"misspelt" poems
NOT ALL POETRY SHOULD BE ABOUT DEPRESSION,
LOVE, WIND AND TEA-CUPS - I PREFER TO BE
THE DONALD TRUMP OF THE POETRY WORLD:
SEEMINGLY ILLITERATE, OBSCENELY DISSOLUTE,
UNINFORMED, SOCIOPATHICAL AND FALSELY MAGICAL;
SOMEONE SAID THAT, 'WE HAVE A DUTY TO
IMPART KNOWLEDGE,' I DID NOT ENTIRELY AGREE,
NOT ALL OF US ARE SUITABLY QUALIFIED AND THOSE
WHO ARE NOT MAY PASS ON THEIR OWN MISTAKES;
A TEACHER MISSPELT THE WORD 'BOLLOCKS,'
AND NOW HALF THE TOWN IS WRITING THE WORD
BOLLUCKS INCORRECTLY; THOSE WHO CAN, DO AND
THOSE WHO CAN NOT, JOIN THE RADIO -LIKE CERTAIN
PRESENTERS, IT RINGS, WHO SEEM TO HAVE KNOWLEDGE OF ALL THINGS.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
**They call me a canker,
they say I'm deceptive,
with an absinthe in my hand,
They call me a cahoot,
Abandoned in an abattoir,
They made me a psychopath,
They hurt me and beat me,
With all they had,
I said I am what I am,
They say am possesed,
With black magic,perhaps,
or maybe just a dark spirit,
So collapsed,
They say I look daunting,
Someone who's flummoxed,
Someone who's forlorn,
And a little hoodlum,
but i simply can't make them understand,
I am a labyrinth,
Full of difficult,
passages and paths,
Through which finding out is complicated,
I've had macabres,
which i handled by machetes,
The madder i got,
The smarter they,fed it,
With heaves of sickness,
they got me misspelt,
They didn't know that,
I, a psychopath,
was "okay" in my own way,
they mistreated me,
Misplaced me,
Misunderstood me,
Underestimated me,**
Look! I've come up!
still they were they,
They didn't stop,
So I cut them,
And beat them,
And scared their crap out!
Hit me with a dagger,
Hit me with a knife,
I'LL STILL BE ME,
EVEN IN MY NEXT LIFE.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Don’t know who writes or when
Just like cinema posters get changed according to times,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the ******
What was written using moss, coal and laterite was sometimes like this..
“The air is aromatic here. Rajiv + Sindhu
A picture of a heart with an arrow through it
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love, man”
Walls got filled
In vengeance to the beatings and impositions.
Amidst the stench of **** and *****
Love blossomed between moss
The girl’s ****** stood like a temple
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
When I get to Saturn,
Feet as sure as stars,
I’ll cry out in a voice,
Not a blemish or a scar,
“I’ll do it right this time”
No mistakes or misspelt words.
I won’t forget my backpack,
Cut my sandwiches in thirds.
I won't hurt anyone like I did in the last place,
This orbital acquittal for my crime.
I’ll love the right people, in the way they deserve.
And I’ll hold them for the right amount of time.
See, Earth is a write-off for me
I just did it all wrong
I tried until I bled and shook
This desert’s where I belong
I’ll wear this ring like a holy chaplet
My sins ice, dust, and rock
My memories sullied yellow
I leave them past the airlock
My mistakes can't reach to Saturn,
Though their fingers are thick and strong
I can’t break anyone from here,
My arms just aren’t that long.
There are no decisions here to fail,
No stanzas left to rhyme.
Just me and all these moons saying,
“She’ll do it right this time.”
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 6:37 AM UTC
My
Whole
Life
Is
A
Poorly
Written
P O E M.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
To me..
The past has been written, crossed out, smuged, misspelt, , bold, italic, underlined. The future lays bare, smooth, spacious, a blank white page of an open book.
Although it's funny how we can look backwards and try to understand what we have written, yet we must live forwards.
You normally ask a question and wait for the answer, but to me it seems, the past can be answered and the future is the question.
The present however, makes more sense to me. It's just simply 'being'. Which to me, sounds like the most simplest of things, especially since thats what we do day in and day out, some of us not even realising. In the present I can be certain of myself, how I feel, what I think, what I want, who I am.
Right now i'm in love, that scares me.
Right now the whole world is at my feet, that terrifies me.
Right now I know who my friends are, that makes me smile.
Right now I can do what ever I want, that excites me.
Yet that's all I can be certain of, right now.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:42 PM UTC
do you think he spoke, on the fifth day
before his mistake?
'what beauty, what boundless unerring awe
what great stroke of mighty ingenuity befalls me -‘
his tongue silenced by the sixth
and on the sixth day; man
so let it be written, so let it be done
crudely misspelt, an ink-blotted mess, peeking out from a strikethrough
was the seventh day spent in sleep
or in grief?
in all 6 stages of it, simultaneously?
how could he rest
knowing what his hands had done?
&
if we are made in his image
what ghastly beast sits in his mirror?
what horror portrays him
what stares back from the dark water of a lake?
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
The job of the heart
A constant throb
Mere kernels until all is cob
The swab of eyes
Please do advise
Popeyes
That savory smell
In a crunchy shell
A munchy crisp
Misspelt in emotion
Chunky potatoes drizzled in gravy
Honey drenched on top of biscuits
Mac & cheese
Taking apart the sorrow of that cob like heart
Even if for a while
Least the stomach feels better
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
she is worth alot to herself
she is worth nothing to everyone else
this gets misinterpreted
like her name gets misspelt
she lacks the numbers
not the bravery
nor strength
but what one lacks in quantity
one makes up in presence
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 6:59 AM UTC
come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.
one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load
creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.
at six twenty seven, the music
ends.
sbm.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC
come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.
one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load
creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.
at six twenty seven, the music
ends.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 1:05 AM UTC
The thing about loving and OCD is that every tree in the woods has your name carved into its bark
Every attempt is misspelt perfectly in calligraphy
You’re the most beautiful mistake I have made
Note: Never take a nature walk again
Remembering to forget you is an impossible phenomenon
Like riding a bike
Except I never learned how to ride a bike
But I do know how to breathe
Unless I think about you then suddenly my lungs collapse
You were my oxygen, or a necessity if you prefer
And my therapist told me getting some fresh air would be therapeutic
Like riding a bike in the woods
The only problem with this serenity is you took my oxygen away from me
You are in everything I once breathed
Not to mention I never learned how to ride a bike
And every tree has your name engraved
An everlasting reminder of the beauty in toxicity
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
Using my lips as a straw
I encourage the coffee
Inside me
The coffee doesn't need much
Encouragement having lain
In wait for this moment
His entire life
I'd like to raise a toast
Raise the roof
Wait for the dough to rise
Wait for the proof
I'd like to make a toast
Raise of misspelt sunlight
Rising early with the ****
Rising for the joy
Pure joy
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
Met a stranger by chance
Fell for her on first glance
Soon I was her man
Young love, on advance
I was more into romance
But, she had her own plans
Saw her with another man
She was more of into his finance
Still, in my heart she dwells
I remember her smell
And all of her jewel
Happiness and pain are lines in parallel
Love got misspelt
A spell you can't repel
The urgency of alarm Bell
Illuminating pessimism, expelled.
Fell down and yelled
To die upon a hand I love so well
I'm on my death knell. Give me a farewell
Abandoned heaven, flourishing in hell...
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
But Mom, All the Cool Kids are into Genocide!
“Students! Be the Fuhrer’s Propagandists!”
**** poster ca. 1933, per Library of Congress: [Studenten seid
Propagandisten des Führers Hoch-u. Fachschulen bekennen
sich am 29. März zur Deutschen Freiheitsbewegung /
(loc.gov)]
All the cool kids are into genocide
Slogans and posters and bullhorns and cries
Abandoning their studies to march outside
And scream the same 2,000-year-old lies
The InterGossip commands, and they obey
Blocking the streets and clenching each fist
Waving misspelt signs and yelling all day
Never pausing to ask if there’s something they’ve missed
Am I a hollow echo for some sycophant’s squall?
Will I fail to think for myself at all?
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 6:58 PM UTC
I didn't sign the declaration
and I didn't
after due and careful
consideration
which is legalese for,
I tossed it in the bin.
We've all seen the writing on the wall
uninformed gibberish
misspelt *******
youth!
send 'em down the mines
oh wait
Thatcher closed them,
send 'em to sea
oh wait
no fuckin' navy
and less of an army since
Napoleons days.
I turn sour
like last weeks milk
a proper grumpy cat
and
I don't like that
at all
perhaps I should take to writing
on the wall,
#Killjoy was here
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC