"oxymorons" poems
"Compassionate Conservatism"
and
"friendly fire":
Euphemistic oxymorons
capable of
destroying hospitals.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
I want to use all the alterations, Personifications in the world to impress you.
I want to drive you insane with the oxymorons, the metaphors and the similes.
I want to use coliqual words so that I can make you think I'm extremely smart.
When really in reality I'm just average.
I want to use euphemism and lititoes to really make you think I'm that good with words.
When really in reality I have writers block yet I want to capture your attention.
I want to write an iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ABAB so that you notice some part of me in my writing.
I want my words to ****** with your mind so that some part of you thinks about me...
But I have writers block, There's not much I can do to grab your attention.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
What is an oxymoron:
It’s a contradiction in itself
That still exists anyway
An oxymoron
Would be thunder on
A clear day
Or an ocean
On fire
Or deafening
Silence
For a while, I wrote
People into being oxymorons
Girls with eyes that
Burned with wildfire
Yet hearts that were
Colder than the northern ice caps
(I thought that the colder
Your heart was
The better chance of being
Okay you had)
I wrote of people
Who had the gentlest hands
But the hardest eyes
I loved my story
Of the girl who was in the
Best relationship
But didn’t believe in love
I wanted to be
An oxymoron
Something hard to fathom
And figure out, something
Miraculous and curious
Then I realized
That I’ve always been an oxymoron
I’ve been told that my smiles
Were the brightest
But I’d look in the mirror and see
That my eyes were dead
And empty
I saw that I became an
Oxymoron of my own
The second that I became
A perfectly controlled catastrophe
So that my ragged edges
And awful mess
Wouldn’t touch anyone else
I knew that I was an
Oxymoron the second that I
Started doing everything
Out of love
Yet I did not believe in
Love at all
I became an oxymoron
And I hate it
Because I want to break apart
And fall into a million pieces
But I need to hold myself
Together even if it’s agony
I am an oxymoron of sorts
And I do not know
If I am weaker
Or stronger for it
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
You never really know someone until you are laying in a bed with them around 2 in the morning lingering from a night of busy adventure.
Not just a regular night of adventure but one that has exhausted you and drained all of the energy you stored from the week.
A night that took you to new places in a city you thought you knew so well and forced you to revel in the beauty it holds.
A night that creates memories that stick to your soul and your skin more than anything.
As you ride home in the backseat and steal glances in the rear view you love the way the wind wraps your hair around you and the wind smells sweet.
Once you have dropped off everyone else and you move to the front seat you really start getting to know someone.
It's midnight and you are dozing off in the passengers seat hoping this person is noticing the moonlight on your skin.
You feel their presence wrap around you and all thoughts of logic are thrown out the window as you drive down the highway.
It's 1 am now and you are laying in bed wondering how you got to the point of skin wrapped around you and a scent taking over your memories.
The conversation is light because you feel the need to whisper as the moonlight pours into a room of heavy hearts.
Nothing has happened that wasn't anything more than a kiss but the idea is heavy in the air with the cool weather blowing in through an open window.
Eyes hang low and voices start to soften and hang with every sleepy word that falls from a mouth.
This is the point where you get to know someone.
The things they whisper about as their mind tries to escape to sleep but they push through.
How you have a beautiful family.
How I love living in the country.
How you enjoy math.
How I hate all numbers.
How you like to workout.
How I love cake.
How you belief in religion.
How I believe in everything.
How we would love to be part of the stars.
How we hate oxymorons.
It is the simplicity of a tired mind that brings about the most deep and beautiful ideas. They way your voice is deeper and mine is quieter.
I got to know you under the cloak of night and I got to keep you there for a while.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
I have an insatiable appetite for oxymorons, as they can be violent in their state of calm relaxation.
Although Bacillus anthracis is truly antisocial within the context of biological weaponry; so, domestic discipline has become intertwined with the Hindu philosophy of Vatsyayana.
So, what do you think about that?
Personally, I have never consumed methylated spirits even though I have unravelled a myriad of ideologies whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes.
Therefore, always reflect upon the Code of Hammurabi, because she is the epitome of savory stew.
How alternative are your affiliations?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
There comes a time in everyone's life where they have to ask themselves is it worth it. I mean I have the American dream right? I think they're all lies told to make you think you have to reach for something or life is meaningless and wasted. All these empty goals reached don't make me happy. The process is still voided and leads to a dark hole. At 20 my life was never the same and I don't know whether that's good or bad. Just memories to me currently. I can swim a little, but the waves still still get me ashore. Trying so hard some would say I lost my black card. Some would say my sanity is at risk for extinction. Then I ask myself did it ever exist. Both my sanity and this dream I call mine. Land mines in a field if you ask me. Rat traps to keep you trapped in thinking smaller than you are. Delusion of grandeur leaving me thinking I'm greater than I really am. Balance is the key that kept my door locked all my life. They don't tell you about balance. They tell you failure is avoidable and leads to pits. But really you have to fail to succeed and too much success will ruin you. Oxymorons that's tell you that it's okay to be fine with not being where you want to be.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young
he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and **** as if he could calculate Life
strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world
not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and
realness
of the hug that
makes them so
great.
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment
I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?
I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
They say that humans are compassionate and loving creatures, with a wide variety of emotions. Yet they also say humans are the most feared and horrible creatures on this planet. And all of these things were yet said by humans. What most people don’t say or tend to notice is that humans are full of oxymorons, hypocrisys, and failure. That may sound negative but it isn’t. If humans weren’t flawed then we wouldn’t be humans right? I believe those two most common perceptions of humans come from the two most commonly perceived personality types present in humans. You have the super happy-go-lucky type who believes the world is perfect and pure and no one wants to hurt each other. And then you have the extremely hateful cynical type. The people who have been hurt and stepped on and abused and feel they have every right to hate the world. But I think these two extremes are quite unfair to the majority of the population that is in the middle grey area. The reality is that the world is a mystery and treats every human differently with different experiences, just as all humans are different from each other. It’s quite beautiful, that grey area. You never really know what’s going to happen in the middle and its exciting.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Old fashioned backseat
Nostalgia, I'll sell you a feeling
Cigarettes and fast times
All of the flavours fleeting
As complicated as simplicity
Ubiquitous oxymorons
Dancing between tide markers
While we stand beneath the summer sun
Upon the docks upon the sea
Just another memory
I'll sell you some meaning
If you share this bleeding
Even at cost
Just to taste old feelings
In this tumultuous time
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
remember?
you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where
i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me
your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry
like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin
the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything
anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time
at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?
How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine
i remember
i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real
rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
remember?
you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where
i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me
your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry
like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin
the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything
anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time
at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?
How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine
i remember
i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real
rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
Battling against a tide of cars and trains,
Counting the lubs and dubs that grow faint.
Penning down each tear that dries on my paper,
Concealing the eye bags from every night under an intense kohl layer.
Braving the fences and trenches that hurt my feet,
Archiving the conversations that now go obsolete.
Witchcrafting the blood moon of its glee so deep,
Staining the red from my eyes to your feet.
Crawling down from where you let others push me insane,
Ripping me apart with the echoes of 'I'll never be the same'
Uncovering the sunken eyes, shedded oodles and revealing cheek bones,
Trying to be worth a coin in a city of precious stones.
Still leaping miles towards you when a step you take back in repel,
Tickling you in fantasies to cast on you a laughter spell.
Watching those hazel eyes drool in sleep,
Embracing your aura when even my pillow does weep.
Pressing the backspace everytime I scribble verses,
Replacing the oxymorons in us with oranamental metaphors.
Letting my veins go cold n numb enough to form a rope,
Hanging everything I have n to grave shall I elope.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
"practice makes perfect "
does not apply to swimming in quicksand
---
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the phrase "toughened by adversity"
shouldn't lead you to go get AIDS to prove yourself
-----
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"have faith"
doesn't mean you should call "love" your attraction to a boy who mistreats you constantly
-----
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"calling upon your inner self"
isn't simply stringing a few oxymorons together within a few rhymes in an obscure manner.....no matter how many people praise you for your "deep wisdom"
----
----
"live and let live"
is so easily abused it really needs no comment
------
------
"it takes one to know one"
is only true for true human beings
-----
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"have a nice day"
is only true on a nice day
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
remember?
you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where
i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me
your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did **** me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry
like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin
the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything
anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time
at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?
How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine
i remember
i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real
rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
my emotions are all hypocrites
ironic lunatics defined by oxymorons
all my feelings opposed by its opposite
my love for you
for example
is combatted by unquestionable hatred
and my willpower to make something of myself
is contradicted by a relentless lack of motivation
my mind is filled with all extremities
and that's a lot to handle
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
As a reformed anonymist, I'm not one to look down on drunks.
But today at the bar, I looked up at one and saw a beautiful disaster.
Long dreaded hippie girls have a soft spot in the corner of my heart. From the patchwork dresses to the oxymorons of a vegan ****** addict, I've loved many.
But it's sad to watch someone create themselves through liquor.
To create a persona through drugs because that's "counter cultural."
To create another line of ******** about not wanting to be a robot.
A message so timeless and repetitive that it's...
She was actually kind of personable.
The few times that day she could speak, she was even funny.
She carried herself with a grace that was quite remarkable for someone who could barely stand.
But she was on the run.
From a halfway house.
From a boy friend.
From a drug.
From herself.
There's no truly meeting someone who is already halfway out the door and already in the bag.
There was a desperation in her smile that I've seen before in my own reflection.
I don't believe in God.
But if you do, say a prayer for her.
I believe it's worth it.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
Oxymorons, because I’m not that easy, so don’t stereotype me
I hate what I love and love creating what I hate
I even hate love itself, but need it more than anything else
Complicated is what makes us, individuality is what teaches us
Ignorance and what’s not know, drives us to stupidity and hatefulness
Communication and acceptance could build more bridges
Yin and yang, sun to moon, black and white, rain or shine
Destiny and choice, high to low, hot or cold, I am sold
I believes in them all, like a prism, from one side to the finish
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 2:02 AM UTC
A love so violently gentle
in an impulsive kind of way
I felt so beautifully ugly
a thought, I heard myself say
You were always coldly warm
as we talked about our pasts
Showing your most hateful smile
that you often wore as a mask
A dry moisture upon my lips
still remains from our first kiss
when my hair so wildly tame
wrapped around your fingertips
Our heartbeats, silently heard
as life was passing by
A weight, as light as a feather
fell upon us from the sky
Now our completely happy nightmare
moves swiftly to an end
I find myself laughing angrily
at this situation I have penned
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
I just want someone to write with.
No.
On.
I want someone who will stay up all night long, nothing but our souls and pens on display for the moonlight to catch off the small of his back, while the ink spills across our skin and forms itself into the lyrics to a song that doesn’t quite know how it goes. Not yet. I want a symphony of rhyme and reason and metaphors and anaphoras and allusions and oxymorons, I want poetry. In the form of a man.
This is a story about you.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
And on some days
I just can't write.
I skim through pages
and
scribble my name a thousand times
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
My diaries and notebooks lie open,
Blank,
White.
I look at my own words
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
I stumble upon words
And fall insides holes of oxymorons,
And I end up realising,
my name and writing together are also an oxymoron.
I look for inspirations and motivations
But end up realising,
I just can't write.
I personify my emotions,
Add similes to my feelings,
Just like a heart broken by love does.
But I still end up realising,
I just can't write.
I read poems and stories
Of writers who could write,
Feeling, maybe someday even I would be able to.
I battle with metaphors
and
Scratch the onomatopoeias,
I injure the meanings
and
Spill my thoughts through my veins.
I shout " Alohamora " to my heart a million times.
I trace through the lines of the endings of my stories.
I try to go on like the brook forever,
and
I hear the voice of the solitary reaper in the daffodil fields.
Yet, as the day ends,
I end up realising,
I just can't write.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:12 AM UTC
My middle-aged boss Ted was a wise fool,
He got married to an original
copy of his first wife Jane,
He was a selfish lover,
She trusted him and always looked thoroughly unhappy,
They had a loveless relationship
Pamela,her twin had stolen her husband from her,
It was an open secret he and Pamela had been lovers for a long time.
She found no better revenge than to give him to her,
They had an amicable divorce.
There was deafening silence when he came to the office with Pamela,
She was painfully beautiful,and hell's Angel,
She was like the man she had married
We were used to his typically weird behaviours,
But,good grief! This was worst,
It was crash landing.
Both were terribly pleased with themselves.
We had no choice but,to congratulate them,
It was an era of free love.
Before the marital bliss was over
she took over the reins of the office,
She started with veiled comments how we worked,
Then came veiled threats,
Next she lectured us on business ethics.
The pretty ugly lady had lost her head,
Ted,the big baby was forced to do nothing but watch,
There was a minor crises in the office,
The staff alone together resigned.
A small miracle happened,
Ted lost his cool temper,
He wanted his imperfect perfect wife out of the office.
He realised that their similarities were different,
You have to really know someone to understand they were strangers,
The evil genius had transferred his business and house in her name,
He was speechless.
A story told in silence,
For him it was the coldest day on a summer's day,
A common raven sits on his own faeces.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
With each thought comes disaster, a living corpse hung high
Oxymorons and illegitimate thoughts, broken voices
Tomorrow is the future but another days past
When it all ends there will only be dust
Rumbling pixie dust from nonexistent faeries
It's time to pull the batteries out of the controller
Auto pilot feels so good
Like tomorrow won't happen, never said those words
Just like that, stand still, stand tall
Eat your words as they leave, rot through your gums
Hang men with the melody that leaves your notes
Only then beg for solid thoughts, for one line
To end the thinking
Intoxication is so cruel, it let's me forgive my own tongue
How scornful
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC