"misplace" poems
Colourful and soft
Hearts, stars and polka dot
Pull me on when it turns cold
Entangle me, don’t fold
Woollen, netted or cotton
Worn at the bottom
Warm, cosy and neat
That’s how I keep your feet
I am always in two’s
You can wear me with shoes
Wear me wherever you like to
But take me off when you enter the loo
Please don’t get me wet
Even I stink when I sweat
Don’t misplace my twin
It will break my heart and that’s a sin
I won't let your feet turn cold
I will be there when you are old
I am comfort, I am the best
Used in north, south, east and west.
I am stretchy, I am a sock
I ease your feet for a run or walk
If I take the back seat
Numb, tanned and torn feet.
So pay my parents well
Don’t let your feet swell
I promise to serve you
I know you need me too.
-Zainab Attari
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
but stars we named together
linking lines from star to star
hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
another
leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
that you
chase
chase
chase
lifting the palm of your hand
so cold to the touch I shiver
feeling the beauty of my tears
that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
of this cold Parisian night
you smile in jest and
I misplace the space
between you and I and that sky
whispering "do you love me?"
how could I resist the beauty of
our second to last kiss.
© Sia Jane
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true
And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back
He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
When I think about the future with you I smile about the little things
I think about the late nights on the couch, eating leftover Chinese food and laughing until we cry
I think about the days at the pool, putting sunscreen on your back, and finding your sunglasses for you because you misplace everything
I think about the sunny afternoons, exhausted from the work day, and you're pouring me a drink and telling me you're so ******* proud of me
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
a light at the end of the tunnel
is the freedom
in the words I type
Where would I be
without the steady click
of my mind laying into the soft
caress of a screen, as for paper
it's insolent and my pen it ran out of ink
The lines I draw, are only in my mind
as I've seemed to have misplace the valley where the dead rest
The tangible object where many of writers have left their soul
The pages where have they gone ?
The smell, and the history, all here in this screen
A bird sits at my window sill as if waiting for me
to deliver some sort of message
she will fly and soar and anyone who lays on her will know
that I couldn't deliver the message I was told to write
I couldn't jump over to the other side
I couldn't make it through the forest without becoming more lost
I didn't try hard enough, I let fear take hold.
I wanted so badly to become
The one,
the one you all need,
but the tree's they laid witness
to trial after trail of failure
laid between the click of a keyboard a new generation
of the vessel that we use to pour our souls into
my thoughts captured before my eyes and
just one click and you will all see
and maybe you will feel the failure I carry
the failure i've never confronted myself with
a perfectly honest revelation
of how I failed you all,
of how I couldn't jump,
of how I let the fear of the pain
get in the way of the success of a champion.
Now I'm in my room feet firmly planted in reality and i still
feel the fear
I still feel the self doubt
the feeling that no matter how many times I jump
i'll always fall short
I'll never make it to the other side
I'll never be a person solidified in a vessel
whose soul was felt
whose soul was known
I'll never bring the world together, or sacrifice
I'll most likely be average
I'll mostly likely die without hearing
the sound of my giant crowd.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
I've spent a life creating fortune for those who've either never seen nor deserved it
Decimated by wanton want for more, or decaying senses wrought with desolation and desire to simply be known, I've caused strife within myself for the sake of others being fulfilled
I've spent so much time creating, ready to give myself to a world that's only seemed to cause destruction to my own soul, and take from me the things I needed most, even if merely conceived through empty wishing
I crave to bestow this strength and wisdom to one who would call my heart home; to be equal and stand as one, through synergy and servitude toward every sense of well being, respect, and care
I do not ask for more, I request nothing but trust and honesty; my affection, admiration, and loyalty lies upon the eyes that see me true
I do not expect love, nor frivolous diligence, I simply wish to no longer misplace my purpose, my admiration, or my faith unto anyone that would never see me, or never care to desire such staunch resolve within their heart as well
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 3:12 AM UTC
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.
Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.
The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.
I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.
Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.
A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.
I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.
Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.
I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.
Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.
Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
More than the combination
Of Math and English,
More than the uncertainty
Of sour bitterness
Don’t I deserve better?
Then the hours upon hours
Of monotonous words
Then the blaring and the whistling
Of simultaneous noise
Don’t I deserve better?
More than the giggling
Flock of girls
More than the chants of
Your irritating name
Don’t I deserve better
To compete arrogance
With compassion
To argue utmost uncertainty
With obvious honesty
Don’t I deserve better?
Than the continuous
Anxiety
Than the pressure to
Ignore
Don’t I deserve better?
To choose what should
Be chosen
To love for uncertainty
One who does
Don’t I deserve better?
To love those who love me
To ignore those who misplace me
To finally be with someone of my choosing
But it rarely works that way,
Will I ever deserve better?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
Finding What Was Lost 1/12/19
I’m searching for something I’ve lost. You can’t help me look for it.
I can’t quite remember what I did with it. This thing that seems to elude me.
How could I misplace something so important?
I became complacent, that’s what happened.
What was an intrinsic part of me, not nurtured, left me abandoned.
If I call to it, it does not come like a puppy who has escaped the yard with its tail tucked in between his legs.
I have to show what I’ve lost, that it is of value to me.
“Hello?” please come back. I swear I’ll do better, and work harder than I ever have.
I know now that my existence is meaningless without this part of me.
Realizing this, I reach into the dark places of my mind for the light switch to flip on.
Recalling every detail about what I love to do, nurturing what gives me purpose.
Because, in the end, only I can fulfill this need.
Reinventing, transforming, and evolving. Finding myself along to way.
Becoming a better version of what I was and, in doing that, embrace me.
Hello soul.
By.
Randy McPeek
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Glitters and red meters
givers and received perceivers
usher the gift of illusionary display
vision all the aspects of reality
Signal the surreal posts on trees
yank and spotlight my dreams
walk and split the glass panels
wagon us from societal ice
Glitters and red masks
course every vein of our being
pour the red wine and misplace
protrude every nautical sense
Read my palm, contact the wizard
grab my sight, take me to the moon
contactless,eventful and tasteful
contactless, easy and resourceful
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
I'm extremely disorganized
I don't know what belongs where
Take my eyes for example
I can't find a place to rest them
I tried setting them on you
But everyone agreed that **** wasn't working
They explained that an organized man
Adheres to categories
And you and I
Are not of a kind
I attempted to argue that you organized me
My heart
My mind
You folded me neatly
When you beat me
You always made sure to set me aside when you were done with me
You'd place me in a bin
Or release me to the wind
Yet there was a burdensome fault in my littered logic
They explained that an organized man
Is clean
I must use eyes that are sanitized
To see how we're not categorized
And avoid your matador eyes
Because things will get messy
When the bull in your fists
Sees the roses in my heart
My humanity starts to part
And my wishes I begin to opine
For the nature of a bovine
So I wouldn't misplace my eyes
And be what I'm classified
But that nature eludes me
As do most things
On account of me being disorganized and all
But I'm a quick learner order burner page turner
I may not know what belongs where
But I know I belong neither here nor there
Making my eyes not belong anywhere
This is what develops my entropy stare
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
You make my body burn slow,
like a stricken match in a film noir;
our legs intertwine
like muscular vine,
chests pressed so close
we can synchronize
our heartbeats, every artery
and vein pumping
like speed-of-light projectors.
You bend my senses, make them
forfeit heir coherences, force
my limbs to misplace
their native tongue
within a simmering puddle
of submissive bliss.
Your tongue sliding up my back?
Fosse was never so graceful.
I want to play back your moans
on speakers the size
of monoliths.
I need to pleasure you
until the wave
becomes a tsunami,
one ready to swallow all doubt
and shame and apprehension
until all that septic negativity
is trapped within our jaws,
drowning in our slithering tongues
until it dissolves as quickly
as sugar in a boiling cauldron
and there is nothing left
but our sweat and our panting
and the excitement
that these dunes of ecstasy
will repeat themselves indefinitely.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
I have found a season which exists
between New England's winter and spring,
in late March or early April.
You will know it by the bleeding of colors
in the sky at dusk (the orange cream,
the flush of pink, the blue-powdered
lavender) when all the clouds
misplace their edges.
You will ease your body down
into grass damp with what remains
of winter's moisture. Let your eyes
become a mirror for what lies above you:
the ethereal atmosphere.
The trees will reach up with a thousand
grasping fingers, all craving the silk
of the sky, and you will stretch out
your own limbs, unable to resist
the desperate urge to touch.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
Where are you hiding
I’ve searched high and low
In the mirror
And in my soul
To no avail
I somehow managed
To misplace myself
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 12:02 PM UTC
i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****
ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
I like things
That do not belong
Mislaid, lost
Dropped, thrown
How do they end up in my frame
How come I keep on noticing.
I am attracted to things
That do not quite seem to fit
Subtly ruining it;
A smudge, a note
A love
Unwritten in the stars.
A weakness
For displaced happiness
Somewhere I never intended;
Maybe,
My love,
I misplace my heart in the right spot.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
you left another shirt in my room
and soon after you left
i wept into the fiber like a liar
and the wires in the walls
made my skin crawl
and fall out of place
in any case, i saw your face
my saving grace when i misplace
the space in my mind
bobby pin left behind
underneath two grinding spines
still reminds me of the sky
your eyes and why
you said goodbye
that night
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 5:42 PM UTC
Carefully I lay me down,
in a world so hectic,
and yet it matters.
It matters we were all placed gently.
In a world so hectic.
Born to breathe,
an air of fresh chemicals,
in a world so hectic.
I can't say why,
since I'm no god,
but in this world it matters.
In this world so hectic,
it matters
that we have lips and eyes.
It matters
that there is little hair on our heads that give life to buggies if we don't keep it clean.
It matters
that we have money in our pockets,
and shoes on our feet.
It matters,
and that isn't always the softest inside.
There may be holes in those pockets;
holes in those shoes,
but it matters.
Those holes are representing something new.
Something fresh.
Something before and not so bad, because
before humans touched this world did earth seem so sad?
Was earth dripping color?
Were raindrops filled with gas?
What about those cans you see,
scattered in the bay?
Do you think the world would still be sad,
if all it went away?
Not to say, we are to blame.
In fact, that's not my point.
I'm saying we are carefully placed in this loving,
small,
and hopeful place,
yet this hectic,
crazy,
brain-numbing place,
so carefully,
we can't misplace that this
this matters,
in some kind of way.
It must matter we were placed
in the world, though we wrecked it.
It matters we were placed
in a world so hectic
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
thoughts once so clear
now flee en mass like
small birds scattering in the wind...
try to capture one
and it fades to dust in my
trembling hand
my eyes teared up by the loss...
what was her name...
when was it I smiled like the
sun bursting through the clouds on that day...
where did I misplace that long-sought device...
where have all my yesterdays gone...
all escapes along the shifting winds of age
small beautiful birds
plumage so bright and beautiful to behold
loves and laughter, days of wonder and joy
crumble into dust as my forgetful fingers
pry at their edges, trying to recall...
her yesterday was my forever
do you think she remembers me? ...
as I slip into forgetfulness
I hope that I will no longer remember
to mourn my forgotten yesterdays...
age is coming for me
and iv forgotten how to tame that ugly beast
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 1:26 PM UTC
It's vicious.
He spits honey-coated excuses
Just as I misplace forgiveness
Sliding under him,
Rising over me
As snowflakes fall outside this Brooklyn brownstone of mistakes.
But these pebbled streets
and long-forgotten sidewalks,
crossed daily by hundreds
...they soften everything.
It's beautiful and tragic
as I remember nothing and everything
If only for some time,
if only in this place.
This crack in the sidewalk, his hand in mine
That tree with the branch that hangs too low...
his eyes
a smile
true love.
This is where I come to forget.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed
Brings purity to darkenedness
You bring with you a light loved one
To shine on earth in loveliness
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed
Your feathers fork-like have become
You soar with ease and happiness
To free us from our loneliness
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed
Brings purity to darkenedness
A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard
By using wisdom with our words
In gracefulness you deeply roam
With eyes of every Angel bird
A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard
To rise above is to be shown
That life can often be absurd
And if emotions should be stirred
A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard
By using wisdom with our words
To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane
The spirit cannot be constrained
Distance will help you see clearly
The answers that will soon explain
To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane
Create a loving energy
That's easy for you to maintain
And you will reach a higher plane
To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane
The spirit cannot be constrained
With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow
Enlighten us to what we know
As days pass by forgetfully
We misplace insights we behold
With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow
The song you sing of trinity
With holy magic you bestow
All Saints and Gurus overflow
With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow
Enlighten us to what we know
© tHE tERRY tREE
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
*I left a trail of breadcrumbs for your lips to find
but they were hungry for something I couldn’t create.
I was hiding in a place that wasn’t hard to find
and I just,
I just wanted someone to take the bait.
But when the time came that you caught me there wasn’t champagne, there wasn't bouquets- no.
I looked behind to tag you back but you were already ten steps in the other way.
And to me this was play
but to you it was probably just a game.
We were a picture that couldn’t fit into any frame
or a fire that couldn’t be contained, it was all the same.
Just like the very place you called pleasure became the same room I called pain.
I spent my entire life chasing shooting stars
thinking that I could make all my wishes come true,
stopping my feet here and there just to then try and
catch my breath.
I was always chasing but never very good at pacing.
I got battles with my mind erasing while my heart keeps retracing
and in that time
on the assembly line
they smacked me with a sticker that said, “Replacing”.
You see I was born with fingers that were small and stubby,
stretching out trying to grab the answers I would always come up short on.
My heart’s been known to skip beats but sometimes as it skips,
it gets caught on something and trips
head over heals down a black hole that swallows then spits
me into another time and place where you are stripped;
from sight misplace, but I still chase
because no one ever taught me how to land in space.
And if you took my legs I would crawl through wet concrete,
and if you took my arms I would roll to a mountain peak,
and if my body is taken this heart would still beat
because when you left that home
you forgot to turn off the radio
so all of our songs still play on repeat,
you can hear them through the walls and down my streets
where everyone else still hears it too
but I,
I was the idiot for giving my only set of keys to you.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to close gaps
that I probably had no business closing in the first place.
But even if I’m not the one who wins the race,
or finds the foot this glass slipper longs to embrace,
or catches a shooting star flying in cold space
I know that being here is better than being there,
that living today is better than dying tomorrow,
and even if,
even if these tiny talking hands never get a reply
that it sure beat the hell out of never giving it a try.*
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
There are still bad days.
Days where it’s easy to forget that a world exists outside my bedroom.
Days where the moments in-between each breath feel like an unmapped ocean and no one’s really sure if there’s land on the other side.
Days where I’m not sure if there will be other days.
Days where the calendar smiles coldly and says, “yeah, you wish.”
Days where I’m not always able to keep the fire inside.
Days where I burn.
And get burned.
There are still bad days. And I’ve seen better days. But I’ve also seen days a hell of a lot worst.
So I’ll limp my way through the bad days with a bucket of water for my burning heart and an extra roll of duck tape for my tattered appendages
Because at least now there can be good days.
Days where I can look gravity in the face and stand up straight.
Days where I remember my name. Sometimes I even say it out loud.
Days where I can let the dust settle on the noose.
Days where I remember why I didn’t go quietly.
Days where I can see it.
Days where my eyes wander upwards and the sky almost looks like it did before it fell down on my head.
Days where I pick up the needle and find another part of myself to sew back on.
Days where I think about other days, and what they’ll be like when they get here.
Days that I love.
And am loved.
So yeah, I’ve seen better days, but I’m getting better in the face of the bad days.
Because I don’t lack the vision, it’s the method that I always seem to misplace.
But I think I’ll be able to hold onto it...
one of these days…
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
i have inherited pandora's careless melancholy, her tiny box of regrets, her white-washed, quiet horrors and terrible decisions — staining like a memory passed down from her reckless hands to my old, ***** claws, digging for something raw, something parasitic, something miserable, something always goes wrong beneath my ribs. it wants out, like a beast, a misplace fragment, an aphid. and these days turn their heads away — blur themselves blind before my many blunders.
before the wrath of a false god, will my bones ever learn the art of being unapologetic?
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 8:30 AM UTC
Call it prolific
Monoliths
Monolithic
Amnesia
And pill popping
I like words
I like how they taste as they flow
From my mouth,
From my fingers,
Into your ears
Your eyes
I'm inside you.
I've never really understood that
****** conquest
(I changed pages on you)
Like, we should be proud, as men
That we've been inside someone
"I put my **** in that"
Congratulations, Charlie!
You came!
Honorary meetings
Magna *** Laude
(Did I change pages again?)
Vulgarity
Shame on you Catholic boy!
Shouldn't you be whining about *** scandal?
Talking about pro-life?
Hating the gays?
Misconceptions
Misnomers
Misconstrue my meanings
Misplace the common denominator
Math is always interesting.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC