"unsuccessful" poems
my steps are just attempts
to stow away
on the sails, on future's mast
as I walk away,
leaving behind the trail
of my unsuccessful past...
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)
who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain
a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly
and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago
Alas! Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I could never unknot
nor uncover
so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love
*"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"*
I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)
perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
M>
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:38 PM UTC
Hate me for something I did.
Hate me for something I said.
Hate me because I wished something
ill upon you or your loved ones.
Hate me because I'm a vile man,
with a toxic personality.
Hate me for the hell of it.
Hate me because it's the weekend.
Hate me for trying to tear down
your religion or ideology.
Hate me for wearing pajamas to the beach.
Hate me for trying to wear jeans to a funeral.
Hate me for speaking ill of your favorite writer.
Hate because you spent seven dollars for a digital
copy of one of my **** CD's.
Hate me because I think your children are ********
and I want to feed your pets to larger animals.
Hate me because I curse like a sailor.
Hate me because I don't cuss as much as I used to.
Hate me for being naive.
Hate me for being unsuccessful.
Hate me for breaking something important.
Hate me because I went limp during a ****
and laughed in your face.
Hate me because I have no ambition.
Hate me because all I do is think all day.
Hate me because I'm a hypocrite.
Hate me because I half *** everything.
Hate me because I wander around town
wearing all black at midnight.
Hate me because I made you a promise
I had zero intention of keeping.
Hate me because I'm not giving you a choice.
It's either
hate me,
or
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
A kiss of death,
Before you can safely visit the realm of the deceased, the long gone,
A last breath, before it can end, escaping the boundary of this reality,
The embrace of death might not be always gentle, it may take some cruelty before it sets you free, to fly away, leaving us, finally behind,
It may happen in a restless night, or when you are asleep, that a lady comes to engage her lips, pressing them against yours and spiriting you away, lifeless, the corpse would remain, but worry not, darling.
If the kiss lacks of passion, more importantly dedicated affection however, it shall be unsuccessful, leaving a mark of fear in that soul,
Without a sound, the light dies, plunging everything around in deep yet loitering darkness, burnt, blistered and fallen is the blooming life,
Even so, humanity has no other choice but to follow this chosen road,
Living as they do now, unable to escape the endearment of dying,
I hope that, this body of mine can disperse in a gentle peaceful way,
Carried away with a single kiss of love, then sleeping, for eternity,
With that being said, would you like a kiss,
Darling ?
~ Umi
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
I’ve never understood the pull of the nightlife.
I was always content to hang in my cave and enjoy the homelife.
Every now and then I do wag my tail and purse the trail of the pack,
Always lingering right at the back of the queue.
I follow their scent when they descend into the night,
While they ascend the social status stairway.
From my perch at the bar I watch the social sheep dancing to the beat of popularity:
The girls show off their twirls and brunette curls,
Inviting you into the funhouse down under that never shuts for festivities.
The boys weigh up their options with the biceps on display and perfect quiffs held up by ten tins of hairspray.
Hunting through the flocks of feet trying to find themselves a piece of meat for an all night feast.
When he finally finds his muse he bites her lip and grabs her hair, pulling her in without a care about those who stop and stare.
They kiss for seconds and he whispers in here ear,
“I think we should get outta’ here.”
She giggles grabs his hand and leaves through the exit at the rear.
His friends give him a clap and cheer, whilst his jealous rivals sulk and sneer.
After a few too many drinks I leave through the front, holding my head low to avoid a fight.
Bearing the brunt of another unsuccessful night with no young light to take home and ignite.
I fall on my floor with a case of helicopter head as the room spins in circles and squares in front of my eyes.
My lasting thoughts are of the day ahead; hanging dry and feeling as if I’d rather die.
It's just another day in my nightlife.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
You know the problem of having
a history of unsuccessful love?
You can't remember any previous history.
And when you can finally forget about them,
you're a blank book.
Can we rewrite that?
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
on fine paper,
quality paper,
deserving of thoughtful
care and consideration,
summon courage,
write for one,
even if too many will indifferent read
write for the one,
who will wait for you,
long after closing time
for the need to say
Something
of thanks,
something that cannot go
unsaid
write for the one,
who cannot say
what they needs to say,
and in their stumbling style,
fumbling unsuccessful reach,
says it better than anyone
write for the blind and
sing for the deaf,
be their guide,
be their intimate,
aid them to escape boundaries,
by granting them the saws
to cut loose binding emotions,
share with them your most
intimate courage
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things."
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Th poems were walking down the street
A young teenage girl,
A Professional Loser, but life lessoned and in possession of
Eagled-claws and tongue razored sharpened
From gettin/givin acidic high school barbed kisses
(She maintained up to date put down lists),
Swooped them up, hers to imprison,
Framed them to be soully hers,
Purposed for skin restoration during the wee hours of the
Crying Nights
A middle aged man, tired from failure,
Trapped tween lost rock n' roll dreams and
Unsuccessful retirement planning,
Suffocated by the hands of twixt and tween,
Grabbed the three, like a rock climbing hand-hold to
Take him home when and where his family looks at him
Pathetically.
This grandfather espied the other two,
Looked liked old familiars, friends maybe,
But eyes/words, dimmed, disparu,
Memories unsorted, disordered, jumble-merged,
Perhaps the words to a song he once knew complete,
But did he write that phrase, or was he just a poet
Thief?
The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
*FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.*
They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
Paid as in the past tense
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
I've moved on.
but she stalks at his profile
all day long
I've moved on.
but she kept the photographs
of their unsuccessful love
I've moved on.
but she always visit the momentous event
of their love and wanted it back
How ironic,
people says they've moved on
but deep inside there's still
something wrong
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
A long time ago a very young mother
Named Kisa Gotami gave birth to a son—
A child who was the light of her life.
The mother’s love was second to none.
Not long after her son was born,
The poor child grew sick and died.
“Who can bring my son back to life?
Have pity!” Kisa Gotami cried.
The villagers knew that there was nothing
They could do to help and suggested
That she seek out the help of the Buddha.
“He can do wonders,” they attested.
She found the Buddha and beseeched his help.
“My only son has died,” she wailed.
“Can you bring him back to life.
Everything I have tried has failed.”
The Buddha calmly said, “I will help you.”
The poor woman waited with bated breath.
“But first you must find for me
A family that’s never been touched by death.
“When you finally encounter that home,
Tell the family there’s something you need—
Just one thing to take to the Buddha—
And that’s a single mustard seed.”
With great excitement the mother ran
From house to house—to every abode.
But death had visited every family.
On her face, great disappointment showed.
After a long, unsuccessful search,
The young mother came to realize
That everything born had to die;
Everything had to have its demise.
She understood the law of impermanence
And that her suffering was not unique.
She now saw life from a new perspective;
Her eyes were open, so to speak.
Kisa Gotami returned to the Buddha
And started to follow his teachings--the Way,
Or Path to Enlightenment,
Which still guides many seekers today.
- by Bob B
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
I am not a worthless *****
Stop treating me like one.
I am not an unsuccessful, lazy person.
Stop treating me like one.
I am not a snotty *****
Stop treating me like one.
I am not a stupid know-it-all.
Stop treating me like one.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Pondering about
my dog,
I think that
perhaps even
if humans
-in general-
sling stones
at their unsuccessful brothers, sisters and themselves,
their dogs
still remain faithful
Could be,
-in general-
realizing that this trait of faithfulness
both in God and Dogs
English-speaking people
-in general-
spell the word, "D-o-g"
but unwittenly
think backwards, "G-o-d"?
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
healing:
*verb (used with object)
1. to make healthy, whole, or sound; restore to health; free from ailment.
2. to bring to an end or conclusion, as conflicts between people or groups, usually with the strong implication of restoring former amity; settle; reconcile: They tried to heal the rift between them but were unsuccessful.
3. to free from evil; cleanse; purify: to heal the soul.
verb (used without object)
4. to effect a cure.
5. (of a wound, broken bone, etc.) to become whole or sound; mend; get well (often followed by up or over ).*
reconciliation:
*verb (used with object), rec·on·ciled, rec·on·cil·ing.
1. to cause (a person) to accept or be resigned to something not desired: He was reconciled to his fate.
2. to win over to friendliness; cause to become amicable: to reconcile hostile persons.
3. to compose or settle (a quarrel, dispute, etc.).
4. to bring into agreement or harmony; make compatible or consistent: to reconcile differing statements; to reconcile accounts.
5. to reconsecrate (a desecrated church, cemetery, etc.).*
The task
painful and cumbersome
is to decide
if both can be.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
I have to be more careful with my words
Or rather the wording of said words
I have to take a leaf out of your book this time
Instead of slamming it shut each time you open it before me
Despite how ludicrous and unbelievable your avoiding answers are
There are only so many ways I can rephrase the question
Before insanity beats honesty by numbers from the infinite variations
So I'm not giving in quite yet as I said in frustration
And although from our argumentative conversation I failed to learn
I was in fact enlightened, brightened, given light
For my answers and questions stand strong and unchanged
Strengthening in stillness at every returning question you fire
I may not be the Right, I may not have the Right
Your belief might be silenced
My belief may be misunderstood
And though no result came of words spoken
And methods remain unsuccessful
The conclusion is always the same despite the uncountable alterations
So as I close this file to open one unfamiliar
I sign off with three last words
I am right
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
The light
Blessed by its radiant warmth
It wraps it self around my flesh
Lips are as warm as its hue
Yet as soft and the blooming petals
That say good morning
I love you
The light
runs and drips through the scene
Making its way through the seems
Finding its access to room where
I yawn and great its touch with a grunt
My own (caveman language) good morning
I love you
The light
Like the beach reaches the shores of your image
Receding and retreating as you move
Nudging you, trying
Unsuccessful to budge you
We conspire against you (the light and I)
Feel my wet tongue and sticky lips
Trailing from shoulders to your hip.
You up yet? No?
I'll kiss you good morning some more
Open those sleepy eyes for my
"I love you"
-Alexis J Meighan-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
I have always been the misfit of the bunch
The rebel within the pack
The troublemaker
the round peg in a square hole
the odd man out
the one who sees things differently
I am not fond of rules
I have no respect for a title above my head
You can quote me
Disagree with me
glorify or vilify me
About the only thing you can't do is ignore me
I change things
I push people to their limits.
I say things to make you react
I challenge you to challenge me
All I get is disrespect
All because people don't try to understand what I say.
Instead you think I am ignorant
childish and selfish
All these negative things and not one **** good thing
All because you don't understand me
While some may see me as
"the crazy one"
All I see in myself is a genius because
people who are crazy enough to think they can change or push
people to their limits are the ones who understand what we need to do
to improve this world and if you don't understand or grasp that answer then
the ones who know me think I am inferior to them
think I am not smarter or stronger than them
what they don't understand
The difference between a successful person and a unsuccessful person
is not a lack of strength or knowledge
but a lack of will
the will to create benefit for all and enjoying the process.
I have become my own optimist
If I can't make it through one door then I don't give up
I find another way to another door
Or
I'll make a door out of nothing into something
Something will come no matter how vague it seems
if you focus on this and adopt this definition
Success is yours for the taking
So I ask you one more time
Am I crazy?
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
Most of the southern portion
Of Argentina
I stand alone
Waiting
In Buenos Aires
For the elevation of my love
Entirely free of her stones
A statue shapely face
With granite and crystalline rock
Windy plateaus
Breezing along the Rio Colorado
Memories remain deep
While my heart ponders
I've so much blood in war
To a woman
Lady Eva
Is her name
Rings out in whispers
In my ear so ghostly
Our youth was so boldly
But beautiful
Her departure
Deposit streams of tears
That aches many nights
I screamed out in agony
And found myself in shame
Now, I'm left alone and lost
To a time
Of past history
How can an unsuccessful love
Prison a desire
That is worsen
Than a sharpen sword
A buried faith
I cannot bring back
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 7:43 AM UTC
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more.
To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back.
The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile.
Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back.
Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us.
So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with.
Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
One day,
I swallowed up the void.
Not too much at first, I didn't want to be greedy.
But enough that it grew into my hair,
turning it black.
I swallowed up the void again.
It settled heavy in my gut.
It was sweet at first, then gave way to an unsettling metallic aftertaste.
Still, it was addicting, intoxicating.
I needed more.
I swallowed up the void again,
hungry for empty.
The void is not black,
like so many others say.
No, the void is, in fact, a kaleidoscope of brilliant color
I swallowed up the void again.
There seemed to be an endless amount.
My eyes showed me what I had previously been blind to.
I could see the void others swallowed up.
His denim jacket wasn't for fashion some days.
I swallowed up the void again.
This time, it caught in my throat.
I gagged and my body convulsed,
an unsuccessful attempt to rid of the poison.
The void coated my lungs, stealing my breath, my life.
I thought I swallowed up the void,
but the void had swallowed up me.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
The mystic Sadhu
chants cryptic
mantras,
I hear
the Hammssss of his voice,
He is lost in his world
Like I'm with mine,
Above me, the bridge
clanked gleefully
announcing the arrival of her lover;
Shimmering in white, honking
it moves slowly like a big serpent,
Ending the tryst
with a flickering red light.
Several mounds, smoldering woods,
and one body stuck to
the trunk of the bridge
swirled in me the fear of
leaving this world early,
leaving all that I strived to
achieve, and leaving all of
it in the middle.
Buses pass on the next bridge
A hand came out
and aimed the stream with
something, probably a coin,
to compensate for wrongdoings,
Coin-collectors waiting like a
starving lion in a zoo
pounced on these throwings,
aiming the spot
with a magnet like
a trained ninja in nocturnal warfares,
After a few unsuccessful attempts
A boy yelled in joy
"Har Har Gange".
The Ganges was like this
from the beginning,
She was moderate in demands
offering so much
at the cost of a penny,
Throw a coin and
you are absolved from all your sins.
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 7:31 PM UTC
(Is there an emotion for mystical? I suppose it would be to be mystified. Perhaps awe is the word I am looking for. I was in awe at the sight of him! I was beyond mystified!)
It started in the Yellow Wastelands. Where life went to die. As life dies there, they become a part of the Yellow Wasteland adding to his spread and growth becoming a sort of crystalline lattice. All go willingly to the crystalline whisper. The whisper in recent theory emanates from the shining yellow crystals that grow among the Yellow Wasteland like blue bonnets in the Texas spring. Once the Whisper is heard the victim willingly partakes in what we call The March. The March is a mindless saunter to The Yellow Wasteland where upon arrival they lay in the yellow dirt and slowly begin crystalizing. We have tried stopping The March. But have been unsuccessful for many years. During the state of the march the victim gains a strange, extraordinary ability to control others as they see fit. If one or a group of people, try and prevent the march they will be controlled by the whisper to put the victim back on track. The final equation that we cannot solve is why one hears the whisper. There seems to be no pattern whatsoever.
On this day my daughter heard the whisper. We walked with her for hours on end. My wife and son followed shortly behind whilst I walked beside her talking about memories and music. My son then caught up and started to play his lute. He played song after song and sang beautiful lyrics that they wrote together. My wife would then catch up to fix our daughters hair and clean her face as we walked and walked toward The Yellow Wasteland. There were times where we would walk all together in a line and pray and pray.
Over the Wolf's crossing trail was a hill. The hill was now called.
" The Last Ascend." The Yellow Wasteland can be seen below. We started the ascend up the last ascend. Tears flooded all our eyes as we were powerless to stop The March.
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC
I.) Faint scents harmonize
with various forms of language
which mortals find puzzling.
But we’re different, we know how
words wound. It smells like blood,
bittersweet if tasted.
II.) We're building walls around heaven
because we're afraid of needing
things we might be obsessed to.
III.) Others tried to reach the mystical place
above, but were unsuccessful.
They can only do so
when wings don’t prevent them
from falling.
IV.) Two worlds prayed for a chance
to break the barrier. It can only happen
when prayers quit needing words.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
There’s a dried paintbrush in the bottom of a drawer of an unsuccessful artist
He sits the edge of his bed wondering what else he could do with his life
This city only sees him for his past
So he travels distant lands, to hills found only in stories
Leaving only a note
‘Let your body be your canvas’
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC