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maddie Sep 2018
You occupy my thoughts repeatedly,
I think of you at nightfall.
You're my bright light in the dark,
My brilliant wonderwall.

I think about you so frequently
that I can no longer recall,
when I first started thinking of you,
my beautiful wonderwall.

You're on my mind so often,
I remember telling myself I wouldn't fall.
But when I saw your smile for the first time,
I fell in love with you, my wonderwall.
I am completely infatuated with you, I think about you a lot.
Megan Jan 2014
my dear
my wonderwall,
lately I'm suspicious that you've found out
that you're in my thoughts
more often than the second hand that ticks on the clock.
I can't decide though, if I want you to really know yet,
but until then I will write you secret poems
and make wishes on 11:11
coins in fountains
and shooting stars.
my dear,
my wonderwall,
lately, I've thought of you.
Brumous Apr 2021
It's funny how I always think of you,
as my sanctuary, someone I can run back to,
and tell that "I love you,"

But all there is a wonderful raconteur
that filled you with alluring words and beauty
All you are is a piece of art;
an illustration of imagination

I am head over heels for you
despite knowing how troublesome;
it is to me

In the end, all I can say--is that;
"She is my Wonderwall,"
I love her so much but...
she's far from real
Dust Bowl Mar 2015
You are the dead air after the joke my friends don't get.
I hear your laugh in the spaces between my family's oblivion and my sanity,
the crevices of pointless conversations.
You are an envelope with no return address.
You are the first person I want to tell about my day.
When my dad asks me how school was, I can only think of how you knew never to ask me that.
They say the nights are hard when no ones in your bed,
but what about when you spend your day in bed because you can't bear another day of activities that don't involve them?
I don't miss you only at 2 am.
I feel the sting of you in the night but you burn me in the afternoons with even greater intensity.
I prefer to be alone because then I only see your smile embedded in my walls rather than the lack of it on everyone else's face.
You are the silence after Wonderwall ends,
you are the lack of " I want to write something like that one day".
I am reminded of you when the girl next to me at a Fall Out Boy concert is sitting on her phone. I know you would scream every lyric with me.
I think that's what hurts, the knowing, especially of the things you aren't here for.
When I cry to "I'm like a lawyer" it's because I will never hear your voice sing it again.
So no, I do not miss you at 2am.
I miss you at 2 pm when I realize that everything I am doing now will never again be done with you
Keren Jun 2016
Some people are under construction
because their walls were broken
and know that
those times are hard
for they built it with bricks
and they let someone ruined it.
It has been standing firm for years
yet someone came
to just completely break it
and leave it unfixed
And wonderwall just lingers there
waiting for a resolution
waiting for some fixing
just waiting.
Wonderwall means it stays there for someone.
David Hall Jul 2015
we collided
then we parted
almost over
before it started

we shared a laugh
we shared a drink
I made you smile
you made me think

an all night talk
about our pasts
a midnight walk
a stolen kiss

you were broken
and I was too
and so we did
what broke things do

when you left
that sad day
I said goodbye
you drove away

ancient history
our rise and fall
but it left cracks
in my wonderwall
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Foreign doll
A wonderwall
Writes poetry on receipts
Where coffee stains
Are soak brown blobs,
Her words are sweetened
As candy cane dialect to god
I wait for her many hours in incompletion
For her mine heart throbs!!!
Sage Marler May 2015
Just like the song that we sang on the top of our lungs together.    
"And just maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me".
And at the end you really did save me, you were the net to my fall.
I know I saved you as well, you use to say that you didn't feel so small.
But that's not all.

On your saddest days when there was no hope to be found.
I reminded you that I would always stick around.
I told you that you had an artist style.
That always make you smile.
But that took a while.

Although you called me your best friend.
You treated me like I was dead.
It was as if the softest silk was suddenly sand paper.
I didn't understand what you wanted me to do.
I cared the most of all the people you knew.

But when I skipped school on Monday.
Because I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.
That very night I wrote the letter.
The letter that took until 1am because I kept crying on the paper.
The letter that broke our friendship apart.

Tuesday, April 21. Our friendship was over.
I handed you the letter and I walked away.
I regretted the moment I did so.
I wanted to walk back and say sorry.
I'm sorry, Wonderwall.

It's been over a month since we've talked.
I heard you haven't been your best.
I hope you know you can always come to me.
But you probably hate me anyways.
I hope you find peace Hayley, I'm sorry.
francesca Nov 2013
Bring me back to the time
Where everything felt fine
Where I felt you were mine
And it was not just you
And it was not just me
But me and you together
Where it was us

Your lips pressed against my cheek
Your voice so gentle as it speaks
Your hand lightly brushed my fingers
Oh your touch will always linger
Why do I crave your touch?
Did not realize how I missed it so much

Why am I so scared,
That I'm always being compared?
I know I can never compete
With all the better girls that you will meet

When will I ever see you again?
Will I ever feel wholesomely happy? Not sure if I can
Why are you so distant?
Wish you were here in just an instant

When I close my eyes, I see only black
Then I picture you and I and I wish you would come back
Sit down, lie down with me
So once again I can feel happy

It saddens me how we are not together
Things right now just are not getting better
I just want to be with you
I feel empty and I don't know what to do

I just hope you miss me as well
You have no idea how hard I fell
Your eyes, your touch, simply everything about you is perfect
And I hope my wait for you would be worth it

At least I get to see you in my dreams
Now reality is better than it seems
But dreams are only in my head
Temporary bliss felt late at night when I'm in bed

When I wake up I again feel dead
For I think about all the feelings left unsaid
Why can I not say how I feel?
Why can I not show you what is real?
Wonderwall- (adj) someone you find yourself thinking about all the time; the person you are completely infatuated with.
Louie Anne Oct 2013
If I scream dear Lord, why oh why
Would he hear the words?
Will the clouds answer me as a sign?
Will the rain be a yes or a no?
If it would shine how would I know?

Why oh why does fate taunt me?
Show me a beautiful sign
Then leave me knowing it was never mine
It’s not love I feel, if it was it shouldn’t be like this
But I look for signs and I look for him

He’s not even here yet I want him to
Dear Lord, why oh why must it be?
Why let me smile yet it will never be me
I know this is just high school infatuation
So please I beg get me out of this heart aching situation

But why am I looking for these signs?
When I never believe that they give any useful information
Is it just my mind being clouded by this longing emotion?
So if the Lord can hear me and these clouds will answer
I hope the rain is just clarity of the weather
Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
Oh, my stoic... whatever happened to you?

At 6'4 you could stare down anyone in the room with your stern dark eyes. People might take you for melancholy until you told one joke with your deadpan humor. But you were a little morose, in your own way... is it because you're a Cancer? Or were you searching for something that only your mind could find for you? I never knew. Stoic and enigmatic are **** near the same thing, after all.

You, with your hundred dollar jeans worn after your yuppie yoga classes. You might not have worn Converse sneakers or thick-rimmed glasses (thank God)... but don't think I didn't see those expensive flannel shirts from Nordstrom's in your closet. Is there such thing as a hipster fashionista...fashionisto? I remember you approved of my Lucky brand jeans. They were a gift. Hand-me-downs. I didn't tell you that.

How elegant that you would grab Moroccan mint tea when coffee was no longer your thing. Sure, you'd down so much wine after dinner I'd worry you an alcoholic... but caffeine? Something about not liking dependence, you said. I savored watching you drink tea when we'd work side-by-side in some of the city's independent coffee houses. You wouldn't be caught dead in a Starbucks.

I do hope you make your amazing Turkish coffee, if only for your next love. Did I say "love?" No... maybe your next tryst. That's more your speed. I still can't taste cardamom without thinking of you.

And oh, your guitar... you'd strum the chords as if you were solving a riddle: quiet, to yourself. Leave the simple "Wonderwall" for neophytes because you could play Django Reinhardt. Unsurprising that a person like you would have a music performance degree from New York University. Every note you played was expensive. And you knew it.

It wasn't just the way you strummed Spanish flamenco while I made us quinoa stuffed squash in your small kitchen. You had to play the cool music before it was cool--nothing so trite as Vampire Weekend or Kings of Leon; only the sweet whispers of Priscilla Ahn for your sensitive ears. I'd desperately try recalling obscure artists from my college days and try to keep up. Album Leaf? Mirah? I got a half smile mentioning Bela Fleck.

Do you remember, how we'd smoke hookah on your soft leather couch? I'd read your book aloud on tantric Buddhism as you'd light the candles. Once the room filled of cinnamon, we'd inhale exotic rose-flavored tobacco and watch documentaries imploring us to free Tibet.

Even your ******* name was exotic; foreign. My mother didn't like it, you know... she worried a man like you would always be patriarchal.

It didn't matter that your days were spent wondering if your law degree was worth it; because you had other dreams. Dreams of foreign service and pro bono nonprofits.

But somewhere in the planning of those dreams, we fell out of touch.

You ended it. I knew you would.

In the worst of my thoughts, I assumed you ended it to find a woman who was everything I'm not, but who I desperately wanted to be. She'd be an international human rights lawyer. A yoga teacher. She'd take yearly trips to hike the Grand Canyon and go on meditation retreats in Bhutan.

2 years later, I've moved on. I won't need 2 glasses of wine to feel comfortable in your presence (as I once did). I've found someone else; we're happily married. He'll never have your enigma, but he lets me in his world. It's not a world of Ghirardelli hot chocolate on winter nights, obscure records and hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurants. But he encompasses everything I needed that you couldn't give: warmth.

I hope you're well, my stoic sophisticate.
She waits in silence
Cant help but stare

Wonders if he ever catches her
Its only a gaze that she wished they'd share

Eyes ferry us straight to the heart they'd say
But with glasses thick as his,there was really no way

His gestures harder to read than his eyes
Almost as if trying to block away everything from her sight.

She liked him for she thought of him as an enigma
Hoping she was gonna know him for the better part of what he was worth

She stole glances for  a long time
Till she saw the truth of it ,all right

Just a formality they were
it was just hi and bye and seemed to be that way forever

She grew sick of him after a while
Only with whim would he ever smile

She hates midway stuff to date
Says,its either in or out,nothing else is worth the wait

But every time she thinks what she'd want as a boon
She wants to only know why he makes her heart swoon

He is  her heart's fallacy at its best,
Or is he just a fallacy that she wants more than the rest?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.like i insinuated prior, the English are a people not competent in philosophy, they're the antithesis of what a people, inclined to philosophy represent... schematic, rigidity, like the German... or the frequent cafe bullshitters of the French, the English can't consecrate themselves on the altar of Sophia, they just can't... they're a people that succumbed to too much practicality, egalitarianism... no one attempts to write in Utopia, while not seeking to find Atlantis.

so the whole Greece, Troy,
Rome shuffle is about over?
i'm feeling slightly peckish
and i don't have the time...
i'm about to light the house
up using... light-bulbs...
don't you think that a name
akin to: Paul, Digit,
sounds great?!

don't get me wrong,
the English are a people bound
to other, gifts...
they can sing,
although... Aud Lang Syne
is a Pict song...
and the river-dance is pure Ire...

great sophists,
but philosophers?
they're too practical,
i'm trying to read
Sartre's being & nothingness
in English...
i simply, can't...
      it doesn't make sense...
if you gave me a copy
of the same book
in ******-speak...
i'd butcher it...
   but in English?

metaphor moment:
like catching the testicles of
a mosquito, wearing boxing
gloves...

fiddly ******...

sure... each country has its
career ambition...
russian and the romanians
and the bulgarians have
their gymnastics...
the brazilians and the germans
have their footie...

the English have their singing
and their poetry...
but philosophy?
      nope... not even close...
Oasis' wonderwall
will be remembered,
and even sang along to on
the continent...

                   but thomas more's
utopia,
or thomas hobbe's leviathan...
ever tried to read more than
twenty pages
    of joseph conrad's
         heart of darkness... ?
ever find eating porridge
equivalent to parachuting
   in terms of the level of excitement?

chill... the English have their virtues...
but the English are also
prone to call philosophy
impractical, verbiage, word salad...
because philosophy already
is an impracticality,
an impasse...
          it's supposed to be,
           it's not exactly an Ikea schematic
reading to assemble a *******
table...
             it's Picasso, cubism,
       see if you can see a cube in
the mesh of contortions of other geometric
signatures...

              the English do not do philosophy...
sorry... they don't...
whatever argument arises citing
the "need" for: "reason" and, "logic"
will not cut it for me...
reason? since God doesn't intervene...
well... the unfathomable depth of
human will... reason: the same freedom
as posited prior to: the unfathomable depth...

logic? 1 + 1 = 2...
      a + n + d | s + o = and so...
the English are barons over other traditions
of expression...
music being 1, poetry being 2...

hey, Polacks are decent at volleyball...
i'm not complaining,
it's not exactly a popular sport...

but no... no chance in hell will i read
a philosophy book in this language...
i can't, the language is already too shrapnel
for me... i need to clarify a focus
on an idea...
        language, the English language,
can't entertain the current "transcendental"
logistics of undermining the individual /
plural use of pronouns,
while also keeping a straight face
in other areas of thinking...

     i could have conceded to the whole
globalist liberalism of ideas...
but... looking at the other flank?
attacking grammar... ****... sorry...
dogma?!
                as if... i will bow down
to un-existing before my wedding with death.

that being said,
i think the English are in a dire need to relearn
their black sense of humor,
their islander sense of isolationist humor,
their: bizarre unpredictability...
  since they lost it...
             to a certain degree...
i'd say: relearn to laugh at what is,
otherwise unforgiven in other cultures...
more crass Americanism...
and... well...
                can you ever learn to
cry when experiencing beauty?
musically, that is, esp. in the musical
dimension...
                    i always hated this:
"you're laughing, but actually crying...
you're crying, but actually laughing"
inversion...
        i never came around to fathom this
"misnomer"...
          straight down...
    i'll laugh at a funeral...
            teasing death...
   but i'll cry over a decent piece of music, to boot.
Inked Quill Sep 2017
His heart
So free
Free like the wind
I run
To have it
As my own
He, my wonderwall
S Aug 2014
I think of you far too often, and even though many people would say that this is a "good" thing,
for some reason I can only find it negative,
as I am planning on leaving soon,
and I am fond of you,
so I do not wish to give you any ideas of false hope,
or lead you on with blatant encouragement,
though I am constantly seeing your face in my mind
when I do the simple tasks,
for example I was putting away my clean dishes
and I saw a glimpse of you
when I opened the kitchen cabinet,
and in that moment I thought you were really there with me,
until I realized that you are actually at home,
probably in your bed like I am right now,
and are you bed sheets black like mine are and do you want tattoos,
because I think that when they are placed properly on the body they can be quite tasteful,
I can't stop my mind from flooding out images of us,
and it hurts me to think
that I won't be seeing you every day,
and I loathe it and I love it and I loathe how much I love it,
make it stop
because I don't think that a world without you would be so bright,
even though you do not think that you should be in it anymore,
but just know that your loss would hurt more then
ten thousand paper cuts.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
the proust edition of la recherche i had, which i gave away to a charity shop; if you could stitch or strap the edition to my hands clenched into a fist (it was, after all a cheap 2 vol. edition), i could have knocked you out. no, i didn't read it, which is why many people never bother to use the dictionary, because it's always a one volume edition.

it became so haunting to have sang with david
with the lyre the lyrics:

             i'm happy, hope you're happy too...
             ashes to ashes, funk to funky
             we know major tom's a *****
             strung out in heaven's high
             hitting an all time low

it was so eerie i felt goose bump hoofs on my
cheeks adding for extra five o'clock shadow
that i never knew i had.

that's the thing about having european editors,
the ****** day, the whole theatrical approach,
it's just a ****** book of poetry,
it's not exactly an atom bomb,
but they sent the draft which i'm hoping to add
to with my *hoc erat in votis
to armenia,
Armenia, yes, once an incorporation of
the soviet rather than tsar's empire:
so jui-seph shtalin involved himself with the russians
from georgia, and my first idea sparklers will
come from armenia - good place to ask napoleon
to escape elba, i say, ol' chap.

and after the teenage girl hype period of an artist,
ziggy, you know what i'm talking about,
you get a process where an artist matures,
becomes prone to criticism, has no hype factor,
has no real monetary appeal to the less
hyped-up juice-of-genitalia army,
has to become a sensible economist -
there! catch him! that's where an artist
translates to other mediums his actual worth,
i feel privileged to have lived at a time
when david bowie released his heathen album,
one critic pointed that it was his best album
since the 1980 release of scary monsters,
so then i bought scary monsters...
i worked backwards...
i didn't feed the ziggy & space spiders from mars
gimmick / egoism, or even the rebel, rebel choir
of cult followers, and you know what?

              i'm happy, hope you're happy too...

it worked, now i can listen to the music like a distraction
tool, refrigerator buzz, ambiance, the freelance
artistry of it all, less care for kids, more care for
the insolent kids that aged and donned their employment
qualifications as 'art critics.'

but what i listen to isn't exactly what i write with,
it would plagiarise the thought process
so much that it would destroy it - the moment's gone,
the ingrained concept of time has allowed
for the same space of the origin of the narrative
to look different, even though nothing was moved.

so with this anglo renaissance circa 1950s -
1990s (nietzsche was critical of the reformation
when martin luther attacked the renaissance creativity,
no great composer in the counter-reformation,
just ignatius layola and the jesuits),
with the beat generation poets (preceding them,
the spirit of influence that was ezra pound
and no other i dare to admit, a seal-off point,
built a hydroelectric dam in nevada f. d. r. did)
you then had the explosion, and i mean it,
the EXPLOSION! 1960s psychedelia,
1970s ******* infused black sabbath etc.,
depressive 1980s with depeche mode iconoclasm
and the cure's slit your lips if not wrists,
the great digging of ***** duran duran,
scandinavian love hopes of a-ha, etc.,
then the shift back to the geographic place of origin,
seattle, grunge, rekindling of thinking man's
rock amiss the ******* fuel of the decade
with prog rock bands, i.e. tool;
and then of course the brit pop decade
(oasis, blur, the stone roses, the la's among many,
bands that still invoked a sing-along even
in such odd places like taizé in burgundy
for the wonderwall chorus)
and then... the death of it all...
artists getting rich, flamboyant, eccentric,
and the people seeing how they were "duped"
deciding enough was enough...
came napster, came pirate - ye har me mateys! -
and the death of the anglo renaissance
with kareoke culture - indeed if
the germans never conquered england,
and that book man in the high castle
by philip k. **** isn't true...
why did we allow the japanese to conquer
our culture? huh?!

p.s. when you realise all those 5.5K reads,
all those so called morale boosters... on websites
such as these, don't have a £ / $ in front of them;
and as i learned, after being reported to a website
similar to this accused of being a troll
for simply asking the long-ago standard
a.s.l. (age, ***, location) but only sticking to location,
losing some of the haul i'd liked to keep,
i realised i can lose that, no problem,
i rather lose that than lose what i have inside of me.
fray narte Sep 2021
Eyes. Heartbreak is her sunlit memory barely held by a wooden clothespin. It hangs and glares before your eyes, mocking as it fades into an empty filmstrip. Heartbreak is a lost soul left to perish in her ghost-town, and warmer sunsets are lifetimes away. A wonderwall left standing, pinned polaroids, desperate scratches. You had fought hard and long, for this, but homes are made for breaking and crumbling and leaving, especially in the losing side.

Mouth. Heartbreak is a paper-tag of a goodbye caught in her lips. It is a metaphor that melts at the soft space under your tongue, a certain bittersweet taste made for drowning with a cold lager, a stranger’s whispers, and the perils of his unfiltered cigarette kiss. Heartbreak is taming a manic scream into a delicate, defeated sigh, out of sync with the way she breathed. But then sighing still hurts, and breathing still hurts because you’re alive – you’re so ******* alive for this unbuffered pain.

Chest. Heartbreak is begging your chest not to break amid a listzomaniac rush. Heartbreak is a prosaic throbbing, a treacherous ***** stuck in your ribs, begging to be held like it doesn’t hurt. Heartbreak is a site of buried lavender lithiums, asking for a eulogy; but silence is equally as oppressive. It is your body betraying you, like a city undone by its smokes. It is a quiet word – not a poem, because poems are beautiful despite the pain, and this isn’t. This isn’t.

Hands. Heartbreak is your shaky hand flipping through the last three pages of a tragedy — a heroine dies, a stray star falls, a maiden leaves on a horse-drawn carriage. There is no changing of the ending. Heartbreak is reaching for the empty space in bed, leaving your fingers in technicolored bruises. How can emptiness break one’s bones? Heartbreak is scrubbing your skin dry, raw, and untouchable where she once laid her kisses. Heartbreak is your nails digging through her letters in utter despair — for invisible ink, a promise in the postscript, an estranged lover in familiar flesh, only to find torn sheets, spilled wine, and finality.

Legs. Heartbreak is coming home to ***** laundry all over these cold, wistful floors. Heartbreak is walking in hushed tiptoes only to trip and fall down a memory lane – a kaleidoscope of all the wounds that can possibly hurt. It is catching an empty train to somewhere unloving her is possible – doable. Heartbreak is teaching your legs to run away from the chaos of her naked skin, and not to fall at her feet. But still, you fall and you fall and you break what’s left of your bones chasing after something that’s already gone – long before it has said goodbye. So turn your back and hold your heart — it breaks harder, louder, and worse before it settles down and sits as quiet aching: a forgotten filmstrip, a soundless breath, a calm poem, a serene night.
Lucky Santos Jan 2014
Crush:
An intense but usually short-lived infatuation.
Fantasizing about the relationship that could happen.

Shy:
Timid, easily frightened away.
Although the wanting to just say hey.

Wonderwall:
Someone you find yourself thinking about all the time, the person you are completely infatuated with.
But the wish for all the shyness to disappear is still here.

Nervous:
Highly excitable; unnaturally or acutely uneasy or apprehensive.
The wanting to meet but still playing defensive. Accommodated by umm, uhh, ummm.

Hello:
Used to express a greeting, answer a telephone, or attract attention.
Hi, umm. Don't blow it, don't blow it.
Hi! I think you're cute, pretty, adorable, beautiful, lovely, gorgeous. Would you like to go on a date?

Date:
A social appointment, engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person.
She said yes.

Happy:
Delighted, pleased, or glad, as over a particular thing.
She is not just a thing, she is my everything. She makes me very happy.

Love:
A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
It's a four letter word that can have a million meanings and yet only one.

Marry:
To take as an intimate life partner by a formal exchange of promises in the manner of a traditional marriage ceremony.
I take you to be my wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us apart, and this is my solemn vow. I love you.

You:
You mean so much,
Yet I do not have a definition.
Because you always seem to surprise me.
No words in this dictionary can describe your overall beauty.
Amazingly, I'm at a lost of words.

Beautiful:*
The dictionary's crush;
A person who is reading this.
WickedHope Sep 2014
I inhale you deeply
You wake me up
And make me sleepy

My hands all over you
But it's okay cause
Yours are on me too

Arms and legs tangled
Look at us, together
Broken and mangled

As I first taste you
I decide to sample
Each piece, so new

You are wonderful
Idiosyncratic
My kind of wonderwall
Yeah, this just kinda happened so... :"
Jaee Derbéssy Oct 2014
Time passin' by
as a wind
on a cool evening day
in Fall.
And besides me,
an empty,
untouched notepad
waitin' for it to be
touched with its love,
the pen.
Infatuated still
with a thought-
a dream,
that rests in a hopeless
place.
Miles and miles away,
still occupying
my heart and soul
each and every single day.
fafai Sep 2014
when my
                  face keeps blushing

when my
                 hands linger in your hair

when my
                smile gets crooked

when my
                  feelings feel bitter

when my
                  heart skips a beat

when my
                  thoughts left unspoken

after all i know
you are my wonderwall
J B Moore Nov 2015
Letting his pome to Siri
Hopefully will make us 2.[period]
I got it matters what I say
Should probably change it anyway
Still out the 10 at home to Siri

I don't think contacts it should be
Around so cool be made out of me 
Still grumbling to choke 
So I don't waste too much rope
If anyone doesn't turn out too funny

After the person's coming
Bowman mentioned you running
Three more specific
It's more bulimic
Did everything go a plenty

Wonderwall things are
Fly high above All-Stars
Do you think that it's June,
That there Brazelton blue,
If they held and the press really hard?

So this is the phone from Siri
Not feeling quite weary
To Shay' pasta please process he,
Or just a foster for you' [apostrophe]? 
I guess we'll just have to see...

I'm writing this poem through Siri,
Hopefully it won't make us to teary,
I doubt it matters what I say,
she'll probably change it anyway,
Still I'll dictate my poem through Siri.

I don't think complex it should be,
Or else a fool will be made out of me
Still I'll grumble and I'll choke
So I don't raise too much hope
If in the end it doesn't turn out too funny.

After this verse it is coming
A poem that might send you running
Though to be more specific 
It's more of a limerick 
Than anything full of cunning.

I wonder where wild things are,
That fly high above all the stars?
Do you think that it's true,
That their face will turn blue,
If they held in their breath really hard?

So this is the poem from Siri
And now I'm feeling quite weary
For did I say 'pasta please',
Or just 'apostrophe'?
I guess we'll just have to ask Siri.

7/3/14
wonderwall Aug 2019
Pukul 02.30
Aku terdiam tanpa berbahasa
Memikirkan sejuta hal yang seharusnya kulakukan
Aku terbiasa bermimpi
Namun kini aku tak mampu

Pukul 02.30
Andai waktu adalah lomba
Maka aku selalu kalah
Lagi-lagi aku tidak dapat terpejam

Pukul 02.30
Aku dan semua lamunanku
Terhenti sejenak oleh suara dengkuran disebelahku
atau mungkin suara angin sejuk dari mesin diatasku

Pukul 02.30
Aku ingin berlari ke dalam lautan
Menantang ombak berderu kencang
Lalu terhempas oleh bayang-bayang

Pukul 02.30
Aku berurai air mata
Berusaha mengartikan rasa
Pencarian yang tak berujung

Pukul 02.30
Katanya Tuhan itu Mahakuasa
Maka aku percaya jawaban itu ada
Dan kupejamkan mataku
Harap semua ini sirna

-wonderwall-
wonderwall Aug 2019
Thank you
For all the good laughs
For all the endless thoughts
You never know that
A part of me wished
You're the one
And only

-wonderwall-
"He whispers your name in his sleep." she mumbled-hicupped, wiping the back of her hand roughly against cheeks stained with misplaced mascara, ***** sloshing in hand. The bottle was rimmed with most of her lipstick now, the parts that you hadn't kissed off in all your negligence earlier.

"Your name- that's what he whisperes" she hissed across the bathroom floor- laden with her *****.

I had excused myself only moments earlier to to get away from you. I had even looked forward to the unoccupied seat that the toilet lid would inevitably offer up. I had even resolved to endure flipping through the aged magazines that people invariably place in their bathroom- to get away from you, that was my plan.

What I had not bargained for, was her-
your wonderwall,
your idealized teenage fantasy breathed into existence,
your walking *******,
your girlfriend-clutching the edge of the bathtub with a wild drunken determination.

Looking at me instead of through me-
as if to figure out how my name could have lay so heavy, body indented between the two of you the first time you breathed my name at night.
It was more than once, this much I knew -
not because of the way your finger tips had once burned my bare back or the way that some of your clothes still smelt of my perfume or the fact that you'd almost moaned my name against her flesh before slipping into ecstacy,
but by the look on her face,
the determined urgency with which she sought resolution at the bottom of that bottle.

“Why. Huh?! Why?...” she asked herself, more than me before kicking off one of her shoes, I watched it clatter against the wall, the last sound before a heavy silence fell between us, interrupted only by the hum of music which now seemed far away.

Why?...
Why would I have the answer to that question?
How was he, or anyone really- supposed to have an answer to that question.
How, how was he supposed to suppress his souls true desire?  
How was he supposed to mold the shape of her body to fit his arms the way I once had,
how was he supposed to learn a new language of love  of love that no longer answered to my name ?
How was he supposed to forget all the letters I’d written him or the fact that she don’t quite call for him at night,
the fact that he doesn’t find himself choking in a face full of hair at 3AM because your subconscious doesn’t crave his body in your sleep. 
How was he supposed to forget all that?
How was he supposed to forget that in spite of that he never once told me he loved me.

I looked towards you, a women I thought I knew and realised now, only one thing-
you could not be angry at him for breathing the past into existence once more, as his sleeping mind mulled over the way my shoes clicked against the tiles we’d picked out together, roller bag following quickly after or the way I’d choked out his name when I read the messages you'd sent him.
You could not be angry at him for exploring his soul in his sleep, a soul that I’d once fully inhabited- that now somehow seemed hollow.
You had no right to be mad at a man who only managed to say 
‘I love you’
to me in his sleep.
You had no right to be angry because the way he loved you suddenly didn’t feel earth-shattering after you noticed the way his smile faltered when I walked into a room.
You cannot be angry at him for breathing the past into the present because we  both know he still carries me around in his spirit,
still carries around my picture- folded now, in his wallet.
We both know that at least it was only my name that lay between the two
of
you.
Unlike
you.
Your sordid body lay between my freshly ironed sheets when I left the apartment for more than two hours.
We both know the evidence of your existence did not inhabit him, it only inhabited the sheets which did not smell quite like his sweat only.

I looked at you now, reflections of us in the mirror. 
Mine, surprisingly poised and exhaled.
I exhaled all the notions I’d had of you, being more beautiful or funny or perhaps more ****** than me.
I exhaled the way I’d clutched myself crying, desperately trying to pull my life together, wishing I’d never read the text you’d sent him. Wishing I could stomach the thought of his arms around me once more. I exhaled all the memories of him and I.
All the wasted thoughts of the two of you because I realised now that you were now both just living in your brokenness.

I realised now it was not my place to tell you any of this.

"Why?" You slurred, lazily throwing the now empty bottle across the room towards me.

Because he used to whisper yours,
is what I had wanted to say instead:

“Probably just a bad dream.”

I turned, leaving the room knowing  I couldn’t bear witness to her pain in earnest. Not in true communion the way women ought to.
I grabbed your arm, more forcefully than I once had when touching you was habit.
Your eyes widened, studying my now unfamiliar face.

" She's in the bathroom now,she needs you" was all I said.
"Oh, umh thanks, hey I jus-" I could feel you were about to backslide, blurt out those late night whisperings which had so upset your girlfriend.
So I cut you off before it all began.

"Please just love her properly"
I hoped my absence had taught you at least that much.
I've edited this layout like five times idk what I'm doing wrong
Sehar Bajwa Nov 2018
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
hearts of gold, never to rust.

swallowtails aloft, flutterings better dead,
dampened by years of love left unsaid.

box of promises, vials of lies,
waves crashing within ocean eyes.

bloodied wrists, a scarlet letter
sealed envelope, unposted endeavour

eternal fairytale, lover and her muse,
destined to love yet scared to lose.

wilted bouquets, abandoned gardens,
memories burn while resolves harden.

etched in stars, writ in stone,
identity crisis, fate unknown.

Life's canvas, shades of grey,
dreams crumpled, hope led astray

stairways to Eris, rising only to fall
Lone poetess loving her Wonderwall
no idea what inspired this one.
wonderwall Aug 2019
there's the end to every word,
the end to a sentence,
the end of every story,
so it is now,
the end
of us.

-wonderwall-
I swear with my hand on the heart
[mine, another’s]
that I know nothing
that I get on the train on my way home
and come off at some Glasgow terminal
that I write on my shopping list b r e a d
and rush through my front door with stolen roses
nowhere is written for how long, until when
but I hear your words climbing my body
like spiders the wonderwall
like ivy the cross
[mine, another’s]
I know nothing
and no book will be able to tell
how a hand is covering your mouth
and the screaming inside yearns for your body
like an unscrupulous *****
like ivy for the cross
[yours, ours]
Jamie L Cantore Feb 2017
I ne'er half thought of you as best
Painted, frozen on canvas, still, set?
Static & unmoving...  but I do rest
In my bet you feign'd it. The man Thus, he is as a criminal! If hold he Must you as possession -Beauty's Pageant.
A sun proving to ne'er grow Stagnant.
Go'th then, swept in wind, smooth &
Seminole, with no frame to so seal In
YOUth within his lines -rather reel In
Lines of my rhymes to sustain YOU Ever
Both A's & Q's. No pause, Sure Forever.

Inks & links rather than oils soon Cracked &
Dried out, faded with careless Neglect
And old Time, proving Spell checked
Words, ripen'd on a vine, (freely repro-
Duced,) is better than stretchers 2 show
In one place, wired/hooked on a dim wall
Of your captor. His penchant 2 refuse call,
Or to face, why your smile wert so small.
Unbeknownst to the brushed up painter,
Who with gobbledygook stained your
Heart, but took you as his Sitter bitterly.
So if your Silence art your bitter Mystery,
Then book Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall
As my pen chants only 4u -a wonderwall.
Wonderwall- Barrier which separates the mundane from a transcendent Reality which has a slit where the observer catches a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Not a reference to an imaginary friend who saves you from yourself.


A's=Answers Q's=Questions or (Cues.)

The Argument: Writing is a better way to sustain a person, because when copies are made of the original words, they still have the same value as opposed to copies of a painting. Also, a portrait locks the Sitter within the parameters of the frame, whereas the lines of verses set the subject free.

Or perhaps she is better painted now that I put things in perspective, if she is both the canvas and the paint -I will let that sink in for a while. Update* Did anyone fig it out? I  half-implied she is self absorbed... Lol
Cassiopeia Jul 2013
it didn’t use to be like this
with nights rolling into morning
with sadness waiting in the dark
with thoughts that don’t stop
and only the moon for company

no

a happy girl used to fall asleep at 10 o’clock
every night
because that’s what daddy wanted
and she wasn’t going to disobey
afterall she was daddy’s little girl

but

daddy’s gone now
and that was all before you
you with your charm
and kindness
and the ability to make sad days better

so

now i sit in the dark
unable to fall asleep before 3 a.m
because you are on my mind
because you are my
*wonderwall
Savannah Kajdan Oct 2021
Some rise
Some fall
Some wonderwall
she's afraid of reoccurring nightmares
afraid of choosing a single instrument to play, she can't stay with one
beautiful sound-producing musical wonderwall,
of committing herself to one,
and I was wondering if she was really talking about instruments
or talking about people,
talking about me--
am I a violin or a piano?
it doesn't matter because she says she wouldn't stay with any of them
anyway.
she's afraid of going downstairs to brush her teeth at night in the dark
and instead of picking up a tooth brush
she's afraid of picking up a razor in its place,
and god i tell her
all about my nightmares
how I run and outrun myself
or try to,
I reveal that I fear and love being
alive, I expose myself and my personal
horrors,
and I tell her, tell her it all, and for the first time
she looks at me with eyes that aren't empty,
eyes that are sorrowful as they are
compassionate and she tells me
"it's okay".
i think i'm understanding now
Miss erie she ******* loves me
I hear her calls, her face is all I see
Miss erie she ******* loves me
She's my wonderwall when happiness betrays me
miss erie she ******* loves me
my colorful heaven in hell for eternity
miss erie she ******* loves me
In her arms I call home my sanctuary
Like a butterfly she came to take my soul, like a candle beneath my thread waiting for my fall,
Her smile's like a cancer devouring my all,yet she is the only one around when ever I make the call
Anna Sep 2013
people say they are in love
when they stand awkwardly next to each other
unsure of the thought of touching the other's skin.
shift uncomfortably in silence
never daring to meet eyes
or risk blush.
yet they last.
and it's so unfair
because she doesn't know that every time
he listens to oasis he thinks of her
and he doesn't know that for that
she smiles at the sound of wonderwall.
she doesn't know that every time
he bites the inside of his cheek
he is facing the demons
that have stalked him his entire life.
and he doesn't know that
when she scratches the scars
on her left wrist
she is overwhelmingly nervous.
she doesn't notice
how he wears long sleeves everyday
just to cover up the scars
on the inside of his elbows.
and he never bothered
to kiss the angry gashes
she inflicted out of hate
of herself.
she has never taken the time
to watch how his face
crinkles around his grin
and around his blue eyes.
and he never minded
the way she ground her teeth
when she was frustrated.
she never fell in love with
how soft his hair was
and how it curled at the ends.
he never traced his fingers
across the crushed velvet
cheek as he looked into
her blue and yellow eyes.

and yet we never made it.
Liz Alvarez Caba Aug 2019
I had to learn eventually
Someone else makes you smile
Someone else occupies your mind
Someone else holds you up
I have to realize what we had was literally nothing
Compared to her now
I hope that smile is permenant till your last days here
Wrinkly, old, wise and jubilant
Warm in your bed
Nothing but best wishes truly

-from the girl you called your wonderwall to maybe your unicorn to now no one
Au revoir
Ill doubt he will ever see this, let alone know im on here since he is too, but I sure do hope but good luck and thank you for giving me your precioys time. With someone and alone, I always thought of you. Will always, till my next lifetime.
Gaye Jul 2016
The catastrophe of being a poet is that you are an annoying brain with delicate bones made of glass, who watches weird TV shows and reads bizarre newspaper happenings, ponder over the final chapters of your literary idols while walking the rain with hands inside your pajama pockets and dig out incomprehensible meanings someone managed to scribble at the back of his notebooks. Psychologists have such complicated theories about your social ineptitude, hence you die breathing the yellow notebook pages of a second-hand bookstore even though your brain signals warned you about chronic asthma. But you'll live for centuries inside punched hearts, libraries and under lazy bedsheets because at least for a moment you made a total stranger giggle, weep, scream and sometimes jump in joy over a well-penned verse. Did your friends tell you 'you ****'? Well, no one's gonna  remember those *** holes and always remember if not today, but someday you'll be someone's wonderwall.
Lucas K Dec 2020
She is like a thunderstom
at the height of summer,
cherished for bringing life
to a barren land,
while scorned for interfering
with the radiance of the sun.

God knows she is a world on her own,
a dance of nature
in her most primeval form
disregarding the order
and shunning the chaos.

A wonderwall.

— The End —