"wishfully" poems
I wish, wishfully to wish a wishful wish.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
We might be known for our glorified past,
How we went out and played real games outside.
And then time just flew so fast,
There are a lot of things, now, we can’t ride.
We grew up knowing society had rules.
TV said to study, go to college, and live happily.
But what unfolded before us is kinda rude,
A painful slap of some dose of a new bossoming reality.
As every generation may argue,
Ours may claim to be really confused.
Memories of bike rides and skies of different hues,
Rapidly changed by virtual abuse.
We still try to live authentic though,
Thinking wishfully that we can escape the Net.
Go to places, do things, go back and forth,
Brushing off every little regret.
But ***** we actually fooling?
The Net is inescapable,
Lose interconnectedness and you’ll cease existing,
A feeling that is plain horrible.
We’ll figure this out someday,
That’s what we tell ourselves,
But as we live each day,
We acknowledge that a little help wouldn’t hurt.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 6:52 AM UTC
Only for you! It’s true! These eccentric-poetic and theoretic views! As we breakthrough those blues, those clues, the dues and the hues. I will wait, I will wait. Awaiting, through the chills the pills, the shrills and thrills! I will wait, I will wait. Waiting through the beers, the cheers, the fears, leers, peers and tears! Awaiting through the dreary and weary...
Through the lonely and phony years... Waiting through the erratic and sporadic. The drastic, elastic and fantastic! I will wait, I will wait. As rotting bait! I will wait, I will wait. Awaiting the date the debate, the fate and the weight. Waiting to articulate and procreate! Fascinating this procrastinating! However, I will endeavor and wait,
I will wait and wait.
Horary! Awaiting I say for our hour of power. Waiting for this blissfully and wishfully day that our disgraced, misplaced ways may physically brace with embrace, grace and trace! I wait and I wait. People wonder why I blunder in ponder? You’re like the flu doesn’t that bother you? Answer, father figure I never knew? Still I will wait,
I will wait, I will wait for you…
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
When i look at the moon i realize i am a jumble of atoms.
Mostly H and O.
and my bones are betraying me.
crumbling with every step i take
my tendons tearing
patellas separating
and i love frivolously
and violently
and wishfully
I love like i am breaking
because i am.
I am a jumble of atoms
and sometimes when i walk
down a dark alley way
and I can almost make out Orion's belt
when the light pollution isn't bad and
the skies are clear,
(which is rare)
I realize i'm not going to be here
in 100 years.
maybe not even 50.
and my heart beat quickens and my bones crumble
and my tendons tear
I am a wisp of time
a dust mote
a drop of water
a passing feeling
of remembrance
when you enter a town you've never been in
and know where to find the bookstore.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
I am selfish.
You are nothing of the sort.
I am cliche.
Of which you are not.
i dream of boys like every girl does
i dream of love under the timeline of forever
i believe passion drives us to insanity
i believe that we're born to waste away this planet, only to die
i dream of freedom
i dream of kindness and fantasies
This sounds of similarity and unlikeness.
we are all selfish. whether we are kind or arrogant. we are all selfish and are too blind to see. but one thing is true: ignorance is bliss.
because being non-knowing cannot hurt you.
We don't hurt ourselves.
oh, this is very untrue. we do, indeed, hurt ourselves.
How is that so?
we create so much passion for something that does not return it in any form. therefore, we set ourselves up for failure.
But when the passion is ubiquitously returned....?
we still set ourselves up for failure. even when we are being adored, we dream of better, wishfully hoping, therefore, setting us for failure.
in this way, we are selfish.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
Wistfully
Wishfully
My daydream drift
Takes me eye to eye
And hand in hand
On a sunny morning
Somewhere
Settling dust
Step by step
And side by side
There's a tide close by
Responding to gravity
And gravity of sorts
Draws our souls
Fatefully
Inevitably
Together
By Phil Roberts
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
Here I am;
the asphalt covering what is left of my withered self expression.
Here I am;
with nothing but a package of what small personality I did salvage.
Here I am;
awaiting the exile to the inner circle.
Here I am;
wishfully knowing what is next to come.
Here I will be;
a foreigner to self controlled emotions.
Here I will be;
sent into the burning throat that we call trend.
Here I will be;
a roller-coaster supervisor, but never a rider.
Here I will be;
shamelessly placid.
There I was;
entrenched in my own beliefs.
There I was;
guiltily independent.
There I was;
unique to the tiniest hair on my body.
There I was;
never questioning who I was.
then came the fire
the sweet flames clawed
ripped to shreds
they traveled deep with in the vault I called my spirit
they licked at each crumbling memory of me that would set me apart
their tongues ablaze and thirsting angrily for each asset that made me different
they drooled lullabies
they sweated sanctuary
they left
as if it was nothing but a dream
the fire was gone.
Now
Here I Am.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
The Longest Day – Again
Oh, this time business!
Reminded with, by many signs;
Symbols that we celebrate and calibrate;
Every year the summer solstice!
Here in Sweden parties, feasting, dancing, joy,
With a thread of aggravation, kicking off annoyance -
Passing time a sign indeed!
Darkening a little earlier,
Seeds sown both in earth and past
Bloomed and harvested. Some not manifest.
Autumn on its way, and winter.
Wishfully, another spring, but now is now,
One can’t allow a sorrow.
Sun is strongest. Night is shortest. Day is longest.
And hurrah!
The Longest Day – Again 6.21.2016
Circling Round Nature II; Birth, Death & in Between II; Nature Of & In Reality; Swedish Book;
Arlene Corwin
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:07 AM UTC
Perception has always been people's reality,
What we see is what we mainly look for.
We leave good probabilities for an ideal possibility,
Putting an 'open' sign in front of a closed door.
Today, the social voices are louder,
Where the old rich are still deities and privileged trends are gods,
We fall prey to what they cater,
Wishfully hoping that we're favored by the odds.
Addicted to the momentary high of a 'match',
Eyes glued to a notification of a new tap.
Everyone believes they are a catch,
Idols deserving of all the world's slow clap.
The now is defined by open button downs,
Pushed back hair and pumped up arms.
Jeans are tight, matched with shoes that are brown,
Anything out of place will trigger an alarm.
How can the average hopeless romantic fight,
When wit and wisdom sums up his might?
He sips his wine during the night,
Closing his eyes halfheartedly wishing to see a new light.
He has many reasons to be happy,
Yet he's looking for something that can make him smile.
It may sound really petty,
But for this, he's ready to walk another mile.
We are tired of not dying, of merely existing,
Looking for perceived purpose and minute meaning.
One wonders when one can start living genuinely free,
One hopes to learn how it feels to be.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
Before I met you, I was a sapling -
But since then, I've grown.
And now that my branches have grown,
I'm closer to you than ever before.
And sometimes, my leaves,
Like fingertips,
Graze your matured bark in the breeze,
The same as when I timidly brushed against your thigh,
But, you are blooming with intimidating velocity
And I am wishfully thinking.
Because, to you,
I will always be that sapling,
And even though our branches may be at reach
They will always have to stretch to be together.
For our roots are anchored
Ever so deep in the ground
And there will always be that inescapable, heartbreaking space
Between our hopeless, tree trunk bodies.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
I’ll only say this once, and once a ******* lone.
There’s a problem to address, and yes, there’s a reason for my tone.
You’ve been prancing around me blissfully, and in a few seconds’ time,
you’ll think of someplace else wishfully. Once I say. Just once.
It’s certainly not fair when I’m the one removing the hair from that hole.
I’m a sick ******* but I have no lust for disgust.
After my mind is perused, I’m angry and confused. The possibility
dawns on me that it could well be your *****
Or the gel ridden, straw-like hair on your head.
That image fills me with a different kind of dread.
With this in mind, I’ll be shuddering with repulsion,
Trapped later in life with memories of physically indulging
my hand your slimy Barnet. Believe me, that’s not normal hair,
so don’t start telling me to calm it.
Or no…perhaps…
It’s sent my mind searing, it’s ever so weird
to, for one moment, consider that you have the ability of growing a beard.
You’re baby-faced, commonplace, and don’t have a thought worth hearing.
You’re still a child, a mental ****** and to top it off, a beard is now appearing.
Well that’s great. Another thing I have to deal with.
Can you not take care of your own affairs?
If I were you I’d encase all the little hairs
in a purse of some kind, so you’ll always pay mind
to the fact that you now look like a man
despite being a **** Miraculous. I must say, I’m a fan.
Well I guess now it doesn’t even matter,
your face is bare and the bath tub is spattered. I’m shattered.
This isn’t how I pictured my early years, wasting furious tears over beards.
If only early on I had been told, that eventually I would end up
staring in outrage daily at your beard in the plughole.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
With a split of a second
A million thoughts travel our mind
Few are the ones captured
And framed on the wall of our memory
It all just comes down to a game of sensations
Some thoughts please us with their parody
Others scare us with their complexions.
Used to choose the easy way around,
Tossing and turning till we fall apart
Because the mystery of imagination got us under its spell
Thus control over our silly life is hard
Imagination gives us the power of creation
Coloring each and every corner of this world
Wishfully writing scenarios to be heard
While the fight against temptation
Turns into an overwhelming war
With the worst and strongest enemy of them all
Just look in the mirror and you'll see
The fire in his eyes burning you to the core
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
As the morning sky lights up,
he rises like the tide.
Following the same old routine,
one he’d rather not abide.
By noon he’s on his game,
carrying the world in his hands.
He scrapes and crawls and stumbles on,
finding few footholds on which to stand.
Night rolls round and he’s tired and sore,
she finds her way into his mind.
Once so very close in heart,
in a world he left so far behind.
He lifts a portal to the world,
one sleek, black, and paper thin.
He loses himself in a spider’s web,
until he finds his way to her again.
He stares calmly at the screen,
singing praises he dares not say.
Watching and waiting silently,
will he take that risk today?
On the other side of that screen
in a world that seems so far away.
She stares wishfully back at him,
pining silently, she waits.
She lingers on for a moment so dear,
yet he whispers not a sound.
She’s met with silence yet again,
a longing lost and yet to be found.
She pauses for a moment more,
she tries to clear her head.
She opens a tab and words flow out,
but she hasn’t sent them yet.
She closes her eyes, it is his wish
that he should carry on.
And so with the stroke of a key,
all her words are gone.
She logs off for the night,
she lies quietly, and wide awake.
She gave up a moment too soon,
but she knew not the risk he’d take.
For he too had opened a tab,
hoping for a moment so dear.
But when he finally built up the courage to speak,
he’d found she’d disappeared.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
On a bench in a park I sat alone
to watch the sun go down
and as I watched
the girl with the braided hair
sat next to me
I taught her about life
she lived where shadows roamed free
in a house on a field
with harboured secrets
silently, assuredly,
she mouths out to me
touching my hand
living the life I left behind
the girl with the braided hair
talked with me
I distract her from life
she pranced around in white mary-janes
in a blue gingham dress
with too-mature worry
sweetly, cautiously
she laughs with me
brushing my hair
living a life she wished to live
the girl with the braided hair
watched the sunset with me
creating her own life
where no shadows dared to roam
in a castle by the sea
with fairies, and light
sadly, wishfully,
she rests her head on me
dreaming her life away and I realise
the girl with the braided hair
is me
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
My opalescent dreams hang just out of reach, milky, spoilt with waking.
Burlesque imaginings wishfully realized out of the breach, fantasies of my own making.
Voluminous clouds of confusion cover our weighty decisions with the familiar sheen of normality.
Maybe you’ve just woken now, part way through, awakening with surprise at the life half lived.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
Wistfully
Wishfully
My daydream drift
Takes me eye to eye
And hand in hand
On a sunny morning
Somewhere
Settling dust
Step by step
And side by side
There's a tide close by
Responding to gravity
And gravity of sorts
Draws our souls
Fatefully
Inevitably
Together
By Phil Roberts
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
you are the tiniest of scattered things
remembered in the cloudiest of dreams
so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or
fly high into my head,
you are the characters in the books i have read,
the heroes, both living, and dead,
you are among the greatest of my ambitions,
you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission,
but you are missing,
you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor,
confidante,
you were there when i was in the room,
but i was not,
when i broke into two,
a shell of me, and i,
wishfully, blissfully,
irridescent moon,
you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms,
the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune,
you are sometimes the songs you sang,
sometimes the silences
sometimes the gentle rain
sometimes my tears, or violences,
the woods we walked, the talks we talked
the cluttered house,
faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls,
in phonebooks, and on all
of my cards,
you are often here
when i am gone
and i am often gone
when you are near
it is the reuniting that i long for,
it is the forgetting that i fear.
you are all around me, but fading,
you are a pencil drawing,
losing its shading.
a perfect snapshot, on aging paper
once and only once a perfect snapshot, later
smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten,
burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths,
found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten.
Returned to earth, or dust, or ash,
and though i long to hold you in a perfect memory..
time...
must pass.
i miss you.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
I can't even count
how many times
the sun has done
its shining thing
without me,
pouring down
its sunny rain
on my big ol'
black parade.
there's this weird dynamic
that tends to occur
when my lesser-than-vibrant
fanfare's in town,
with all its subtly pompous
pomply pomp
blaming it all on
circumstance.
"Let's all gather 'round
this bitch's back
and lick the jelly
right off!"
(please!)
don't ask what my
'a little too loose'
head off my neck
is doing
peeking
wishfully
out from the darkness
rollin' around the p's in my mind
pathetically
snatching at my
poor, poor
soul -
a pity party
thrown for
one.
it's quite funny
really
how often
i forget
how silly black
looks
when it's sunny.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
The drapes in your skull
and your sunken in eyes,
who has broken you?
-
Collarbones protruding
from your withered chest
and your lungs heave for one breath-
one breath too many.
-
The stress of the days,
and the strawberry blonde boy
you fell in love with
on the countryside.
Your heart is broken.
-
Slumped in the cracked city
you are forced to call home,
and the loved ones who have passed
but whom are not dead.
-
Ridiculing the creeping insects
looking for a home.
***** gross, worthless*
You realize.
That's what they call you
-
Sun setting a forcefully pale orange,
awakening the night.
Time for your dismay to set.
-
Light your cigarette
and ash it on your skin,
amazed by its burn.
Pain? None.
-
An insomniac's racing mind
and all the wonders of the world.
Waiting, time contemplating.
-
Wishfully disappearing
just like your soul did.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I self harm
to see crimson
to feel alive
to have control
I sleep all day
to wake up
with no problems
wishfully hoping
they vanished
while I was sleeping
my demons away
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
Open the door
Just to close it again,
Uncover your heart
And devour my dreams,
Ease me with understanding,
Listen, without demanding,
Play by, to test my value,
Risk-free, money back guarantee,
I bet my blood
On a roll of a dice,
Stubbornly hope and wishfully think,
To be the last
Man standing
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC
Since the making of time
since the blowing of winds
the one thing that lurks the mind
what is it that makes it sane
the doubts the fears and the pushing rage are
all the peaces of a rotten clock
the mundane and the specific are
just the ingredients of the
retreat you call home
a place in the chest or the head
doesn't matter
a place safe but who can tell
what if you are not to be in there
but some where else
is there a home
a bliss of the unknown
the rigid morph is now a year old
it rots and it smells but it will not
be taken away for its decay
is the proof of once a man
who lived inside it
and now he is but a vision
a behavior guided channel for the
zombies to guide them to his last resting place
he is but non so sad in fun he is but past the ugly tests of truth and dare
a long lost vehicle in the depth of the lake
a silent ****** and a blissful bate
a sickening tone to the whole drama and yet no escape
a shadow lurks and ***** the life
the nurtured one is now lost
he is but a remain of the what there might be when the winds and the
moist and the ants and the algae have done their part in the add ons
a sure signs of age
you age not my friend
you just get experienced at the injustice of the love
you wishfully hold in the heart the
guard are foever down when you had them forever up
no body sleeps in side no more
no saint no monster no eagle no panther
instead a ruin of the premature
larva from the cocoon
neither fly nor wound but lay smitten by the
master disguised enemy the worst of them all
vanity
the alchemy of ****** is simple
you poison them little by little
and it becomes a daily ritual
you die inside and long for more
that is the beauty of the heart
for all that is
is all that now will bite
a path of the path
the rage of the rage
sing with me my dear friend
a paradise lost is better than the thousand
in place..
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
Love doesn't come knocking at my door anymore
The doormat is as unused as my emotions
The feelings got pushed under the rug on the floor
Silence is my new commotion
Your absence was prominent, not a moment to spare
My Happiness was sent in a new direction
My heart beats with sounds of despair
The pain hit me like an infection
Wishfully pondering upon your return
Reality is being shoved in my face
I know you won't, when will I learn
My pride I'll just have to embrace
Living anew, reborn again; for life isn't what it seems sometimes
I'll continue to live, with my head held high, I'm going to keep walking
No matter the path, or the road, I'll continue to climb
Moving along, wiser, I'll know when love comes back knocking.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
It’s like biting into a lemon,
Or choosing the wrong pill
Offered to you by a bald man in dark glasses
In some wonderland fantasy exalting a looking glass,
When you choose to chase down memories…
Like a white rabbit bolting down a black hole.
I reconstruct you necessarily…
It hurts – I shouldn’t do it,
But inevitably.
And I compare you to everything;
To everything in it’s right place,
Clinging on to what was,
Or what should have been.
Whoever you are
You were the root of a root,
The sky of a sky of a tree called What If
At the bottom of my glass,
In the first place that didn’t know my name.
You controlled me for a second
With your eyes.
With your hands.
But now you handle me remotely
From somewhere I don’t know
And will never be.
You would say things like
“Don’t you think
That just for one evening
The stars should be
Multi-coloured.” And you
Smile sheepishly
Wishfully,
Then stare at the bottom of your own glass
And then say “Anyway
There’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s so easy to have feelings of hate
For someone you love -
You end up caring too much,
And then they do the slightest thing wrong to hurt you
And you hate them for it.
That’s how I see it anyway.”
Or something like that.
As for me, I intend to sit and read.
Then I will smoke and dance.
Because the way I see it,
I live in a city with no memory,
The way money is between good friends…
And my days shall be lazy without end.
Cos the way I see it,
Love makes you solitary,
And all at sea.
Contemplate universal facts that can’t be helped, like –
Straights smoke quicker than rollies.
And yes you can say “this happens to everyone”
No doubt it regularly does –
Probably because you can go anywhere
Dress as someone else.
You’ve don’t that, I can tell.
I guess what I really want to know is who are you?
Here I am.
Reeling at the very idea of remembrance.
In my own historic battle,
Perpetually considering you.
Y.O.U
You owe ME.
As I crash land,
Heavily injured,
Into a room you might call “Square One”,
Questioning just how it is exactly
I’m here again.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC