"mismatch" poems
There’s no other choice but to wear them,
The drawer offered nothing but these.
An odd pair of socks might be quirky,
Odd sizes don’t normally please.
The one at my ankle was spotted,
The other was striped to the knee
The latter two sizes the smaller,
The former quite large by degree.
This mismatch I thought to keep secret
And cover the dissonant pair.
I chose from the wardrobe some trousers
And shoes, with considerable care.
My ruse would conceal the divergence
From prescribed social standards of dress
And none would be any the wiser
My discomfort I’d have to suppress.
Now, it’s harder to mask discomposure
When physical pain has attacked.
The small sock had cramped my toes tightly
That blood didn’t flow, was a fact.
My colleagues regarded me strangely
For they could see nothing amiss
But I could feel cold perspiration,
Anxiety I couldn’t dismiss.
It was then that I felt a strange itching,
The striped sock began to descend
And round my right ankle it wrinkled
And bulged at the trouser leg end.
Dismayed at my great consternation
But clueless to what was awry
My friends made comforting gestures
Need of which I could only deny.
The moral of this story’s transparent
Socks are always best worn as a pair
Their nature is in the relationship
Which provides a well-balanced air.
And take the trouble to remember
Be congruent in all that you do
For disparity will often bring discord
And that path, you’ll certainly rue.
Oct 11, 2009
Oct 11, 2009 at 6:43 AM UTC
A pivot, A ****** A watershed
Been miserably waiting for dawn in my head
Then the day came
A day my mismatch soul and body met
I fed on your words and voices
Wolf down everything from you and store them up
Taking mental snapshot in the dark
And prepare myself for yet another brutal week
I fed on tasty food and a good mood
Treat myself with something tangible
Glutton is never a sin for me
I fed on fantasies.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Genderless with scraped knees and
A lipstick crush on one who bore the same name as me
Uncut brown hair untouched by bleach and
Stealing kisses from my best friend while my parents lied asleep
Lying in the grass with a picture book on faeries
Listening to the wind whistle through our dying trees
Jumping on the bed with my ***** and my bubby
Giggling hand over mouth when my mother called him "hubby"
Daisy chains and he loves me nots
Unbrushed teeth beginning to rot
***** shoes and ***** shoelaces
Visiting imagined places
Pink striped socks and a skirt to mismatch
Waiting for robins eggs to fall or to hatch
O, to be a child and to live within a dream
To lie awake at ten past eight, imagination like a stream
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
out of the blue you came,
and for that i was the blame.
the house was too crowded,
sweaty bodies and red cups enshrouded.
i looked and looked around,
but you didn't want to be found.
and then in the backyard i saw you,
noticed you right through.
i asked you 'what's the matter',
you said 'i would rather'.
i gave you a questioning look,
you asked, 'are you Brooke'.
i chuckled at you guess,
and straightened my dress.
you got up,
and pushed the red cup.
i opened my mouth to talk,
but further you walked.
you cupped my neck,
and gave me a peck.
i gasped for air,
and ran my hands through your hair.
your lips connected to mine again,
and realization hit me then.
i was too good for you,
and you were too good for me.
we didn't match,
we were a mismatch.
but just so you know,
i loved you all along.
even though we both said no,
we were wrong.
you were such a party destroyer,
you destroyed me, completely,
mind and body.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
A man he wrote the book
A book for all and none
About a life spent leaning
Leaning towards the sun
In search of all a greatness
His life a distant run
A battle for a giant
He reaches for the sun
On a field of giants
Merely flesh and blood
He disregards the mismatch
And stretches for the sun
Life the fiercest battle
A war that’s never won
Commits his life to reaching
Reaching for the sun
He asks the aged pastor
Disillusioned as the nun
Confides in self and marches on
Onward towards the sun
Saw life and fortune a lady
Took a chance with love
Traded breast and beauty
Traded it for the sun
His only life a sacrifice
A gamble for a goal
With faith and strength he pushes on
He strains his empty soul
Tried to be a good man
Emulates Christ the son
Grounded broken wings he *****
Tragically towards the sun
To advance the course of history
Alexander, Caesar, the ***
A martyr for the western world
He reaches for the sun
To hold the mighty leviathan
With gear to catch a cod
Born with a head of a *******
He aspires to be a god
And oh his quest does beckon
Failure certain done
What else can he do
He reaches for the sun
To god he clings his anchor
Sworn service to God and Son
Hopelessly he leans
Leaning towards the son
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
The age of letting time take its
own, slow course is gone, perhaps
For every hour is rush hour,
Every meal is a quick-bite,
That cup of coffee always instant,
Honking even before the signal goes
from yellow to green, the rule
The age of savouring the moment
to its delicious limit is gone, perhaps
For every flaw is now a breaking point,
Every argument cause for a split-up
Every mismatch provocateur of second thoughts
In the age of waiting being obsolete,
Patience becoming a virtue redundant,
The plain, small joys of life becoming insignificant,
The material replacing the abstract,
The direction of the swipe on a touchscreen
Becoming the decider of the fate of love stories,
I'll never find you, perhaps,
If this world continues to function
Like a real-life dating app
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
No sense for the senseless
Brains for the brain eaters
schools, business, multi media
Mosquitoes with cyber eyes
spreading dull life and exciting lies
Broken records misdefined,
CD’s, USB, mp3
all wasted on nothing real
Color splash, purposeful mismatch
Pop a quad stack down the hatch
quick *** quick cash
no point to living
live life fast
Senseless
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
It is another one of those early mornings when hatred spews out of my body and aims for itself, I never miss. I have always been good at reaching targets, even better when I myself am bullseye.
I shoot directly for the mirror. Into my thighs, my chest, this mountain range of a body. I send my angry in a direct path towards my folds, my stomach, my skin, in all that is human. I launch bombs on my own territory like it's what I've been sent to do, like I was made to destroy what I have spent my whole life building.
I ask why it so easy to rip apart the things I've put together myself. I ask why it feels so normal to want to break down the rafters of the only shelter I will ever be able to use for protection.
I blame everything else before I blame me. I blame the girls with bodies like sunsets, that contrast my mid-day average sky of a figure. I blame the dresses that I cannot fit into, the way they **** the life out of me every time I can't stretch them past my hips. I blame genetics with absolutely no knowledge of science behind me.
I want to blame society for the hate that has been multiplying inside of me but at the end of the day I am still the one who does the math. It is still me who pours self-deprecation over my head to shower in all of the things I cannot wash out. It is still me who incites hurricane upon every part of myself that is impossible to change by nature. I am the one who detonates my disappointments like the explosion will somehow change the way I look, like the aftermath of destruction will leave me with anything but empty and wreckage.
I often forget that it is me who spoon feeds myself memories of failure at every meal. It is me who hands over guilt every time I reach for the snooze button to fall back asleep. I even shove myself in fault to depression, cover myself in darkness and then wonder why there is no light to be seen. I am the culprit in it all.
In the mornings when my mind is still circling to figure out where it left off, I point it in the direction of negative. I take all of the crooked and pile it up to remind myself of the mismatch. When I take aim at my reflection, I never miss.
I direct the ****** of my mistakes, vulnerability and insecurity directly towards my image. I have become the hitman of my own assassination. My fall into disaster is wholeheartedly my own doing. I am the best of the best when it comes to this form of damage. I never miss.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
He looked fine. Fine with a y. Fyyyyne
However another guy had the best style, he could mismatch and make it fit.
Then again no man had abs like him, it was a canvas I longed to....
I will never forget the other guys eyes, his hazel eyes spoke to me.
How couldn't I mention the manly stance, broad shoulders, large hands man.
But honestly, I never saw beauty till I met blank.
Blank is kind, the kind that gives and expects nothing, for he
simply wants to see joy in me.
Blank is confident in himself, in a way that needs to prove nothing because he humble by nature
Blank is rational yet irrational in a way that strives and hopes.
Blank is funny, uplifting, ****
Blank teaches me about myself, he makes me better.
I've never seen one as beautiful internally, which it illuminates externally.
Hopefully I meet blank.
_______, I love you.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
girls in high school wear infinity scarves
and expect their love to last as long.
their hearts are hidden under
mounds of dyed wool, and I'm sitting in
U.S. History learning about slavery.
this is what I know.
we are all slaves to our own hearts.
we pick fields of lust
and try to sew it into love.
we wear combat boots because we feel threatened
by our own bodies.
like we are at war in our flesh, and need the extra protection;
the leather safety net with laces.
we walk down those black, salt-licked stairs
with our heads down because we have trust issues,
but when we trip we never forgive our clumsiness.
we swallow bitter tears like sugar after medicine,
and we pump hate through our tumblr blogs like gasoline.
we pay for affection with skin.
we accept the words ***** **** ***** ugly, MAN, as nicknames.
a wave to the opposite gender is now thirst.
we need to grow up; put down the sippy cup.
this is high school.
cut your hair. dye it purple, and then regret it automatically. dye it black,
and then spend five months and $597.00 getting it back to your natural color.
mismatch your socks. eat almonds when you feel like you should starve your insides.
paint your nails, mess them up, and paint them again;
paint your soul the same way.
we are moving at the speed of light.
slow down your mind.
you are in high school.
you are still growing love in fields, you just need to find the right soil.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
I heard the rushing wind in the calmest air
Loudly whispering
Unemotional words spoken through many tears
Flying freely
With no wings
The present time became bygone
Dedicatedly detached
A light of darkness lit up bright shadows
Well suited
In mismatch
Opposing allies fought for hostile peace
Calling light the same
Agitation dwelled in tranquility
All their calmness
Spoke disclaim
Harmony was found within a tempest
Coordinated discord
The rushing wind screamed out quietly
Time as they knew it
Was no more
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
I'm a little late, so I'll put in my drawer in my night stand a letter I found. Is it a letter? No, it is an invitation to your funeral plans.
As if that is not a smack in my face...WHAM!
You thought I wasn't ever a loyal man because I went away, unplanned. But let me take a stand, for you missed the part where I gave you my hand. I was on a flight one blizzard night. When I get off, my rental car was towed because the company said I owed more for how many miles I put on it. See, the car and I were on a trip to gather your family for you, but you didn't believe me. I stayed in a hotel with them, missing you. Their phone connections were off, too and all I had was the TV in that hotel room. To pass the time of course was my only intention, but when I saw our precious 2 story house on the breaking news, I saw that a fire had taken you. I was utterly confused. I pinched myself because I thought I was dreaming. Until, one day, I saw your will claimed we had nothing to do with each other in terms of our engagement. What a scam! I cried and denied the will until I no longer could feel. It's been months and the detectives are still interviewing me. See, your life was important; way more than me. I went to visit and kiss what was left of the fence. I pleaded with hopelessness, "We want you back!"
Suicide letter found.
It reads:
"Winter grows dead leaves, and the trees are morbidly idle. Our nights grew earlier, and our fights were a given. So I bet you'll view it on the news that house number 652 blew away this winter day. What was my defeat? We were a mismatch, that you knew. You were a backstab, I took it through and through. You were half snatched when I was into you. I never wanted you to be this fool that drools over the fun little boys do. I put you on this pedestal, blind to know the rest of you. I was frozen into your atmosphere of departure, thawed to my agony. Why did you ever leave?"
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
It's 11:11 make a wish
Look out the spotty window
See all the frowns
And boring towns
See how powerful the words we use are
They can cut deep
Deeper than the most violent assault
Buildings and obelisks of befuddlement
Pressed for time
Lemon scented tiles
Scrubbed
No mold
Personal preference
Common courtesy
And common sense
Scarce but invaluable
A face only a mother could love
And a father can lie to
Coulda
Woulda
Shoulda
Didn't
Searching for carrion
Give way
To the wayside
ECNALUBMA
In the rear view
The worms eat us
The early birds catch the worms
The cat nabs the worm
After being resurrected by satisfaction
And the night owl writes the tell-all
Put the ear to glass
Put the glass to the door
And listen closely
To sound of knuckles cracking
And the chattering of coffee shop patrons
Indian givers going back on their word
Fingerless gloves
Prim and proper
Promptly pummeling
Tunneling to tomorrow
Well done
Slim to none
Fat chance
The local native's tongue
Sold fresh and farm raised
On any given day
You can find demi-gods
Playing a a pick up game
Matchbook
Matchbox
Mismatch socks
Pick up sticks and stretchmarks
Just stay the night
So we can wish this all away together
It's 11:12 open your eyes
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
we think we’re made of numbers. percentages on tests,
pounds on a scale,
likes on a photo,
price tags on clothes.
but we’re not.
we are made of love and happiness and they way we laugh.
we’re made of good memories and late nights and past-curfews.
we have more substance than numbers.
you’re not what you look like.
you’re the music you listen to,
the shows you watch,
the art you make,
the flowers in your hair,
your favorite blanket.
you’re not the pimple on your nose
or the pudge on your stomach.
You’re not your thighs or your teeth.
you’re the color of your hair,
you’re your favorite band,
you’re the mismatch socks you wear
You’re what you love, you’re not what you look like or the body you are in.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
They call me bohemian,
a lost intellectual
hidden with no ambition
A happy go lucky,
who hops and hits
like a river flowing downhill
A philosophical dreamer
with subjective absolutions
unrealistic surreal expectations
They see my eccentric fashion
the chic grease of mismatch
A happenstance of my day's mood
My mind is indigenous
My soul is gender fluid
A vessel of masculinity and femininity
One day, it's a skirt and blouse
The next is a bow tie and shirt
The other is a blend of two
A maverick in a world alone
I felt it all my life, the lack of connection
No motions with the convectional
Their whispers cannot be heard
I am done with biting my nails
Let them pull their hair with their noise
Their chitter and chatter complaints
As I gaze and talk to the floor
weary of their mediocre complaints
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
I aim for the puddles at just the right depth
The half gray water rolling downhill to meet the river
Will splash up over the edge of my purple-blue ghost sneakers
And soak the toe of my mismatch tyedye socks
It makes the humid Texas run
Seem all the more adventurous
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
Strawberries
*that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.*
Covered in dripping red
*gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.*
Atop a table
*tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.*
Retching from inhalation
*as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.*
Enlightenment of the general mood
*from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.*
Dead like a corpse
*as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.*
Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Always take the stairs, my dove.
Sweet girl, put away your knife.
You need not cut asunder these vines
they'll make you grow so tall in life.
Always stand up straight, my heart
Let them see your imp eyes burn
as you sing in constellations
swirl as you turn.
Always mismatch your socks, my dear
Never forfeit your spontaneity
for conformity, my sweet,
live your eleven in gaiety.
Always love your love freely, pet
My baby sister, your soul consumes
each who touch it, it follows me still,
bursting like a rose in bloom.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
Cleopatra's Boom, as worn as earth as economy, salivating stone-head medusas turning Hercules to stone mending torn shirt-sleeves as it's posterity's sign of decay when nostalgia melts like an old bucket of icecream, not empty—but gooey sticky sugar-salt in mist of phosphene glare from a quarter of the deserts heat. You can see 64% of the picture. The other 36% is forever lost in the splattered blindspot dots of your diamond optical nerves, an eternal mismatch eternity—the parts you won't notice when your stomach aches after three consecutive cigarettes for breakfast. Cleopatra's Boom, belittled like oceans, always so alien tho it makes up 71% of our global entirety—thoughts find external storage on disc drives, in water—there's a mouth out there with a saltier kiss than the Pacific, one that caws like seagulls in exodus, announcing to the Peace Arch: “I American. I need a greater space to spread my legs.”
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
I feel ridiculous
just this mug
with this purple heart and this
yellow background
and do you know what I did?
[here comes the kicker]
clutched that little thing to my chest and
out from my mouth stumbled the most awful sounds
like they were lost in darkness, feeling the air blindly
confused at their mere existence, prodding jabs of exhales,
littering the space with blurbs of mismatch speech
silly as it sounds
I knew if I let myself
I could fill that purple heart with salt water
don't doubt it a bit
shocked about this incident
well
no, truthfully I'm not
as soon as my eyes locked their gaze
I could feel a stir
this buzz of an awakened monster
monster
and one just can't remain calm
with that
oh well, better luck next time
as in I might find a sword or a hero or
I don't know
courage
to look away and not dwell
idle in the same space, loitering
purposefully unintentional
if you can believe that
* side-note
rolled the word "Respect"
around in my head
for awhile
stretched it like taffy in the window, shot it at
faces as though it were a lecture
mulled over the depth of it
r-e-s-p-e-c-t
rreessppeecctt
came to this conclusion:
is it possible to respect "this"
....."this"
yet at the same time secretly
openly?
show that I wanted to hear you say
"yes, that'd be fine"
but it came out as
"thank you for respecting this"
oh.
ok
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
She was full of life with a hunger for adventure.
Everyday she traveled to the ends of the earth to bring you back all of the happiness that you needed to sooth your racing soul.
But no matter how treacherous the journey, she always persisted, she would never let you down.
But as each day passed, each journey got harder and each time she returned, more exhausted than before and the happiness and joy that she wanted to share with you was never good enough - no matter how hard she tried.
Each song that she showed you, you said wasn’t your taste
Each accomplishment she was proud of, you were less than impressed
Each smile was never quite bright enough
Stomach not flat enough, hair not soft enough, kisses not sweet enough, each blink not quick enough, each breath not shallow enough.
Her mind was never sharp enough to keep up with your greatness.
Because you were royalty, the ruler or all, controller of time. But that is only how you saw yourself. The rest saw you as a crazed puppeteer trying to control the uncontrollable.
Which is quite the feat,
but you cracked the code.
Tell me,
How do you control the uncontrollable?
You break what isn’t meant to be broken until the point of being unfixable. But you fix them and break them like a record on repeat.
Showing them that you are the only one who can fix it, but like god you can take it away
So the girls who dreamt about falling in love walk on eggshells each day as to not **** it up.
To spare themselves from the verbal berating of
“i’m the only one who will ever care”
and the
“no one will ever love you like i do”
and the best of them all
“no matter how hard you try, you are and will never be good enough.”
When a lie is told too many times you believe it to be true.
Forever the ball and chain on the ankle keeping them grounded when the winds of someone new would come by.
Because who wants a girl who is damaged?
The instructions are shredded and in a language I don’t understand.
People come and they go, fixing and tweaking, leaving and taking parts along the way.
Forever a mismatch, an unmatched sock that you just throw out.
But someone, somewhere will help her understand her unreadable instructions
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 11:23 PM UTC
Smoke leaving my lungs
is an excellent simile
expressing what this journey has become.
Benighted by forked tongues;
the whispers of the world mismatch
the ****** expressions I catch.
Trying to ****** a batch of moments
worthy of gloating to my opponents.
Enticing movement in their bowls
as their smiles turn to scowls.
Exhaling the growls of satisfaction
from a triple black hood.
Their actions run afoul of the good
in my soul, truth be told.
My mind is too cold.
My heart is too bold.
My being can't be controlled
by nonfactual statements.
I am standing adjacent to greatness
with no patience for the aimless.
My genius is hungry and their life is the waitress.
So gracious I'm weightless
with words that are heinous, outrageous and shameless.
Yes, I'm saying it. I said it and I'll say it again.
I am the paper, the ink, the words and the pen.
You can't best this style unless your right within.
I'm alright whether I'm left in
My, your or their skin.
Lurking through dreams as if they were my possessions.
Haunting poetry globally with a potency that leaves
minds convulsing and hearts slain.
Be forewarned; The Ghost has returned again.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Distant as the far-off maritime state,
undeniable as the endless mismatch
of rock turmoil in the centre of the Earth,
and as vital as the pound of flesh, pulp
and lung, tired bronchiole, wasted lyric,
and cancer's ever-present weight
upon your mind.
Familiar as your lover's intonation,
as she asks of the breadth of your love,
attractive as the modest celebrity,
with legs splayed in bronzed celebration
of this, her life's affirmation.
Bound as the pages of your old journal,
full of misdirected sorrow and old, old love.
Curtailed as the dance floors abandoned
at request of the lights, sugared, spilt drinks
to rot the wooden boarding, now devoted
to misery-cleaners and the bringers
of tomorrow.
Firewalled as the world is to debt.
Cardboard shop-fronts, straw-men hippies
and bent products, cash out at Christmas,
then a haemorrhage in the New Year of
old floods and foreclosures. Covered up
as is the rusted kettle to stifle flame.
Lost as flavour is to ketchup, as winter
is to hope of heat, to desire of spring
and the end of forever-night. Thin as
my wrists, as hands hold the banister,
gaining small balance in life's rare incline,
long stripped of exercise, of enterprise.
Unutterable as the soul-sounds
I feel when I pick up the guitar,
as unattainable in this life,
as is beauty once my knotted fingers
press consciously upon the strings.
A truth legacy found in blood and
distortion, found in intuitive drives,
warped by consumption. Dismissed
theory of Atlantean ties,
of old Babylon
and Reptilian lullabies.
Luring, luring, luring to distraction,
into the night and the plight,
into the absence of Arcturian light!
Keep close to me, please,
oh, feeble recollection,
please take me to truth,
in this, my meditation.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
He brought me flowers.
A strange mix of peonies and
irises.
A mismatch of separate beauties
Who do not quite fit
Together.
They look tired.
Exposed of the raw temperatures
we keep in our
Hearts.
Yet they light up the room,
Making it feel like home.
Making it feel like
him. He made me a bouquet.
And little did I know that a strange set of flowers
Would turn out to be the
reflection of us:
A mismatch of separate beauties, who do not quite fit
Together.
And yet they light up the room.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
she sashayed
down the runway
she put her assets
on display
and after
the rocker saw them
he wanted to be
welcomed into her bay
their relationship
hit all the highs
they had
a jet set lifestyle
they roamed
the many miles
they had money and fame
all stacked in a pile
but their dream
came crashing down
as so many
famous pairings do
the fame and fortune
did of them both *****
sticking together
and holding tight
only lasted
for a short while
for them
they saw fit
to follow
separate avenues
with other women and men
the rocker and the model
their mismatch
plays again and again
love so often
doesn't blend with fame
the attraction
soon mislays
its magnetic pull
and the dream
becomes a void pool
that loving feeling
says farewell
the starry eyed
celebrities
sound the finishing knell
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC