"oxymoronic" poems
I've mastered the art of sad smiles
It seems natural to me now
The slight curve of the lip corners
That never reaches the eyes
Those misty windows hold the truth
It's an oxymoronic action
Of conflicting thoughts
Between how I feel
And the depressing little attempt
To convince others I'm alright
Hoping to be asked what's wrong
But knowing I couldn't explain it
Even if I were
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Give me
not your softness
—tonight
too hard
to forget
—and survive
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
we are all plagued by the same
haunting disease.
every step on this wearied road
is just a step in our prison.
esoteric dreams of unchanging bliss
are humanity's liturgy.
the only steadfast thing in
this oxymoronic world is
dissatisfaction.
we are foundering in it,
wishing to drown already.
the romantics looked
to love,
now we look
to apathy;
but this prison
has no escape,
except death.
so we fell in
love
with the grim,
when fantasy
failed us.
now we sit here,
entranced with the mud but
dreaming of beaches.
meaningless,
meaningless,
meaningless.
we are the living dead.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
When all alone,
Be oxymoronic;
Focus on all,
Not alone.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
I am everything
And I am nothing.
I am big
And I am small.
I am frightened
And I am brave.
I am empty
And I am whole.
I am happy
And I am sad.
I am strong
And I am weak.
I am lonely
And I am fulfilled.
I am optimistic
And I am cynical.
I am hopeless
And I am hopeful.
I am right
And I am wrong.
I am selfless
And I am selfish.
I am lost
And I am found.
I am ironic.
I am not quite psychotic.
I am oxymoronic.
I am me.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.
Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Your idealism burned your path
and led you there.
Your desire a burning scythe,
Scorching and hacking
anything you deemed pre-determined.
Only a few tried to stop you.
Only a few told you it was a foolish endeavour,
But you wouldn't hear of it.
Your ears filtered out contrary voices.
Your mind bias to your thoughts of absolute free-will
and its oxymoronic pursuit of a destiny.
And so you left.
Took off under your own power
Leaving a contrail in your wake
Stretching from an eternal West
to an eternal East.
A monochrome rainbow
Befittingly lacking in palette
as your tunnel vision
allowed for only one colour,
Not a mixture of hues and shades
That colour a normal youthful existence.
Although short and unfulfilled,
Your brief sojourn on this world
will be remembered.
Your life's contrail will hang in the sky:
A solitary mark on your life's canvas,
A testimony, not to your Quixotic mission,
But to the good that would have surely followed
the eventual demise of your romantic notions
of solving the world's problems.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
It chills like fire
It burns like ice
It's dark like day
And so bright like night
It's an oxymoron
That makes paradoxical sense
It's a pseudo-pseudonym
Filled with disguise, thick and dense
And it's become a fine mess
In the years I've been gone
The acute dullness
Of the field seems so wrong
But the change is the same
And the routine is ever-changing
And this name has no name
As we look for what we can't see
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Sometimes I see you better with my eyes closed
When my gaze stops counting the lines in your forehead
And the number of times you lick your lips
And the freckles on your back.
When I let my eyelids come between my vision and you
The room becomes very crowded even though we’re the only people in it
And I suddenly see your secrets that everyone knows and your complexities become understandable.
Your worldly yet mellow curiosity teaches me to never underestimate doubt
And when I see your laughter I remember to forget.
Sometimes we’re very distant neighbors
But when I close my eyes that distance shrinks
When I can comprehend your passion as elegantly simple
And your peace as a strong weakness.
Your loyalty teaches me to quit quitting
And your determination proves itself bittersweet.
The silence of that never-ending moment roars through my ears
But I like it, and I keep listening.
Maybe it’s not right, but it’s true
Everything I see about you can be seen with closed eyes,
Everything that was hiding right in front of me becomes exposed in the darkness.
And so far what I’ve noticed is that
When you take out all the perfection, what’s left is a deadly beautiful contradiction.
I’m just an average catastrophe
But I’m hoping against hope that I’m right
And that you’re completely unique just like all the others.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
Words
words to say
words to say for those who possess a quiescent soul
vibrations forming into susurrus breathes,
spun by Love.
Love is an oxymoronic, overly celebrated,
seemingly sempiternal happening that is eternally ephemeral,
lasting
a
very
short
t
i
m
e.
Love speaks with words that no matter how
dis-joint-ed
sound wonderfully euphonious -
a sonic euphoria
a billet-doux made from absolutely nothing
but
the very
rawness
of being absolute.
Love is a little more than
chimerical.
Love is a clinquant aubade that requires redamancy.
redamancy.
Love requires love to exist in it's eternal shortness,
to exist
in the mere seconds that are allowed
to exist in the ephemeral time frame of a blip in space
of decades and decades that no one will rememeber and that will not matter to the masses
and
will mean
absolutely nothing to everyone else except
for the one that is awake enough to look directly at
Love.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.
I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?
Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?
I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.
A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.
Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.
What weirdos really!
Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.
Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.
I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.
I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?
Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?
Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.
Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.
Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.
Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.
Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.
Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.
If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.
Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
I wish my world was in sync with what I am and what I want
but its not nor will it ever be.
To be loved is to be wanted, needed, accepted.
Trust is a no brainer too for those that are true,
too many nights I lie awake wondering what I can do
But the day comes as sleep takes my mind
and in the morning light I find
a woman that wants to be mine.
Forced by the forces of the world to remain the same
I look deep into the back of my mind and once again find
a love that is there but refuses to cross the line.
why can't I have everything I want?
Others do and are content with what they have
because they have what they want.
I wish I was a simple man that wanted simple things
But I'm as simple as a deafening silence.
Oxymoronic with a demonic emotion that remains selfish
yet selfless in all I do.
May my ego be taken from me someday
and on that I shall lay
upon my grave.
My ego is all I am that keeps me moving
and daily it is attacked without regard
I had a belief that I was great at something.
But then I *** to find out
I'm not even great to be looked at.
Here is my ego on display for the world
and here is a man broke and broken.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
Grow, apply, adapt. As ink, we
seep and sink into surrounding.
Bring with us our virus, desirous
as we come. Sum up all we have
gotten and it is not near our goal.
Soul of good intentions but the
weapons in our arms speak:
"Weak! We shall conquer all that
do not adhere!" Clear, we have
a slightly strange notion. Motion:
**** the parasite that makes us sick.
Oxymoronic,
we are the Universe tick.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
He is fall and she is summer
Calm and hot and colorful
Beautifully ethereal
Warm down to the atoms
In my bones.
He is fall and she is summer
And they've been new for centuries
Oxymoronic and lovely and
Warm down to the atoms
In my bones.
He is fall and she is summer
And people like them don't exist
Just a figment of realistic imaginings
Warm down to the atoms
In my bones
And there is no rhyme nor reason
And there is no word or articulation
And I cannot describe or indicate
And I cannot understand or make sense
But they are warm
Down to the atoms
In my bones.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
to buy a book at half-ten with
no time wasting. go back, await
instructions ‘cause ****** will
have their trinkets, with novelty
of accented voice. and i once
would talk often of a love – let’s
separate that word from *****
often of a love, but am rare to
fall to elaboration. and through
contemplation the soul may
ascend to knowledge of the
Form of the Good, penultimate
object of Knowledge but not
Knowledge. and often writ of
this love, writ of what was to be
then and never now. never to find
affirmation in fleeting memory.
oxymoronic oblate of the mind
– this soul. attempting for attainment
of Kenosis. shambling i wandered,
rambling i wandered, and humbly
wandering on to pluck till times
and times are done. and
the dogs of this life have re-
moved dearest effects. in turn, sho-
wing the vanity in materialism.
end turn, showing futility in ret-
ention and the sun's continuous gro-
wth forcing abatement of winters’
vespers. cradling a gourd filled with
oil from the skin of ages, to reflect
micorocosms of preceived death.
those silver apples of the moon. and
when vespers return in color, when
the ground aches tensing muscles.
this love, if only the conjunctions
had been denied. perhaps by abor-
tion of if, then could have been a
block for now. these times found
oblate of memory by zealous self-
truth of the wronged past, and
humbled by skewed memory of
the hermit on unseen path for
Kenosis. unseen growth of
those golden apples of the sun.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Good Fences
Oxymoronic mania
Infecting ordinary beings!
Through the ages.
“Good fences make good neighbours”
They say
So they say
Israel, one day
Will be the best
Of neighbours
With the wall all around them
From east to west
Buddies to Bedouins
Touted by Saudis
Lebanese unfreeze
Hamas 'no mas'!
We should all build
A wall!
Sean Hunt
Windermere Jan 30 2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
I have been searching for this concept for eternity
Wandering through my trepidations
Looking through my misconceptions
It’s an idea deemed unattainable
Yet, as the fool I was
I continued to search
Perhaps spoken of in terms of verse
Perhaps in aspects more visual
Perhaps even in the ideas withheld
It can be summed in the way of a single word
A simple piece of diction, entranced in its triplicate of syllables:
Perfection
It seemed a goal attainable through precision
Taking away the negatives and mistakes
As if in the search for the smallest piece of consciousness
Ah the years I worked and struggled
Such time devoted to becoming as far away from my roots
But never did I realize where it lay
I had toiled away at my inner persona
Struck off those close
Refused to accept any mistakes, no matter the severity or relevance
But never did I realize perfection lay in a place so oxymoronic
Secluded in a place I had long since thought irrelevant
Hidden in its insecurity and utter depression
It lay in you
I almost laugh at it now
You, the embodiment of everything I didn’t want to be
Mistake-ridden, clumsy, needy
Forever looking to others to accomplish anything
But never leaving me, no matter how much I pushed you away
I couldn’t comprehend you
A person I saw as the Yin to my Yang
Forever polarized but inseparable
I was involved so heavily in this needless search
That I didn’t see you
Despite everything you did to let me
I hope you are at peace now
Resting with that curve of the bottom lip you always expressed towards me
Looking at me with those forever twinkling eyes
I had wrestled my entire life with a concept I thought so far
But now you’ve gone, and left me with my answer
Perfection lays in no distant star, or even a mindscape attained with an eternity of sacrifice
It lay in you
The most perfect imperfection
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
I am paradoxical;
an oxymoronic anomaly.
all my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.
I am paradoxical;
an absurd abnormality.
it’s a chaotic peace,
loud with it’s bated breath
and bittersweet ring.
I am paradoxical;
an irregular oddity.
my counterparts are contradictory,
and I change to chance
the possibility
that opposites attract.
and we’re all just paradoxed;
argumentative attractions.
there’s no stopping at the end,
when the sun is low
in the soft red sky.
where my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:27 PM UTC
walking Van Dieman’s Land
Hobart
following footsteps through the park
christmas roses on the arm of campanulas
sashaying in the winter wind
an oxymoronic botanical dance
appropriate given the place
isle of heat to the north
isle of ice to the south
between
this isle of freedom & hope
place of salvation when the centuries turned
18th to 19th
settlement ships sailing south
feeding their human cargo
on dreams
time moves on
21st century now resides in the park
where vertical walls carry your headstones
telling your story
explaining how you stained the earth with your blood
and
why the ether echoes with your tears
so many lives measured not in years
but
in days or months
you are honoured now
finally
very right
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 1:36 AM UTC
In the loud silence
There is a fine mess
Where a girl, a little pregnant
Is trying to act naturally
She an adult child
Absolutely unsure of what she's done
For an advanced beginner in parenthood
She's doing awfully good
Anxiously she patiently waits
As the amateur expert checks
Is she almost safe
Or is she almost pregnant?
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Don’t pass Go and don’t collect two hundred
Societal standards keep us encumbered
Put these shoes on and try to walk a mile
I’ll be here waiting, disguising my guile
To open your eyes and empathize
To live the life of another
The greatest gift of humanity
Leaves a soul to wonder
When the night falls, when the street lights go out
The curse of the romantic is always the mind
When the wind picks up, screaming its shouts
Contemplating secrets he never thought to find
Beginning to end, end to beginning
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Playing on words, if the chicken laid the egg
The end to beginning, metaphorically speaking
Rambling on, a generation at a screen
The romantic left wondering at a timeless wonder
Opening your eyes, but closing them to dream
Leaving the rest for the poorest to ponder
Incapable of empathy, desensitized to fear
The literal end is always so near
Listening, watching, a self sentenced pledge
I watch the lemmings step up to the ledge
Sheep to slaughter, minds of fodder
Couples dancing, funerals entrancing
Services held, services dealt
Always wondering, wondering whats felt
Tears appear in the corners of eyes
Nothing left to use for disguise
Nothing but emotion left to bare true witness
The meaningless words of a false forgiveness
When being yourself is creating yourself, what is left to see?
The strangulation of freedom, an oxymoronic irony.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
What is the crisis
a quarter of the way
through life?
Existentially existing in the moment,
I'm constantly inside of myself
while also out.
Conundrum of being up while
I'm also down,
freedom within a blockade.
Oxymoronic hodgepodge of
tantalizing confusion,
tastes sweet on my brain
and thoughts ponder bitter on
my tongue.
Half and whole,
part and full,
questions answered with questions,
seeing things through in simultaneous
interrogatories.
Top here, bottom there,
rights are right,
and lefts aren't wrong.
Phone, texts and emails,
vibrating inside my skull
as I laugh and I cry,
as I seek to find.
Orange to yellow to green to brown,
seasons coming and going
inside my soul,
and I constantly blossom
and refreeze.
Everywhere feels like nowhere,
nowhere my somewhere as
I await a somewhere that's
everywhere.
Losing myself as I find it too,
letting some parts sail away
at sea,
and too there comes new
horizons,
as I surf, skating on the
foam, on the water's edges.
Wading into one crisis,
I'm swallowed by a
wave,
until I burst through the sea and the
salt;
and then the next wave
comes...
for life, it seems,
is salty and sweet,
one tide coming in to sweep itself away
in place of another.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
The World's Times chronicled
Crusades and Fatawas,
Jihads and Inquisitions,
Coups and Genocides.
Such resourcefulness
The Construct.
Another Cathedral rises
In a destitute country.
Do-able
We're told
From the leader's lips
We'll always have the poor.
Uh huh! The poor!
That's what was said.
We can always put them to work,
And there won't always be work.
They'll need membership cards,
And birthings and burials,
Like always.
See the pyramids along the Nile
You get up every morning from your alarm clock's warning
Another temple
Will grow from
Rice paddies;
A synagogue,
A mosque will
Cinch tiles
On the backs of peasants.
I've had enough
Laundering by recluse
Single mothers,
By crooks posing as shepherds,
And Holy Wars
*so oxymoronic
cleanses too*
Any Divines
Benefitting from
Our labour and wages;
Our drachma, denarius and shegel,
Aren't worth the worship.
Yet the lenders are good
At getting their pound.
*Don't drop a coin
In a wishing well,
Pay cash for a mass
Where they'll ring your bell.
Choose a charity,
There's so many,
That need a
Pauper's Penny.*
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
Shoot up with Ink,
Take off the edge,
allow it to float you
down off the ledge
of destruction.
Instead place yourself
in reconstruction,
go on,
change it all;
Skin
Words
Thoughts
This drug may crawl you back to freedom
First the skin, cut to within
Slithers of scratches
Skim over your arm
doing just enough harm
To Ensure you're alive
Yet this pen's marks are
harmless enough
that they can only reach inside through your mind
You're sure to survive
you must never cut deeper
A needless nicotine patch
for a virginal physical self-harmer
Cut yourself Calmer
Here come the words,
allow verbs, vowels and nouns
to sound their way out
Say things you wish you'd said
Type things you want to shout
Find the door and safety lock
and force your way
bound out
You are Alone
but for whispered, mouthed and subtle
tone of Freedom
Relish and Revel
Search your way to hell
out here
Find the things so close,
so near,
you couldn't see them if you
tried,
they hide behind the ink.
Blink, they're gone,
splattered in the lyrics
to a lifelong song,
branded.
How could something so true, be wrong?
Allow your thoughts to be free,
be you, be me
See everything
Feel all,
Stall as you wait for the buzz to fade
You can never be sated with this
Something you can't recall
but you must always miss.
Addictions scarring, marring and barring
words always a
kiss
away from overdose,
it's so close you can taste it
Feel it's breath
When you put the pen
down
You can only feel
Bereft,
so test yourself again
Find the mental vein and
slice it open
Feel the pain of truth
Open the roof of your skull
and allow the clock to fall
Ticking
to silence
Violent peace
Calm chaos
Hyperbole
Alliteration
Oxymoronic
Nouns
Verbs
Words
Words
Words
Think
ThInk
hInk
Ink
Ink
InkInk
InkInkInk
InkInkInkInk
InkInk
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC