"mispelled" poems
Do you want the truth?
I ideally I would want
A taller than me
By much
Blonde haired
Blue Eyed Boy
With no dark secrets
Or spare tickets
To the club
But what I keep getting
Is a dark haired
Dark eyed
Know it all
who drinks
till hes drunk
Smokes
till hes gone
And bleeds on the outside
Looking in
Listlessly
and amourously
For the first month.
And a quarter of the
Half.
Then he turns
Rambles softly
Moving On.
Oh What
a sweet tragedy
love.
And oh how stupid
we are
for
wanting
it.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
There's a magical place in the forest
Where fairies go to cultivate
Flutter around with verses and rhyme
Sweet poetry they make
They frolic amongst the
Verbs and nouns
Plucking flowers and synonyms
Joining hands and ripe phrases
Create odes they want to sing
Cross pollinating the pieces of poetry
With different story lines
Fertilizing with a purpose
In the growing of the rhyme.
Their dainty feet
Sow similie seeds,
And their deft little hands
Root out mispelled weeds.
Then they whisper the words to the
passing breeze
Who takes words, caresses them,
And floats with ease.
They travel and roam
Off to distant pastures new
Where they settle
And blossom into a muse.
Then implant in the mind
Of a resting poet
Enter his thoughts and views
Who upon waking
Will stretch, smile and write,
And continue to grow and enthuse.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
I used to be a mover.
I ran, and danced, and climbed trees.
If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.
I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass.
I did not question, I just did.
I used to say things.
I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity.
I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.
People were constantly telling me to be quiet. I made them listen.
My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real.
I used to laugh more.
Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee.
It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.
It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room.
I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed.
I used to get lost in things.
In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books.
I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there,
and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one.
I felt so disheartened when I found my way again.
I used to create.
I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time.
It just poured from my fingertips. It was only completed when the smile came.
A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me. I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster.
I believed the only things you own, are the things you make.
Now I am uncertain.
Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent.
Now I only move with a destination in mind.
I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.
I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.
The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words.
Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time.
Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around. Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed.
And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you.
But now.
Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought.
The Mover awakens within me. I smile and crave company.
I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn.
I will not sleep tonight.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Words the counterpoint to our pain of existence;
Finely scattered fires, on the tips of arrows
Buried deeply beneath brooding flesh;
Blood seeking missiles, to destroy a lung or a heart.
If the syllables were aimed well enough,
And once my convulsing heart is all twisted and held
In the sinewed leather embrace of your quiver,
I'm busy reading my death in the end feathers.
Because a word is mispelled, and it takes my final breath:
I am impaled on your imperfection again;
That word is a secret message, that can fly swifter and straighter
To inform me, that you were thinking of something more
Than just dinner, and a hide to comfort old bones.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:33 PM UTC
i use social media as an outlet for my emotions
the only problem is that
most of my mixed feelings develop because
of subtweets and
photos of girls who are not me
isnt it funny?
how the apps on our phones are
both the sickness and the cure
no
you will not go to heaven,
you will eternally reside in
your saved drafts on twitter
i dare you to post your most embarrassing
mine?
"do you ever look at the man you used to love
and wonder why on earth he doesnt cut his hair
and why he started wearing bermuda jorts"
its more embarrassing for him
my love life is now at my finger tips
do you know how many guys want to love
the girl they met on tinder who
hides behind her poetry
and uses harry potter as an escape mechanism?
none
i dared one to text me at midnght
between mispelled words and shots
he completed the phrase
i love .... euphamisms
like when your former self dies you call it
growing up instead of suicide
not my type
i cant stand when people cough in class
it reminds me of choking on
words
my words - the ones i say when i'm not supposed to
or the ones i should've said but never did
all of my pictures are captioned with
phrases and song lyrics that
i read in your voice
i wish that record wasn't broken
i wish i was a wizard
truly i do
with spells like
impedimenta (to slow down your attackers)
i wonder if it would slow down the voices in my head
i wonder if it could slow down you leaving
or my breathing (or lack thereof)
this wasn't meant to be emotional,
but with the world like this
how could you NOT cry
ive spent more nights in the bar bathroom
than i have in my own bed
its true how they say big events are
the most intimate
madi hahn - party of 1
or party of 761
if you count the followers who favorite my
tweets about dying
no one relates to happy poetry
why?
because no one is happy
because. no. one. is. happy.
its a facade - a mask, we hide behind
but then the clock strikes midnight
we're back daring stupid guys
to tell us **** about ourselves that we already know
we burn holes into screens trying to be relatable
we lose the best versions of ourselves
and
we are fine with it as long as
we recieve our fair share of attention
we deserve it
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC
My sweet heart, you don't know
how much I care for you.
Love is invisible,
but it can touch the soul.
You always love the one who leaves you
& leave the one who loves you.
For years & years
I have been walking beside you.
Fate was cruel.
It mispelled our relationship.
The time we spent together was
like pearls in the deepest ocean.
We couldn't be moved
by drizzling rain nor
by the scorching sun.
Our bond was deep rooted.
Still how could you ignore me,
when I showed that you were wrong.
I don't want you to get lost in worldly pleasure.
That's why I gave you ''the living word".
It soothes your soul,
refreshes your mind,
brightens your face.
That's what a faithful friend needs.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
*Hello! My name is:
Miss Understood*
Do you understand?
Ha! No!
I didn't think that you would!
Let me explain it
In easier terms
Who I really am
Without backwards words
The words on the page
Are often mispelled
But I'll make this one a riddle
And hope it ends well
**A filthy secret
Sealed with a signature kiss
Locked in with ink
Or at least…
Something like this
From hands holding magic
To deep twisted lies
More dramatic reality
For a story
In a line
Chicken scratch codes
To decipher a thought
A colorful battle
Being constantly fought**
Enough clues now!
Have you figured out who I am?
All the answers you need
Are in the palm of your hand
It's really quite simple
Cuz I made this one real good
And as I stated before
We are Miss Understood.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC