"misshaped" poems
I guess I’m okay… What more can I say?
Forget it—never mind,
You wouldn’t understand anyway,
Would you even know what it's like?
Inside a scattered disconnected mind,
Employed to go on strike?
Where indirect misdirect
The sincerity at play,
When sinusoidal chaos spikes
And past meets the future present day?
As paranoid points outlandishly connect
At intervals of broken lines,
Memory lost in recollect,
An array of misshaped bells
Internally infect the eternal confines
Of infinite distributional decay,
Parallels with no intersect,
Streetwise cells with empty signs,
Burned out lights, potholes, and landmines,
Littered all the way.
How am I to convey that all those times
You let your mind wander away
That I was reading, thinking, dreaming,
Teeming, never idle, never strayed,
Seeing, being, so far and away,
Even the brightest intellect beaming,
Could not grasp the feeling
In the slightest of highest orders reeling,
Wound unbound, or as it would be seeming,
Imperfect, even to the disarray
Of the tamest prefect, whose verdict
Could not predict the reflect,
For in this world, seeing is deceiving,
As the lamest reject, defect,
Increasingly decreasing,
In simplistic bliss obey
Crowned unsound fallacies
That contradict all meaning,
Hiding behind reality, the actualities
Lest, protect the thoughtlessness perceiving,
Let me stop you if I may...
I must interject for I digress,
What nonsense was I weaving?
Forget it—I've lost my mind,
I best be leaving,
What more can I say?
It's periodic I must confess,
You probably don't care anyway,
Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay,
Until next time I guess,
I wouldn't want to be misleading.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
I stood outside watching the rain slowly melt from the clouds
My porch let me step onto its short pathway, for it knew my thoughts
I stood there and looked up at the sky, being guarded by the small roof above me
I watched as the rain fell silently to the streets and listened as it hit the bushes
I kept waiting for it to change
I kept waiting for it to change me
For it to wash away something deep inside me
I wanted it to wash away any hurt
Wash away the insecurities
Wash away the denial
Wash away the sins
Wash away the thinking of “You’ll never feel the touch of someone in love”
Wash away the scars
Wash away the memories
Wash away the impurities
Wash away
I stood waiting but the rain still poured on my outstretched hands
My hands opening to God asking,”Why me?”
The hands of a woman who has never felt the hands of a man in love
The hands that can make me whole once more
As I stood watching the lightening soar across the sky and the thunder gently hum
I wondered “Is this life real? Is this God real? Is love real? Is any of it real?”
I shivered and stood waiting for the rain’s response
None came; the only response was the silent tread of water heading toward a gutter
Funny, just like my life, always fighting against gravity to stay clear of the gutter
Shivering I stepped back inside and heard a small clink of a piece of broken glass
I held it, amazed, wondering if my life would end this way
In the hands of a tiny piece of melted sand
I looked at its tiny iceberg shape
I turned it and it suddenly transformed into a misshaped heart
A heart, like mine, so clear, so ready, so fragile
I tossed the tiny love into the air as lightening made its last hoorah
Hearing only the distinctive clink as it hit the sidewalk
The rain responded joyously as it picked up its pace
This was her response
Nothing may be real but the rain
In the end, sometimes, it’s all we can depend on to wash away our old selves
To stand, like an escape from Shawshank; free
This was my answer
That my tiny glass love lying patiently on the side of the road will someday be picked up and thrown wildly into the wind hoping that it shall find the fingers of a lovestruck current
This time instead of a slab of concrete, I shall be there to catch it as lightening strikes my heart
I looked up at the tiny roof guarding my head from the cold drops of reality
It was then that I decided it was time to take the roof off of my life, leaving me unguarded
I closed the door, shivering with a renewed sense of myself
I curled under the blanket asking again the same questions that haunted me,
“Is this life real? Is this God real? Is love real? Is any of it real?”
The rain answered,
“Yes”.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.
The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.
The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.
The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.
A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.
The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.
Yes this is all football.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
"I'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting..."
Richard Siken
You set my soul on fire
pouring gasoline over
every inch of the skin
I inhabit daily
You set my soul on fire
knowing how much it
would burn, leaving
deep everlasting scars
You set my soul on fire
excruciatingly ripping
a person I love so
knowing the pain you'd cause
You set my soul on fire
your face ablaze with
an unspoken contentment
at claiming what you believe is yours
I sit here and mourn
my heart misshaped from the norm
I sit here and weep
at how trampled I was by your feet
I sit here with anger
knowing where to point the finger
twist it round,
with your well rehearsed stirs
that damage, disintegrate and curse
© Sia Jane
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
How do I get a carving out of a tree?
The smug shape of your G+E
outlines with a stupid, misshaped heart
etched into the evergreen.
You ruined my favorite tree
with five words.
A sentence I knew you would inevitably say
at some point of our lives together.
I really wanted to doubt myself for once,
and be proved wrong in the right way.
But you just had to keep me incorrect.
I call the local lumberjack and ask him,
"Cut down the tree as soon as possible."
I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
***
*****
I am a fractured soul
A broken man
Fragmented
and destroyed
into tiny pieces
Left with sharp edges,
misshaped parts
and empty spaces
A jigsaw puzzle
I continuously work
A never ending project
attempting to reassemble
But like a shattered vase
glued back together,
it's not quite the same
What was pristine and beautiful
is now just something I resemble
*****
***
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
I am no longer rusty
tunic driven like a alabaster skeleton through tongues of wine
hearts of misshaped happiness breathing beneath my tongue
aqua marine
risky
danger zones between close mouths and breath
long locks of dark brown trail against your back
like water paint fluid on your paper like skin
hold me here beautiful forever
I will rest in between your palms
as you open them to gather water from the
river of our sacred dreams
I will lay there like a small fairy
for you
at ease
I understand the viscousness the inexplicable vitality
with a woman next to a woman
I can teach you how to be comfortable with me
we might become black at times
we might burn
reminents built
torn and ashy
but here there is a beauty
a burgundy understanding of similar nature
rich with cause
suitable by death
night bound by the man who believed he was clever
driven insanity
crude hearts gestures
leave that castle
be my vampire
join my tower
touch the sent of the wicker
and dive into this feminine power
I set hot trembling
tender sighs let out
every hour
I will hunt those wild beasts within your breast
hold your hand and kiss your chest
stitch myself to your ivory neck
seek you
until my hearts a wreck
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
you are everything
you are everyone
you are every cliche
you are the sun,
you are the stifling heat
that cannot be escaped
you are valentines cards
misdirected and misshaped,
you are hotmail,
you are myspace,
you are my face,
hungover and exhausted,
you are lost kids,
you are something that was fun,
you are not getting shotgun,
you are beer
that's been in the sun
too long,
you are a sad song,
that's not been made better,
you are the hole in my sweater,
or my pockets,
you are the chalky sugar that's
passed off as rockets,
you are the first drummer of the beatles,
you are evil,
and i don't mean that jokingly,
you are choking me,
like turtlenecks,
or high stake bets,
made on the wrong team,
you are what seems like
a good idea at the time,
you are past tense,
you are jeans caught in the fence
preventing teens from sneaking in,
you are cold wind on a dry winter's day,
you are Coldplay's last two albums,
you are too much talcum powder
you are convenience store flowers,
you are forced,
you are hoarse
voices in place of song,
you are wrong,
you are the weakest link,
you are outdated references,
you are beverages,
that have lost carbonation,
you are hesitation
that leads to regret,
you are the new york mets,
you are first impressions
that i make on the elderly,
you are Beverly Hills Chihuahua,
you are foie gras,
you are aqua
and their music in my head,
you are cold beds,
warm beer,
empty freezers,
old tears,
fake appeasers,
new fears,
you are the moments
when it feels like no one's near,
you are searching for Waldo for hours,
you are any buildings "bigger" than the cn tower,
you are fake,
you are first date awkward silence,
you are last date awkward silence,
you are violence,
you are hybrid suvs,
you are bees,
you are black flies,
you are forgetting an event is black tie,
you are something nice to forget,
you are socks that are wet,
you are the slow driver in the left lane,
you are fame,
you are fleeting seconds
never to be recaptured,
you are the man on the corner
screaming about rapture,
you are actors selling out,
you are stains on a couch,
you are lost remotes,
you are failed attempts to save face,
you are everything
that has ever graced
this time and space,
here and above,
you are everything,
you are love...
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
As we wade into the drought
A hazy tide with hands of art
Soaking up peace
Graffiti kissing the walls
Craving normal folk
Whiskey oak spins your hemisphere
As we follow a gypsy road
The compass is weak and unsure
I stand on the brittle edge
With aspirations in my pocket
With a road of flowers and uncertainty ahead
But we sing folk music for the young
We savor the sound
Were full of heart and vitality
We get torn and misshaped
But we continue to dream about unity anyway
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Thought is ******
Freely thinking of anything.
In the safety of the mind,
One can be mad:
A jealous fool,
A lover,
A ******
A murderer.
Anything he fancies.
The true self
That is hidden,
Often times behind our masks:
A smile,
A blank stare,
A muscle contracting,
A layer of skin.
The mask is so familiar;
It seems like truth,
Yet the knowledge of falsehood
Lie deep inside like:
A root,
An anchor,
A burrow,
A secret.
Deep down in the caverns
Of the body.
Once light shines,
We can see:
A horror,
A misshaped,
A disgusting,
A vexing sight.
Lies and truths,
Mixed as if one.
The sight is unbearable,
So we keep it locked away:
A convict,
An enemy,
A rat in trap,
A prisoner.
The prison of
Our socially acceptable
Will destroy completely
Our true personality:
A self,
An image,
An x-ray,
A representative.
Tis dangerous, that our identity
Is safe within the confines
Of our mind freely thinking.
Because thought is ******
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
His mind is a sudden haze, the details are a blur,
the smiles fade to frowns
He trembles in fear as he doesn't know when the monster is coming home..
The spirit which consumes the holy being of a home
of a child, of a sister, of a husband, of a wife, of love.
The spirit which is evil in itself that left the everlasting marks
of terror and pain engraved in the mind of the pure
The white mind of the boy which marked innocence slowly fades to gray
The haze, the sudden haze slowly focuses in,
Becomes clearer and clearer within each stride
The haze turns into a person, a familiar sight..
The haze is a tall figure, fragile, skinny, abnormal and misshaped
The monster...the spirit...evil... had consumed his mother
and left the pain..the agony..the hurt
the haze.. a sudden haze, was his mother.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
a shell, contoured and carved with an aged elegance so accentuated that it practically screams its 'i'm so much better than you' chant, or
rather than scream, it whispers it softly for only my misshaped ears to hear, so that the dignified mutter echoes like a beautiful musical instrument played wrong in the crevices of my head
and
i stupidly stand, my feet sinking in the so-tainted sand, trying to come up with a retort, witty and cold enough to knock jeremy clarkson off his feet and back into top gear following a mild repercussion aimed at a light-hearted producer - instead of acknowledging the fact that *it is a ******* shell on a ******* beach*
but
miss common-sense-defying with the too-happy polka-dotty headscarf and the five-minute-hipster-outfit that took an hour and thirteen minutes to form is intimidated by the shell that reminds her incomprehensibly of herself.
she's been reading too much john green.
or she's realising the truth, that she is an empty shell on a beach so trodden on that hansel and gretal would lose their footprints, that she is beauty and magnificence and elegance but she is empty, made of things she takes away from her television endeavors and her bookshelf, and she is empty.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
This is a place I don't dare to visit
the room is enclosed by four walls,
there are misshaped windows
with metal bars that laced the brick
as stained as a lifetime smoker's teeth.
The grey wall bleed a terrible stench
that brings back memories of pig farms
in the morning after a dampened night,
the walls are coated with red sludge
that is enough to reduce a grown man
to his knees with pleas of destroying
the savage assault on his senses.
In the middle of the room sits a chair
that is positioned right under a bulb
of light that spreads a dimmed vision
to the entirety of the room, the chair
is locked inside a cage as large a space
as the cabinet of a common kitchen.
The bulb swings from its loose wires
that seems to exist as a tangled mess
with the red intersecting the yellow
and in various points the wire
seems to have been stripped of its
dignity with copper exposed in points
that have rusted against the times.
It seems that the swinging light
may never be fixed to a single space
in the vast expanse of the ceiling,
so it throws shadows against the walls
where the chair is mere distortions
between light and dark.
The chair is trapped in a cage
with a lock that seems impossible
to ever penetrate and the break
in the metal bars that has rusted away
is too small for any hand to fit through.
The mildew grows in the corners
where the ground meets the wall
and against one of the four the green
grimy mildew meets the red sludge
enough to give of a yellow colour.
I recognise something against one
of the four walls, it calls for my eyes
and screams for my ears. It reiterates
this is the inside of my mind and
so far I'm making colours of everything
I could ever find.
I've been running my whole life
and in every single light, I am
another shadow casted against walls-
forever imprisoned.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
behind the locked door
in a steamy cloud of mist
i drag my finger down the mirror
writing your name
over and over
inconsistent, misshaped words
humidity conquering my breath,
making it feel impossible to respire
yet i do nothing to help myself
maybe i'll die in here.
in that moment
i felt nothing
only
utterly
pathetic
s.b.//
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
Can't see the pathways through the crush
as forest's canopy makes night;
an overgrowth of underbrush
prevents new sprouts from reaching light.
Some cleansing clearing is in store
creating space to feed new life
by burning down what heretofore
had nourished nature. Now it's rife
with rotted stands of misshaped growth
untended, harboring disease.
I strike the match. The fire is both
destroyer, bringer of a peace;
the aftermath of smoldering soul
with ashen truths to make me whole.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Miss Shaped
With that hourglass figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.
Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.
The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.
Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.
The years rolled by
for misshaped
mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes
Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.
It took time to assemble
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Come by tonight i'll share this time
a while we'll stare, my words will exile your eyes
no more unspoken defined soft talking
I hope this alone will change the tone
to remix reminisce this melody
I'm always beside you here
These thoughts for you I keep
So you don't hear though, my whisper
through this night, it will be clear
hesitating this mind stating in keeping safe
I had to reflect so to take a step back
Making sure my step forward
Wasn't someone beside me
Aside from this heart
Getting hurt by all this Inside
Dwelling I''ve been there
Stayed there, and you don't know it
but I just realized it
you brought me out of misshaped
beats that I always kept tracking back
because I could follow your beat.
I'm always beside you here
These thoughts for you I keep
So you don't hear though, my whisper
through this night, it will be clear
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
Another night pours it's frank sentiments on us. The heavy dew weather blows the earth of it's ample troubles. It clears the grass of burdened footsteps that roam this place aimlessly. With all eyes to the ground, they miss to meet opportunities (happiness) that could be sitting right under their misshaped noses. They can't seem to smell flowers blooming or hear the hearts that need them, so are they even looking for something (as they so claim) or simply looking away?
Among them her eyes darken and hope to be found soon.
Walk with me a moment, though the air is cold i find your penny plain company warmer than freshly baked bread cooling off by a white window or maybe something sweeter like (you) cinnamon pie. Similar to them, who would rather lie to themselves than face the truth, our tongues split oceans with exhausted explanations for the thoughts we keep lonely and the needs we discard as unimportant. We're pretending to not have feelings or see the seasons that change with each pulsing beat, so has this game even started or will it part with done (love) at first sight?
Between us the lightning strikes and looks to capture our trembling smiles.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
I saw their predictions as they rushed onto the snow top mountains,
feeling as though they were on top of the world
and no one could **** those thoughts
beating through their wet coats and misshaped mittens.
no one could shadow their footprints against the hills,
melting down the shame and words thrown out
to the afternoon sky.
they really thought the world gave a **** if they could
fly or not.
so they gathered their parachutes and fell towards
the grasslands as they hoped and dreamed for
something new.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
Night fades, an awakening dawn,
Awaken by the same song bird
Singing from the soul, bittersweet memories heard
A window ledge looking out to the grand oak trees upon the lawn,
Squirrels playful in flight, shaken autumnal leaves; magenta & fawn
A lowly stray cat jumps, chases leaves that swirl, a baby bird at first flight, sight blurred
The cat pounces, a thief to his prey he captures, flees out of sight; the girl watches without a word
A cacophony of deafening sounds force their noise up the narrow stairwell, the song bird is gone
Pounding feet; her father he frightens the song bird far far away, a silence forms,
In her nightdress the girl she grabs the soft torn eared teddy,
Her tiny feet silently tiptoe, she lays flat on the old dusty wooden floor:
Hiding under the four poster bed, her fearful breaths deep & heady
Her heart misshaped as trampled by his feet, her soul mourns
Filled with the same fear she faces each & every day, all that remains is the locking of her bedroom door.
© Sia Jane
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
I like my stomach,
I like my face.
I also like that my nostrils are weirdly misshaped,
And those hollow scars I have on my left arm,
From a really bizarre spot infection,
That later came to no harm.
I like the moles that are in awkward places,
Freckles on my nose,
Filling other bland spaces.
I like the way I waddle when I walk,
Or stutter when I talk,
I like the way I am.
I like my wacky behaviour when I'm with friends,
Or my unforgiving laughter when the day nears an end.
I like that I cry over the most stupid things
And that I can pay for thousands of chocolate bars,
But can't afford diamond rings,
And yeah, I like the way I am,
Cause confidence is key.
But most of all,
I like that I can look at myself in the mirror,
And be proud of what I see.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
Small words
We're too high
Misshaped sound waves
Too low
I could steal
Yes
I could steal the things I need
If it get's me there, then it gets me there
and that's that
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
She is the foam of the sea
Untouched and innocent
Smooth dancing on the waves
Every so slight movement making her seem vulnerable
But still in the most dominant way
She is slim so she can fit into the distance between his fingertips when he spreads his arms to beg for her
She is drowning him
He is inferior
He is the travelling wave
Never loosing his feeling of rythm
Playing the same song every day
Dancing to it
Looking for his perfect match
I am the puzzled Sand
Sticking to everything but nowhere wanted
Uneven, rough and misshaped
An offence to every coast
I am out of place
He is an unfinished artwork
Beautiful look of imperfection
A clear water beast
Rising explosive and
Settleing gentle
She loves the song he sings
It's like he is singing to her
The foam clings so good to the shifting water
And together they create
The perfect sea
Every edge uncurling
The unremarkable sand in their way
But with every dance they dance in union
Parts of me are teared apart
And send to every cardinal direction
By the fair-minded elements
Until nothing of the sand remains
So the sea is eventually merged
Joyfull dancing and singing
The song of freedom and affection
She is the foam of the sea
and he is the travelling wave
I am washed away
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC