bings,
and so we remain in contact, it seems.
But ever, we thought beautiful
I am marred, and proved untruthful.
You do not deserve me,
but somehow
in this void-feeling heart of mine,
I sense you care.
I care.

Am i in love?

My Mind craves you,
and I put much emphasis on that,
for that, might,
just might,
be my undoing.
Should I look to the East,
to find you, riding, in
shining, and metallic armor,
And see only dust clouds
roam aimlessly from North to South.
But I hear banners, in the West,
all risen high,
as high hopes,
and high spirits,
to guide them.
This, is what I've waited for,
for years,
as do we all.
But my misinterpretations,
now lead the banners,
with silver swords,
bearing the name of hate.
with this,
I deserve only
to lay my head down,
lamely, for you to hew it
from me, and call it,
Victory.

This, I forsee,
this unsensible
and crazed
sight,
that passes through me,
and guides me
to all darker paths of light.
So that I may be dimmed,
and in a cycle refrained,
I should, as a doomsayer,
say my doom,
and I, as a fool,
should subconciously make that true.

This is what I see.
I fear, for you,
and fear,
for me.

I burden all, though a child
and my will is heavy, upon you,
and wild, is my desires
and should you penetrate my curtains,
you should see,
the cold bitterness, of my truth.

But all the while,
mind and soul crave you,
and body revives,
slowly,
but surely.
I sense love,
and my stomach churns,
knowing I shall hang my head
in Guilt.

Am I In Love?
VENUS62 Jul 2014
Ultimately, in the end!


Misinterpretations of religions rend
Rather than mend
The fabric of social togetherness

Rites and rituals are just a way to appease
Not the Gods but the religion’s keepers
if you please

Lost is the essence of all religions true
as professed by
the possessed few

Science's chosen providence
Is to dissect the whole into pieces
In search for futile evidence

Arts bring pleasure
In glorious measure
To the artist and the art-lover

With views disparate
Hearts become desperate
Causing all to separate

Nature is a symbiotic symphony
teaching us
to coexist in harmony

Let literature and poetry
Paintings, pottery and culture
Be the unifier

Intellect is an instrument fine
But a heart’s insight is needed
To reach the soul divine
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
I don't have recurring dreams, but... right..., my dreams... recurring themes. And, if in-them, I've a ... "love-interest?" ... they've taken many shapes. The one, and-one-and-one more, who've shown up more than once, I could cough up, cry-out-over, and name. Only three come, through the old haunts, of my odd-head's hallway, Round-and-round-and-round trip. [redact] At least here, I dated her. In real-life, as-opposed, to the annals of [page 6] more depths-delusional. Did wrong [redact]. couldn't believe she was "glad I came." Care enough, to care. She couldn't-care-less. Middle-ground, Grey-areas, and misinterpretations make my skin crawl. Excepting another-day-in-April,

[big
redact]

and maybe if I sing it better this time she'll seeeeeeeeeeeeeee... "wait, Kay, Cee, and Ell?" I've noticed too, and it's cute, but a fluke. Not some-hidden-meaning. "Got a subconscious, on me," Freud couldn't pursue.

Silly, and I didn't mean to be serious, but you're starting to get a grip-on-it. The feelings may fade, but the drip-drop flow of dreams adds to the direness of my dilemma. Alas, around when she's leaving us-all, in Natick, [page 7] I began-becoming acquainted with another-animal-lover. "Any port in the storm?" Any pill, and a razorblade. "A penchant, for an interesting existence!" Next-door, the slowly-nailed-coffin! Where people are abandoning their unloved pets! She mentions Bertrand Russell, in-the-line to buy, more jet fuel.

 "(sung)Way down in the hoooooooooooooole..."

...
A lot is missing from this act but I bleeped rather than taking out a whole chunk which I also did
Cíara McNamara Mar 2015
You held me so close
That I dared to think you were mine
Salmabanu Hatim May 2018
He was a compulsive liar,
A cunning spider,
That spun silken webs of lies,
People were drawn into it like flies.
With his skills and uncanny ways,
He finally had his says,
He spat easily poisonous deceits,
That made you clench your fists.
He was charming and charismatic,
In  weaving lies artistic.
For him lying had become a ritual,
Sort of habitual.
His descent was gradual,
Down to nothing from a pedestal.
He lost people's trust and credibility.
He was known for dishonesty,
As such he stained his name in society.
He was scoffed,"There goes liar,liar."
At first he excused his lies were misinterpretations,
Or may be  miscommunications.
His lies ruined his friend's life,
He lost the trust of his family,son and wife.
He realised when he had lied,
He had committed suicide.
He had burnt all his bridges,
He had dug his own ditches.
To have his life back,
He had to stop lying and bring everything on track.
geraldine tilo Mar 2014
You're a man of sorrow
You're a man of passion
Your love is deep, your love is wide

You're still so into her
It's evident, please don't deny.

Your misinterpretations trouble me
Your sorrow scares me
Your love is thick, your love is strong

Your eyes are still set on her
It's evident, please don't deny

Your arms are still wide open for her return
Your heart craves
Your sorrow grips

What more can I say?
What more can I say?

I'm not demanding anything from you
All I have is some little understanding of you
I'm just a fan of all I know of you
Please don't misinterpret me, Mr. Weary Heart.
Simpleton Oct 2016
I used to think that I would be so good at it
He made my head spin
His fingers traced empires on my back
That refused to collapse long after his touch had gone
Now it all tastes wrong on my tongue
There's something inside me that wants to remain untouched
Every silence is a space of misinterpretations
Infinite imperfect endings
I don't have the stomach to hold dear
Scrunched paper and meaningless words
It doesn't sound right to my ears
I thought love would fill me
Instead it ate away what I had built for myself
We starved each other
Devoured on bodies in the dark
Crammed and indulged
Until all I could feel was the sun burning my skin
The purge lasted for days
We ejected cold
And discharged the fates we didn't try hard enough to hold
It bled into weeks of damage
Until our memories wept
And our bodies healed
Waiting for either of us to acknowledge
That we were better as strangers
Isaac Feb 2011
Not a good beginning.
Though the ending is good.
Specks of energy ending life.
Zooming into the waterfall.
Is not isn't it?
Can the worst still come?
Misinterpretations and bird calls.
The fever is the cure.
Grand overused.
Over underused.
Seeing the released steam,
You make a new turn
To replace your last one.
The path is worn out
So you slip a new one in place.
The time is up for your inspiration;
The monks are ending their chant.
Look to your new direction,
And find a new dimention.
While writing chalk on chalk,
You find an intrest.
You hear the screams of made up animals,
and steam engines.
The clicks and clacks of spinning.
The ticks of a new idea.
But you dismiss it.
It's all in your head, right?
It's not like anybody else can hear it.
You write it down to save a note,
But words are left in limbo;
But the words are cut short.
All rights reserved by the Author.
Robert Ueda Oct 2013
Foggy scribblings of last nights misinterpretations
                                                            Scattered chairs

Cotton flesh and torn stitching
                                                  Doggy dandruff

Burnt air, Bic lighters and crooked intentions
                                    Ashes to ashes

Soldiers marching in silence
                       Keep moving

Layabout possessions and broken things
A roof, at least
Quentin Briscoe Jun 2013
What have my words really Created
other than feelings...
Emotions
and
Misinterpretations...
Emma-Leigh Ivy Sep 2015
If I had to wait a while
I would
but time would linger for so long
I feel I'd turn to stone.

Put my back to the place
I learned to call my home.

If I had to run for miles
I would
but I feel like I'd get farther
if I could
somehow shake the weight of
my foundation.

The echo of a flawed creation.

Recollections of uncertain
shrouded misinterpretations.

Should I go or should I stay?

Set down my feet or fly away
into the depths
of my own introversion?

I'm cemented in submersion.
...sometimes I feel as if drowning just beneath the surface...
Simon Oct 2019
Frequencies are tough. Frequencies are managed. Two frequencies combine surfaces not existing in one another. Unless strips of different wavelengths are pushing each frequency to each others enlightenment. Nothing judges. Except one binding these apparitions together. A form becoming static too mutual for any compromise. Frequencies become laced with purposes. Easily definable. Never perfect enough for change. Only enough for simple practices. Practices reminding two frequencies of compromise. Compromises aren’t welcome, if one’s purpose is easily definable. If so, then why ask? It’s already staring you right in the face. Proceed with balance! Strips of wavelengths letting frequencies off chains made of static. Finally! One rippling a new focus. Releasing their time and service to entities holding them back. Purpose lays waiting, for all to see. Two frequencies happily definable now. Without change, static doesn’t occupy their purpose. Sparking a judgeable wavelength. Letting you off with a warning. A warning filled with benefits to a newer frequency. One that doesn’t hold frequencies by chains of static. Chains stripping connections between outer wholes. Sparks flying around its properties. Molding your own frequency together. Molding static between ripples of its own actions. Actions feeling the ripples of energy contracting with concern. Movements seeping into another part of itself that wasn’t identifiable. Becoming what wasn’t apart of its own identity. Surging pressure of rippling actions not belonging to itself. Stinging the outer symmetry of ripples. Frequency becoming thoughtless. Submerging into a shocked exterior. Feeling stressed without foreboding it’s purpose. Rippling the caregiver away from its own appreciation. Apparitions flowing misinterpretations. Faltered to a halt! Filling volumes of enlightenment too closed off when trying to supply purpose. Energy is a purpose. Rippling all around each spark to pledge. Pledge what? Pledging a way out! How will it turn out for these rippling fabrics of stationary purposes? Only two halves to a greater wavelength tapping into its own energy supplier.
Frequencies are judgeable when fluent practices run a muck! Only to ones staying broad within perimeters of itself. Only then will things shake moments into the clearing.
aurora kastanias Mar 2018
The lives we cross unknowing
The green-grass paths they wayfare,
Fables of fays and fiends unspoken
Truths belonging to entities of matter,

Flesh bones a body, rhythmed by breath
A heartbeat, pumps red juices carrying
Cleansing oxygen through tireless veins
To a brain, synapses creating thoughts

Interpreting, nervous sensations only
Tempered by hormonal roller coasters
As we defy, the mystic and attempt
To make sense of our existence beyond

The astonishing complex husk leisurely,
Deteriorating in time as we blow on candles
Grasping indeed there is far more inside,
A microcosm endeavouring to reconcile

With an all-pervasive Universe encompassing
As stars fall before our eyes, chronic sunrise,
Twirling incessantly without ever feeling
Dizzy, dazed by questions sparkling intuitively

As we struggle with the limits of earthly
Confinement, the green-grass paths we wayfare,
Health impediments, mental distortions,
Quarrelling with our fellow adventurers

Our frustrations, neglecting to acknowledge
The fays lifting us up whilst unpredictable
Fiends bid to crush when unexpectedly
Unfathomable interior strength unites

Us through experience a succession
Of collective errors misinterpretations
Aware however that we will endure,
Evolve to reach our highest potentials

For a unique welfare granted to all
Creatures, as we set course into the vastness
Of bewilderment, inexplicable space,
Omnific unfurling home to humanity

And all the breaths within.
On life and humankind
Reemoatpeace Feb 2015
Complications and frustrations
A raucous sound made by Misunderstandings and misinterpretations
Confusions, delusions, illusions
Are there Solutions and inclusions???
When does it end, how will it mend
Embraced by chains, drenched with pains
Tears turned into icicles 
Oxygen filled with poison
Sensations, apprehensions, dedications
Washed away down the river of hopes
Drowning, failing, suffocating
If only...If only I can just breath
Liz Anne Mar 2014
Wood stains and carpet burns
little miscalculations in the curve of my lips
spun plastics and scentless dyed pine
false communications and misinterpretations
my bruised eyes carry images of my own ancient horrors that must pass
as easily as an assembly line to your chronic melancholic sight
the burn of ancestral blood lining my gums was temporary
now my shelves are lined with books whose words must look like hieroglyphs to you
some truth is found between the curl of my roman toes and the fibers of linoleum carpet
the warped wooden shelves can't recall the grain under every layer colored new
and the carpet was never anything but manufactured tenderness
don't look to my books for some insight you will find none
unless instead you run your finger along
the blemishes that line my cheeks and conceal words
unspoken from ancient wounds healed but not forgotten.
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2015
.
Deep in a shallow body,
Built for burials under moon,
The seas rage in tombs of vein,
Dark and salted, wet preserved
In flesh that fades by blistering sun,
A star much higher than old flames,
Mortal and frail in mucks of oft being,
Of earth and breaths traveled alone,
The tell tale heart was rung, hollow,
Swung bold on meat hook splinters
Of femurs soaked with leached lime
For life is a boneyard of wintertimes,
And summer merely drips of dreams,
Bleeding as the belled heart, in tells,
Is beaten into mettle shroud where
Hope only enters from two blinded
Eyes, in the drowning, dried ocean
Body, touch is printed off in dust,
Sorrow bred misinterpretations,
For love is a holey spirit, ghostly
In its wail.  And heart can but
Only bleed so much red until
The last chimes of never.
Hayley Schiete Nov 2014
Tuesday night I wonder what it's like to not care and throw myself out into the water
Plunging deep into a sea of isolation
Being too dark to swim back


3 hours later I wonder what it's like to not cry and drag my feet out into the desert
Laying still in a land of misinterpretations
Being too hot to crawl away


8 hours later I wonder what it's like to be happy with what I have and float out into the sky
Flying high in a cloud of regretful communications
Being too spaced to come back down


Wednesday morning I wonder what it's like to not have spurs of violent, ugly thoughts and say good morning to you
Hating every second I doubted
Being too sad to think through
long time no see

— The End —