'Mispronounce' poems - Hello Poetry

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Amarys Dejai Jul 2018

What the Letter “e” Makes Me Think Of

There’s an “e” in your name.
2. It’s also composes a syllable of it.
3. Things will always empty, no matter what. Even bottles, for example. Especially ones that contained alcohol. You seemed to enjoy emptying those quite a lot.
4. Once, I emptied a pen of it’s ink while writing about you.
5. There is no “e” in my first name, but you pronounced it as if there was, replacing the first “a” with an “e”.
6. I always, and still do, get annoyed whenever people mispronounce my name, but never when you did it. I always knew that you were the one calling it. You were the one thing I was always sure of.
7. The other night, I tried to think of other things that started with “e” and “a”. I found “always” and “eventually”. Just as you substituted the “e” for the “a”, we substituted “always” for “eventually”.
8. Or maybe it could stand for “eventually an alcoholic”?
9. I just wish that you could have emptied your heart out to us just as easily as you could empty a bottle down your throat.
10. Ever since you told us that you drove home drunk I’ve been thinking about writing an eulogy.
11. Please don’t make me write one. Not while we’re so young.
12. Eventually, everything expires, like our patience, our vitality, and our days.
13. You haven’t spoken to anyone in months, and I don’t know how to reach you, or if you even want me to. When I saw your mother this past October, I wanted to ask her if she knew had badly you had been struggling, but I didn’t because I know that you would have hated me for it. There was a reason you had tried to keep your addiction a secret.
14. The letter “e” is the most used letter in the alphabet. How can you ask me to forget you when nearly every word I write has a trace of you in it?
15. I would never pick up a pen again if it meant that I could hear you mispronounce my name one more time.

#alcoholic #addiction #suffering #pain #helpless #teenagers #youth #sorrow #drugs

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Sadie Kim Jun 2015

One-sided

You mispronounce my name
You forget I'm lefthanded
I think this is just me
I think this is one-sided

Your warmth has dissipated
It left a hardness
Inside my chest,
Like a plum
Now pitted and pruned
But I still hope
To see you soon

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Sean Banks Apr 2013

Suicide

Suicide
Is not an option
Well, not the only option at least
Don't lease
Your life to poor tenants
Who have more money than you
They will define worthlessness in numbers
Under the umbrella of life, i am asked to rationalize my fear
In ratio to careers
Plural is the breeding ground of statistics

And can you explain to me the difference
Between a near death experience
And being on your hands and knees
In the depths of hell?
There isn't satin sheets in satans hotel

The Irony of taking the escalator down
This fiery decline
To where chairs
Don't even recline

Did your mother ever tell you,
"Don't sweat the small stuff"

The Check-in line grows

There is Nancy, who wont stop asking your name
And Doreen, who's daughter clearly doesn't want to visit
And Jasper, who has been told he is insane and wont stop smiling
And Darin, who works the front desk and hates when people mispronounce his name
How do you mispronounce Darin - is this a test, or a sick game?

And don't forget dear Janet - today she ascends from the underworld
But can't stop crying tears of joyless joy
Unlike me, maybe she doesn't want to leave
These people are dying for attention - where the hell are their families?

Ostracized and alone
Its a cut throat battle
To use a single telephone

Let it be known
You don't want to die this soon
Hell
Is a psych ward waiting room

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Julian Dorothea Oct 2013

water metaphors

sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you

naked.

ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.

I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.

there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.

I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.

I hug myself
and feel very
very small.

the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***,
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.

it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.

the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.

the shore has too much of your face.

I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence

but I am too small.

my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.

cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.

I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.

I'm so bad with rhyme and stuff. help?

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Trevor Gates Jul 2013

Endless Salience

The silent planet of crystallized dreams

Nebula clouds emitting translucency

Nothing is ever what is seems

With God’s touch and delicacy

The song that remains and forever played

Amongst the promised womb before

The mother goddess loved and swayed

While the child watches from the hallway door

“Mother and father copulating with the door open.”

Read the words on the off-white typewriter paper

The boy tedious and tired, working and hoping

His work be acclaimed before meeting his maker

Telling stories of psychopath magicians in Long Island

Or Chicago lawyers fighting underground matches in drag

“A disturbing, fantastic point-of-view, from a ****** man”

Said one critic before nitpicking as reading a greasy pulp mag

Countless images worth their weight in gold

Majestic ballrooms ravishing supple choirs

Groping masked ballerinas with a urge so bold

Witty fops and serving props aiding proper sires

Sir Xavier proclaiming the night as a celebration

Showing sharpened teeth behind his mask

The shadows merging and demonstrating mutilation

With enough wine to soak, bathe and bask

The man breathed in exhaustion. He cracked his fingers and wrote:

“Circles of Blood, of **** and pain.

    Audacious institutions praising the Goat Head of Fame

                    Vicious clowns of chains and leather sought to cleanse the mind

                             The flesh and struggle that was kindled at the discovery of Gabriel’s find

                                      Stiffening, hardening clay over roots and glands

                                      The skin of earth ravaged from birth

                                      Yes men and polished conveyor belt twins

                                      Nodding, prodding and smirking

                                      Evicting and molesting the commonwealth

                                      The taxpayers and voters

                                      The people, new and old

                             Sewing fishing line into us

                   Like strings to puppets

          Severing wings

Denying us flight

          Expecting us to fight

                   With blank expressions

                             And

                   Collective motives

                             Because we should all think the same

                                      While in the jungles of Vietnam

                                                The cities of Korea

                                                          Deserts of Iraq

                                                                   Caves of Afghanistan

                                                                             Or

                                                                   Anyplace our leaders

                                                          Mispronounce

                                                What is to gain if not

                                      Something profitable?

                                                Thieves condemning thieves

                                                Murders judging murders

                                                Psychopaths killed for killing

                                      Women ***** and thrown into a

    guilt trip for not keeping a child that

    was forced into them, saying the

    will of God is infallible.

    Children without homes suffer for what they are

              While more populate the world with their own

              Before helping the needy

The names of the world

          The foundations built upon on another

The empires envisioned and dreamt

          Destined for glory and prosperity

Then torn down in the cataclysmic volley of change

          Then the cycle, the circle, is repeated again

          This is how the world functions

In the name of one

Or many

Or God

Or even the Gods

The Circles, the rings and arena.”

The man wrote with the typewriter on top of books and clippings

Watching riots outside his window, bottle of liquid fire exploding

Screams of terror, of revolt and damnation drippings

Calling out for all to see, the fury and loathing

What the man wanted to write was a simply story to tell

But his rising emotions took hold of his fingers

Instead, he told a story of malicious passivity in living hell

Where in his room the fumes of gas lingers

What if on other places in space

Where we’ve discovered other Earth-like planets

God Created different forms of humans

And watched how they grew

In their own way

Eliminating one previous flaw from the next

Till there was no conflict

If he did and kept doing that

Till he had the perfect human

Then there would be no more

And just God again.

Mystic moons and puppy dragon tales
Silver oceans with crystal silk sails

Frozen lakes above the stone angel choir

Marble pianos soothed by fingers of fire

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Akira Chinen Jul 2018

Your name is a sharp thing on their tongue
and they always mispronounce it
and it always has an odd way
of sounding like boy
as it leaves their mouth

they are still spitting the last syllables out
and already their teeth
are full with your ******
and their eyes can’t see
anything wrong here being done

now that you aren’t breathing anymore

and your fifteen minutes of fame
have stretched out
to a twenty minute story
on sixty minutes

if you weren’t already boxed
in oak and velvet
and buried under the ground
maybe you could have enjoyed
the lime light of it all

but there is no joy
surrounding your name today
but thanks to the alchemist
who turned the pound sign
into a hashtag
you’re part of the movement now

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

hashtag another body breathing
at the wrong time
in front of the wrong fear
being pierced by an old hate
bullet after bullet after bullet
till it isn’t breathing anymore

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

maybe I already forgot your name
maybe I’m guilty of mispronouncing it too
maybe I’m just too tired to say it
tired of being tired all the time
tired of watching things get worse
tired of knowing we could be better
tired of knowing we should be better

tired of the painful burden of hope
as someone else’s name
falls in line
and becomes part of the movement

hashtag slogan

hashtag your name

i don’t know what comes next
or where you might be

I hope wherever it is
It’s somewhere better than here

Somewhere better than us

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Jacqueline Ivascu Sep 2010

Somebody's coffin

Stranger Pallbearer
Don't let that coffin slip
through your sweaty palms
Faithless preacher
read your psalms and
don't mispronounce his name
No one may have knew him
but he was still somebody
This sad little man
in his unmarked grave

Copyright © 2010 Jacqueline Ivascu

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Ellie Stelter Apr 2013

Consistency is a Lie

The first time I say your name, it is a new sound on my tongue.
I take it and roll it around a bit, mispronounce a few syllables.
The marks on paper that define you are an absolute work of art.
It is curious and new and alive, and so are you.

I say your name thousands of times, then; again and again
til it is worn thin with familiarity.
Soon I no longer need your name at all: I have expressed
your entire existence in a single breath.

Your name becomes a formality. Like clothing, it is not
entirely necessary. You do not wear it to bed.
On the streets, it is how people recognize you;
but I do not even remember its fullness any longer.

Something changes. Speaking your name is an insult,
a raised voice, a painful twist of annoyance.
I hurl it at you like a sharpened knife and it sticks
deep in your chest, tearing through the parts of you
I once knew with such certainty and confidence.

Then it is a plea for forgiveness. I use your name
As an item to trade with: I will whine out your existence to you
And in return, will you return?
Please say yes. (You don’t.)

Empty beer bottles line the corners of your name.
Sleepless nights fill in the dark serifs and smooth lines.
Your name makes my heart ache in my chest
where it has broken in two, due to you.

The last time I say your name, it is the name of a stranger,
someone I once knew but no longer care for.
You will always be with me, but your name
has moved on. Someone else wears it now.

Consistency is a lie. Your name is a different moment,
means a different person every time it is spoken.
I do not trust in the undefined words that define you,
instead, you are to me still that single breath of pure existence.

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phocks Oct 2013

The Departure Department

Don’t go, oh baby don’t go.
I’ve been around the block
Looking high and low,
For the answer we keep,
For the workers are weak,
And it’s time to turn the tables.

So listen to the fables,
And the tales the preachers tell.
They mispronounce disaster,
Though their lives are a living hell.
And the rainbow comes
To save me,
When the daisy cutters die,
And the shadow boxing household
Gives us a better chance to cry.

For the angels find the future,
And they hear the shadows fall.
The ragged rangers read their books,
But they never hear the call.
The mission bell it screams and yells
To the missionaries on the floor.
They just shot up
And are taking to the cup,
But their heads are now out the door.

To be discovered never more.
I don’t mind.
There is no time.
But for me, I’m out of line,
When I say to you
That you never know who
Will come out from the shadows
And into the light,
And the one that you love
Is directly in sight.

Take your time my dear friend.
Open your gates
To the mythical plates,
And the place that you know,
Where you go to be alone.

All of your friends
Want to see you again.
They want you
To *** all their smokes
And hold all their hands;
To drink all their scotch,
And snort all their lines,
To smoke all their ****,
And to drink all their wine.

j.b.

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Joelle A Owusu Jun 2016

This Is Not A Drill

Sit up straight
And listen up,
Because this is not a drill and
I am only going to say this once:
I am not ebony -
A piece of decorative wood.
Nor am I chocolate-
Ready to melt into myself with the heat of your touch.
I’m not you’re “sista” –
We are not related.
And I’m definitely not your “gurrrrl”.
We never dated.
I will tell you what I am:
You may want to take a deep breath now…
I am a Black woman.
Yes, with a capital ‘B’.
I am a Black woman.
Who is exhausted because
everything I do is silently political.
Whom I choose to dance with in the club
Is political – “is she into white guys, or black?”
The way I answer the question:
“Where are you from…?”
“No, where are you really from?”
Is political – “You look different from me, so I need to put you in a labelled box and **** at you with my mind.”
Like saying I’m from near your ends isn’t a good enough answer.
My accent?
Political – “Why is she so well-spoken? Who adopted you?”
It confuses you, because it doesn’t match my South London skin tone.
The way I choose to style my hair
Is political – I wear weaves because I want to be European and hate myself. I wear afros because I hate Europeans and love myself.
How I pronounce my own surname
Is political – Do I simplify it to spare your blushes when you mispronounce it?
The music I proudly declare to enjoy –
Political.
I must be a secret bloke – like that Serena fella of the telly.
‘Cause no fuckable girl has looks like that.
And my skinny arms?
Well, they never fed me in the orphanage, remember?. I’m obviously malnourished like my family back in the Motherland.
You say: “I don’t see race – we are all one.”
Good for you.
but, I cannot afford to pretend to be colour-blind because
I am a Black woman-
Bottom of the rung.
I am affected and I am exhausted.
I am a Black woman-
But that is not all that I am.
Are you still sitting straight?
Can you hear me in the back?
Because this is not a drill
And this woman is Black.

Let me know your thoughts.

#love #poetry #life #race #misogynoir

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Raj Arumugam Feb 2011

Po-dae - hic! - your good god of fortune

You can call me Po-dae
if you’re Korean…
hic! – you got every right to mispronounce it if you aren’t;
and the Japanese might call me – hic! –
Hotei…hic! hic!
And of course those ancient Indians
in their radiant romantic way might call me Laxmi
(but then they’re too reverent, those Indians
and you can’t joke about any these days)
but me – hic! hic! – hey call me Po-dae
and yes, the more erudite of you might know
or the Indians out here would have guessed by association –
HIC! HIC!
yep- I’m the good god of fortune, ancient drunkard!
(That guy who wrote “The Richest Man in Babylon”
he asks you to court the Goddess of Fortune –
Silly ******! He doesn’t know Goddesses don’t drink, does he?
Ah, well modern *** Goddesses might smoke and drink,
and all that)  -
but hey, I’m Po-dae - HIC ! HIC! – fill up that cup and invite me in
and I’ll give  five or six tips to fatten your wallets
better than the ones that American God
George S. Clason throws at you
(Pay Yourself  First, and all that miserly pedestrian living)
But fill my cup, dear – and I’ll show you how to fill your wallet –
HIC! HIC! HIC!
Oh **, **, ** yum – where do you get this stuff…?
These modern drinks really drive me crazy, baby!
Hey, hey, hey –
I’m Po-dae
and for watering me, baby
I’ll tell you the dao of fortune:
I come drunk
and I never move straight
and I walk side and side
Oh baby, I’m Po-dae
your miserly elusive fortune!
HIC! HIC! HIC!
Prrrrrrttttt…..!
Sorry about that, guys –
once in a while I also make wind!
Hic! Hic! Hic!

poem on a painting of Po-dae by Kim-Myong Kuk

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Katie Mora May 2011

a december evening wherein we read too much and absorb too little

I write an evening by the
waterfront with candlelight
Freemasons paving the
boardwalk. In the
morning the newspaper
prints my biography and
I laugh cacophonously.
I stand in my treehouse
and scream a note of
finality. I learn how to
synchronize and mispronounce
waning and soon I
realize.
I have left my voicebox
in my other pants.
Ulysses sang the blues today
but the sirens had more soul.
"So wrap your head in a scarf,"
I say! "Paint your house grey
and your churches red."
Jesus sang the blues today
but the sinners had more heart.
Dare ye burn a cross or
run afoul or sob for the mountain?
Then name yourself an apostle
and head for the hills of your
heaven above.
I sang the blues today
but the liars-
The plane lands with a thunk.
I roll my window shade up.
Sand turns to grain and
rainbows to tornadoes.
I have arrived.
I go to the gun shop and empty
the cash register before it is
too late. My uncle calls from
prison to wish me a happy
Boxing Day. I rent an apartment,
a car, a television, a diploma.
My thoughts are scattered and
my words ring through my head,
but these blues shan't get to
me any longer.
The truth, I decide, is overrated.
I study metaphysics, pataphysics,
and I am going to be sick. Our
hero reads Hopkins and takes
another shot.
Today I stay in bed
and count the cracks
in the ceiling.

sometime in 2008

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Sag May 2015

My Darling Book Thief

I asked you to read to me.
(I always ask them to read to me.)
(There's something about the way their fingers flip the pages
and their lips linger on certain letters
and their unique strategies of correcting themselves
when they stutter or mispronounce a word)
(Although your narration was smoother than the cliched flutter of a butterflies delicate wings.)
You agreed to be my raconteur
of the novel I let you borrow
and you painted pictures like no other,
of vivid skies and snowy German cities, all for me.
I couldn't recognize the medium you used at first.
I've seen watercolor landscapes and acrylic abstracts,
but you preferred oil portraits.
You knitted quilts of time passing train rides and hiding in basements.
Your voice was a foreign feel of fabric.
I once laid in satin, and then wool.
You were velvet.
Your head was in my lap while I braided your sheepish curls
and your fingers sheepishly traced patterns on my knee caps
and I could have fallen asleep right there,
easily, perhaps,
had I not been falling for the rise and fall of your breaths
in between cleverly placed asterisks,
chapter titles,
and clumsy kisses.
So tell me, what happens next?

I feel like this is a bit exaggerated/romanticized/cliche,
but hey, isn't all poetry?
No? No... Ok. Well... oh well.

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Jaxton Tyler Redmond Dec 2015

My dear friend Anton

He bought me my first binder for Christmas with the money he borrowed. Too bad his parents don't even know who he his. They spell his name as if femininity can be felt through the words of his given birth name. C for the courage he has to go through , h for his pronouns. R for every word they speak he will always make faking it look revolutionary. I, I will never be as strong as him. S, do they see that he is not their daughter but their son? Their emotions dripped like candle wax slowly melting and hardening against each other and for them it was their safety, their dreamland when reality just couldn't feel any worse. His parents scoffed and said that he must go to therapy like the confessionals he's forced into each sunday. His sins he must beg god to forgive but they don't see him like I do. A, for the days he can't appeal to them he appeals to her to make their refuge. N, not for nuture but nature this is all human nature. T, time, he must wait to be who he is. O, I will always know him as an overcomer. N, he can't muster up the words to say never. Even when they mispronounce his name and give him the wrong gender. He will merely play dress up for them and they will never know the Anton that I know

#girl #not #iloveyou #but #slampoem #guy #anton

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Sydney Ranson Jul 2013

Moulting

Like a snake unhinges its jaw—pink cheek exposed—

to something warm and whole, I unhinge you over and over and over again in my mind when I need to shed away every time I told you I would visit,

when I need to shed away that night we drank a cheap six pack in my tangle of blankets,

when I need to shed away the songs you wrote about blue eyes,

when I need to leave only the raw, scaly bits of you—the bits I scraped away at and made real, not the girl four hours away with the name I always mispronounce,
not the pieces she only barely notices when you leave her side, or the pieces you left for me to find, scattered on my windowsill.

I unhinge the moment your forked tongue first formed the words “I love you,"

the day I took pictures of you playing my guitar with the missing string—you said you didn’t need it anyway.

I think about the wrongs we righted when I slept in your car with your hand on my head, and I know I can’t come close to chewing our problems over, so I swallow them whole.

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AC Dec 2012

I Wonder

I wish I could see you now-
And get rid of the memory of the last time I saw you.
You were shattered, broken,
I have never witnessed such a startled, desperate despair,
Not before you, and not after you.
I wonder, every now and again,
If you smile, if you still mispronounce noodle,
If your diligence and unending devotion still
Carry you through life.
I wonder if I broke anything in you, that day,
A diver breaking off delicate coral with a careless swish of a flipper,
And I also wonder if you were stronger than that too,
Like the captain of a ship on an ill-fated maiden voyage.
I wonder these things like I actually care, as if I did,
And yet, I can't even remember what you look like.
I haven't seen you since that day.

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Martin Narrod Nov 2016

Symptom Dump

The title and body optional, they drag like loose map lines of a desiccate cactus, if its pins or thorns were the bones of the mule deer's alongside the highway where crimsony two-toned stretch marks were either allergic reactions or hives crawling across all of our limbs, and I aimed at ferocious. My polydactyl ferocity plagued by gorges, oxygen-loss, staying awake for the 36th or 37th hour until the stray humming between us is just another
Symptom of your childhood ploys to see Mercury ooze from your day away from school, out of the thermometer, droplets oozed out of your lips like trending sarcophagi-

The estranged catalyst carried with us through the archetypal and errant weapon-systems our brain stems plagued our visions with, mulish and recalcitrant undulates in a meteor shower of plashing death up I-89. We came for them.

Until the moon cleaved its feral African-eye, peddling its feline claws through every inch and synonym for itching skin could bear red too. Inside a grave, I was the color of fire. Inside a grave, you were the conflagration of histamines and cold orange hands, and we were left with our twisted interstices lashing into the pock-marked hide of the devil-skin rock torment,

And we prayed for the ghost moose, the albicant sinewy strands of disease
In an inarticulate heap of antagonist and agony. Blistery, curmudgeonly mumps, our cold lips braying for the plague, the bleeding from our eyes, nose, feet.
You say you'd take twos and threes of non-batted lashes, unsavory nomenclatures for names no one, not even a doctor in 1985 could mispronounce the diagnosis for, and for what, the cross'd black diamond thatchwork of icicles forming on our appendages, Earth words rocked in a cacophony of ungodliness and sorrowful malcontent. And for a moment of mute apathy, what use you and I would give shivers and trills for one another, what etherized and idyllic blaspheming poltergeist you could claw from my flesh, as I could claw it from yours.

To be free of this disease of winter,
Abolish it in a canonical ablasement of
Ferocity and suffering,

Where cleverly the ovivorous fold harmonizes,
Thwarting the immeasurable Gods to tailor a saw for your arms and my arms. Insects scuttling our carcass in lazy-fair, only to be haphazardly decaying in or without of the red flesh, belly up, without this systematic **** of skin tremors shot by the likes of a Peterbilt, cocked and bullied, readied to candy up another inane banter of horn-slivered antelopes dancing their ghost weevils up to an inexplainable and implacatable chivalry our
Carcasses lie, and our crimsony skins lay half-awake to die.

Itches itch unkown

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Satsuki Mar 2014

An Ode to John Travolta

Oh Joan Travoolty
What a swell name you have
Would be a shame if someone were to
Mispronounce it.

Sincerely, Adel Dazim. If you didn't watch the oscars you won't understand this.
Also this isn't serious, it's just meant for a laugh.

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Irving MacPherson Jan 2015

Under nourished being of a human being,
Gobbling up the cobble stones on a stroll through town.

Mispronounce the words on the page
Of a book you mistook for the gospel.

Someone will shoot you some bones,
Then when all alone you'll draw your comfort up in a spoon.

You lay waste to a world that everyone puts such stock in.
Thumbing your nose at rich and poor alike.

Trickling down through the roots, your behaviour stains loved ones
With a work that blackens the eye of love.

I cannot turn my back but I will not be played while being betrayed.
I'll leave it to you to lift your own self out of the mire.

Your 'now' passes quicker than a blink of an eye. The time was now ten years past.
I see you, but I won't follow, leaving your slug trail that has the texture of spent ***.

Hollow eyes out of focus, viewing no pain that matters.
The death of you will stop your need.

Alone and unwanted, your sums worth tallied in the red.
No surprise there they will say, and so will I.

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Genma J Oct 2014

10 Secrets

1.
I am most happy
When I am with you
When I see myself in the
Reason behind your smile
And I don’t think
I can ever go back
To writing words I’ll never say
On damp loose leaf
When it’s so much easier
To say them to you.

2.
I envy you.
I envy your passion,
That insatiable drive
To achieve and to do
When I cannot muster
The energy, most days, to smile or laugh
Unless I do them with you.

3.
I hate crushes and
Broken
Down
Sentences
In lieu of
Poetry
They always
Leave me
Wanting more.

4.
I am afraid of
Love,
Heights,
And Infinity,
And I was born on
The edge of someone else’s
Steady decline into
Collapse.
And I only recently learned
That
f
a
   l
    l
      i
       n
         g
Does not have to mean
Fall
      ing…

Fall
       ing…

Fall
       ing…

Forever.

5.
I meant to
Mispronounce that word.
I like when your eyes
Take stock in me
And still like what they see.

6.
I have this bad habit
Of counting down time
And counting down the
Six...
...Five...
...Four...
...Three ...
...Two...
...One more day!!!!!!
Until I see you again.

7.
I would stop at seven
Reasons why I’m thinking of you, but
Sometimes it’s unlucky
And I never gamble on
The stars in the sky
Or naming truths in the lie
Or on something as sweet as
The possibilities of you and
Me.

8.
I still believe one day
You will realize she
Was all you ever needed
And she will have
Softer words and a
Smoother tongue
And you will wake up
With her hair fanned out
On the chest I once used
In place of a pillow
And you will only
Think of me on rainy days
When you feel as melancholy
As the girl that once had
Dreams in her eyes and
Your world in her hands.
You will sip your coffee and
Longingly reflect on
Where the time has gone.

9.
I would love to
Buy dishes with you
And argue over
Who used the last fork
Or plate. Or spoon.
It would be my honor
To
f
a
   l
     l
Into the normal
With you.

10.
There will come a day when
These words will count time
Like I count the steps
From your heart to
Mine.

The person who inspired this is definitely one of my safe places.

#love #first #romance

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J M Surgent Oct 2013

Not Love, Not Hate; Gone.

I want to tell you I hate you but I can’t, because hate is pretty close to the opposite of how I feel.

Don’t take that the wrong way, I don’t love you, as I don’t love much, and am close to truth when I say my one feeling is “general apathy,”

But you were pretty cool.

And I could get used to you. And how your hair falls weightless to your shoulders, or how you mispronounce words with your not-New-England-Accent, or how your smile lights up my entire life.

I could get used to it. And I was.

Until you left. And now I need to get used to it being gone.

Continue reading...

Karl Franssen aka Bryson Flegg Jul 2014

The Thing About Me

The thing about me you see
Is I'm afraid to be me
So held down by these chains I wear
Cause I'm afraid to be free

Free your mind
Free yourself
Free your hands
Then free everyone else

The thing about me you see
Is I fall in love to easily
So caught up in a fairytale
Cause I'm afraid of what I won't find

Find your muse
Find your love
Find your friends
Then find ascension above

The thing about me you see
Is I'm blind to my own problems
So afraid to see what's right in front of me
I'm a victim of my mind's judgement

Judge your perfections
Judge your flaws
Judge your reflection
Then judge no one else cause...

The thing about me you see
Is I have troubles accepting the truth
Cause when everything I know is false
I'm afraid I can't trust a word you say

Say what you want
Say what you need
Say anything you want to say
Then say you'll no longer make yourself bleed

The thing about me you see
Is I've forgotten who I am
I'm no longer ok, I don't know how to get away
Cause I've abandoned all my plans

Plan your future
Plan your past
Plan what's next
Then plan what's last

The thing about me you see
Is I don't know what to do
I'm lost inside my sorrow, still hanging on til tomorrow
Cause I'm afraid of what you'll do to my heart if I let myself forgive you

You set me free
You're what I'd always hoped I'd find
You know there's no way I can judge you
Then you know I'd mispronounce every word I'd try to say

The thing about me you see
Is I've given up my plans
Cause they all involved you know who
And that's fine, cause who needs her
When I'm happy being with you...

#love #life #allthoseothertagsinormallyuse

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LylexRose Sep 2018

Legends

Yeah..
Is it too late...
To take it all back, what I said...
Rain drops look like tears falling down side of your face...
I couldn't see you coming from far away...
Now 2 years later I'm in a different place...
And I know been forever since I've your face...
And I can't take this pain... no more...

Been a lil while since I've been out, take a walk about, lights are bright and city's too loud, maybe I should just take a seat, maybe this **** just isn't for me, maybe these G's find it funny to play with me like I'm some kinda action man, men of action awaiting some sort of reaction, it's like these fake *** crackers have an ******* for me, that's how they seem to toy with me and it seems increasingly serious you see, from being sick in the head, to being sick in my death bed, hungry for change, it's just a shame this game is like the Hungergames forever on your own Austria-Hungarian games like Franz Ferdinand and if I keep to this path probably end up dead and through all this **** I'm still getting around unfed, might raise the bar with the **** I've said, the **** Ive seen, maybe I just raise some brows with your browser history and now it's just me, blinded by the light I've created so I can see, finding myself lost on a path I walk for free, but you probably prefer 6ix 9ine or the rest of the gucci gang, following these lil rich ****** rap about ice just to make it big I just ya'll freeze to death, but when I come through the door all I see is you lil sappy ******* hanging around my crib, now everybody wants to know If I'm even with it anymore, yeah I know my mind is clouded, my life is shrouded, play it louder, I'm my founder, a foundation to play, play it my way, what you think care what they say, so sick of the way it's been, with my head in my hands and a beat in the back I'm just living my life, I can't bear to be seen...

Is it too late...
To take it all back, what I said...
Rain drops look like tears falling down side of your face...
I couldn't see you coming from far away...
Now 2 years later I'm in a different place...
And I know been forever since I've your face...
And I can't take this pain... no more...

When you only write about life so far, it's no surplus, fly high but it's in finite supply, I know it's hard to find yourself, it's hard to keep holding your head up high and I know it's hard to keep up with blending in to this society, I've lost the person I used to think worthless, the sun shines brightly on a society lost and without life, my heads over following with the light of my life, words fall from my finger tips, call myself a man when I'm walking around with **** like a *****, I'm hiding like a snitch, it's such a shame that I came into the game a little late and no one on this ******* planet won't tell what not to say, following my path and I'm on my way, against the clock I race, I ain't playing I just feel like it's time to show my face, oops now it looks I got a criminal case, some fresh copyright claim, I know it's hurting but it's not my fault its the closet thing I've had to burn since I've been to charring churches, I now I know he's heard it only been 5 minutes and I know he's shared it, it's that's what rap is then good luck with that, and now I've packed up all my **** in my plastic bag, 15 years since it started and I know it's getting harder, the least I can do is reword it, or just rework it, maybe I'm done with this **** for real or maybe I'm just nervous...

Is it too late...

...Hah but wait I'm far from finished it's beginning, what a line, "havent used that one before hey!" I guess when I drop this fire I'll be breaking your legs, burned to ground, yet I'm colder than ever, they say I like to play with the words that I spray, never, been working on this album for past couple months, maybe it was years who knows I know it took forever, lightning under my feet, hope your enjoying the weather, whether or not you care I don't give 50 ***** Im'ma say what I say, always work at night boy it's been a long day, love they way people get ****** about the way I mispronounce they're names, quit with the complaining, complaint after complaint, I better bring a ladder cos I won't nothing stand in my way, you chumps better watch your backs cos I'm not any slack and Im'ma cut from the noose from where you hang but God forbid these lil rhymezone rappers sit with their minds so blank, blankets and bandage to go around the Atlantic state, not made a single penny off this but I'm 10x better half these rappers at this, it's just a shame I have my own way to say my own dis...appoint to your parents, talking about trap with tattoos on your face might explain why ya'll to rap are all a ******* disgrace, hide your faces cos 15 years from now and Ill be gone without a trace....

And to take it all back, what I said...
Rain drops look like tears falling down side of your face...
I couldn't see you coming from far away...
Now 2 years later I'm in a different place...
And I know been forever since I've your face...
And I can't take this pain... no more...

#lylerose #life #love #hate #sad #family #motovational

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kourtney with a k Aug 2019

Turn the page to tomorrow

Start again,
  sweet flower child
  Be courageous enough to open
     the least aesthetically pleasing door
   decorated with keyless locks
         Spilling with unanswered questions

Throw your entire being into it
  Giving it no other choice but to come Crumbling down
    If only in attempt to break through
     The endless carefully placed obstacle
     That dare to mispronounce your name

Not to let anyone or anything
   lead you to believe
   the crown you inherited at birth
    made especially with your favorite flowers
Would fit on any other soul but your own



                        —turn the page to tomorrow

#love #tomorrow #start #over #page #soul #flowers #time #light

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Conor Youatt Larkin Apr 2019

Kier

Table top deity, piggy backing best friend
carpool in the morning, mourning in the evening
mispronounce words from every second reading
take us back to kindergarten
girly hair
cut my crusts
imagination runs amok
yet reminiscing isn't always forgiving to you

Written in April of 2018

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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018

Wilhelm's Zeppelins und London's Fireworks! (+ counter Handel)

. i'm sorry, i'm about to be pedantic, given the near, hit & miss terrorist attack near the houses of Parliament... one seriously injured... send my regards... i rather wish him dead, with what's to come...

i.e. his fault!
     mea culpa!
**** it, crucify the egyptian
along with...
these people think they can
pass off
  the dead sea scrolls,
and, somehow,
forget, forge,
the nag hammadi archeological
evidence
of encyclopedic evidence?!
you have to be
******* kidding me,
and enforcing a game
of hide & seek in the footnote
section....

   macht frei...
   St. Paul's of
London heard the
Wilhelm Zeppelins...
   macht ein freiheit!

alles ist freiheit,
    und alles das schon war!

you want another Heß rephrase?

     how about viz einz...

  ha ha? mein frau?


               parading the skies over London,
that, current, lunacy circus central...
bereft closure to
the Cairo district,
and...
funny... post-colonialism
is not, exactly, littered with
nostalgic echoes...
          somehow, the whole "*****"
is missing...

           but there is a point...
pedantry overcomes me...
Bukowsky? Russian...
but Bukowski?
western Slavic heritage...

the person in question...
sorry, it's a required pedantry...

piotr... strzok....
          ssssss't' je suis...
                   + Occam's razor...

     RZ is a grapheme...
         je m'appelle...
   je, je...

                too many consonants
jumbled together?
oh look...
here's an alternative...

   piotr stżok...
**** me!
how did an R and an "excessive"
Z still appear / disappear...
with a levitating dot above
a letter, that, English
only invokes to be, "proper",
over ιoτα?!

there is no in excess consonant
in the name,
   you simply don't know how
to cut syllables
in translated-worthy surnames...

see how rz became a ż?
concerning the English dominance
of the Latin alphabet...
you're not exactly mispronouncing words...
English, inheritor of
ancient Latin...
   hasn't bothered to deviate with
a concept of orthography...
    that rare strand of literati
aesthetics...

         sorry, it hasn't...
you can exactly mispronounce words,
without a clarity of syllables
under the tongue / scalpel
of the eyes digesting the timing
of pronunciation...

intra-verbum -
up-and-coming journalists,
bothered about the
inter-verbum
utility of the semi-colon?!
you're joking, right?!

            now watch them learn
the fact that Latin,
genesis - Horace -
hoc erat in votis -
         (this was the point of my
wishes)...

               accumulated both the acute,
reign, and the umlaut,
from above...

the the tailing...
as plain and simple...
revisionism of sigma (σ)...
   in the frivolity of a Parisian café
(technically
                          cāfé)
              garçon... garςon...
because, if we're really going to play
these sort of games?
   gloves off...
         now i'm punching at punctuation
from both above and below
a word, deviating from inter-verbum
punctuation indicators,
working my way into the
intricacy of inter-verbum...
  oh don't worry...
you can have the EMOJI hieroglyphics
to mind...
and... whatever other degeneracy
comes to mind...
   i'm stealing the Hebrews.

Continue reading...

Julie Barragan Mar 2018

I’m sorry,
I’m sorry for giving you the wrong impression,
The impression that you think I hate you,
The impression that you think I just don’t want to be around you.
You see I am not the one driving this vehicle, I am only the passenger,
The passenger with no seat belt praying to God that we don’t crash,
And who is driving you might ask?
Well that answer is quite complicated you see,
Because the fact is that I can’t see
I can only hear,
Hear her say that I better not talk to you or she will step on the gas,
The gas that makes me shake and cry if I am not able to speak what’s on my mind,
The gas that makes me mispronounce the words that you pronounce to be right,
And every day I profoundly fight,
fight back the tears that I can’t seem to oppress ,
As I am depressed,
Depressed from anxiety and how her grip will never let,
Let go of my life that she seems to possess,
Let go of my right to drive without her being obsessed,
I am fine,
Fine,
A word I use so often to lie to my family and friends about my state of mind,
A word that I use to hide,
To hide the ones I love most from my anxiety,
Because if she ever knew that I could love someone she would crash this vehicle that is life.
so I am sorry that I may not talk to you everyday but I am doing this for you,
For the ones that I love.
And I am sorry if I have cried, slurred my
words, mumbled, or twitched while I have said this rhyme because she is still the one driving my mind.

My own experiences with social anxiety, depression, ADHD, and many more mental disorders have led me to build this wall around myself and I guess writing helps me express these feelings to those who don’t understand.

Continue reading...

— The End —