"wording" poems
Only you can translate
where you are
on your voyage through
this varied farce
called “life”.
No one else can dictate
to you…
or should even dare…
how to phrase
your feelings,
your thoughts,
your personal moments.
Who is anyone to
cause another to feel
inept or inferior
for wording their
experiences as they will?
We are all both
audience and poet,
consumed by the
powerful spell of words
and meaning
we are bonded
in ink.
It takes gumption
and courage
to give voice to
your vision of
the world.
It often requires
resilience and nerve
to open your heart
and peel back the
layers of skin,
and let others take
a long look at the
inner workings of YOU.
Be brave,
take courage,
let your soul speak
in its very own
language.
People will read
your words and
listen to the sweet
whispers
and thunderous shouts
that flow from pens
and keys
to release the
inner demons and angels
and the lyrical
vines that bloom and live
in our individual
landscapes,
fluidly coursing from
our own rabbit holes
with fortitude and grace
and our neverlands,
where we need never
grow up,
to share with those
that need to see
and hear and feel
and wonder.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
On the nights I accidentally sleep through the evening and wake when the sun’s long
gone,
I can’t help but think about how it feels like falling for you.
I say
this because it always shocks me, leaves me trying to figure out what’s going on.
It
gives me a loss of gravity, as though I’ve lost contact with the world for a while.
With
my being used to being alone, hearing your voice through my speakers brings
a
smile to my face. I can’t place the exact feelings. I have trouble wording it.
Shy
was never a word to describe me. But you’ve somehow shut me up, your
grin
alone catches my full attention. Whenever I talk to you, I feel grounded.
I
feel like gravity returns. That’s just it, I’m gravitated to you. Somehow, it’s
almost
like you’re the Earth itself. Perhaps I’m your stars, hoping you’ll make a
wish
on me. Take a chance on me. Perhaps, I’m even your moon. Maybe
you
look up at me when I’m hardly even here, a sliver. I do that a lot. I hate that I can’t be
saved
from rising and falling every night, because I worry you get tired of the cycle.
Me
and you together feels like a storm rolling in. The calm is long gone, the winds coming
from
the east coast, rolling through Wisconsin like a force only you could bring. By
myself,
I’d be intimidated. But knowing it’s you bearing the force brings no surprise. If
only
you knew your worth. I understand your fears, seeing as if I am the moon, and
you
are the Earth, I will inevitably leave your side for at least a while. But know I will
never
leave you. I revolve around you, and although I am not your sun, know that
even
when I’m gone, I am yours. Know that no matter what happens, I
tried
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
here, silence echoes
the vibratos
of distant forests,
its longing.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
Giggle giggle **** ****
chuckle chuckle hard heart.
Lose the formal wording part,
just rhyme with nonsense works of art
**** art
Words are art
Parts of art
Those parts of art seen with your
hard heart
Soften up and see the humour
With a giggle giggle **** ****
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
engraved on my heart
a love tattoo
this deep etching
says I love you
I'll stay with you
I'll stay with you
cause the tattoo
is your clue
darling see
the autograph on my heart
its carving reads
we'll never part
I'll stay with you
I'll stay with you
cause the tattoo
is your clue
the red ink lasting
over a long span
I'm in it for keeps
that's my plan
an undying tattoo
its wording
written of love's
endless due
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Little wallflower at the back of the room
Sitting pretty, waiting to bloom
Watching the others in their gaiety
Dreaming of tiny steps to spontaneity
If you have something to say, say it
But even when you do, you delay it
Sitting in the back all alone
Where have you hidden your backbone?
You wait it out until that perfect silence
The challenge, the defiance
Of delivering the right answer
When everyone else just stands there
But it seems it will never come
You'd rather they think you were dumb
Instead of watching the heads turn
And feeling your throat burn
And it has to be something meaningful
Something wise, beneficial
Because this is the leaf upturned
This is the incense finally burned
You must be wise and reveal a profound truth
Or the silent one will be seen as the dumb mute
But not too weird and different either
Or you might as well be having a seizure
As you speak there is such an unjust silence
And as you finish an applause and laughter like raw violence
For despite your careful wording
They will never pay attention to anything but asserting
Asserting, asserting is gold
Asserting yourself and being bold
Being confident, being ****
Being exposed, being rude
Even if you proved the professor wrong
Even if in three seconds you wrote a song
Even if you recited a hundred digits of Pi
All they care about is that you are speaking and that you were once shy
And that
my friends
is a spectacle
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
Your rhymes were a bin bag thrown
in the trash, couldn't even write a
sentence, dyslexia of meaning
and ****** up sentences that
weren't even spelt write.
Couldn't even spin a line,
as it was meant to be straight
but your words were more wavy than
a bad perm.
There isn't room for a failed wanna be,
alone in your room ************
hard,
But your more empty than the raisin
***** your trying to spit out of...
Non consequential wording that doesn't flow
down stream,
more like your floating bloated
breath releasing putrid gas
that stinks more than what they were belching out.
I never insult the cadavers of dead lines,
but your words were buried even before
you opened that hurse of dead beats.
a handful of rhymes that were more powerful than
your buried career,
sorry you were a foot in the grave even before you
opened your mouth.
Song I wrote after I used your girl..
I wasn't the one she wanted it was you,
but I gave her what she wanted
and that never included you..
Every thing you wanted I stole,
and gave her fake wishes that were
tarnished but she never looked beyond
the moment seeing the stitching
of us was more fake than the smiles I gave her.
I knew she wanted to be with you,
but I was the salesman of woman..
While you were the boy next door, I was the salesmen
showing her fake dreams..
Don't worry you can have her after I've used her enough,
I'll even trade her in for a good price..
Ye, she'll be broken..
But everything is always defective
after I've rode it enough...
Her crown maybe cracked,
but she'll be yours even though she'll be thinking
of me even though your in her, I'm the length
she'll remember but she'll be your crack queen.
Now this is enough of wording.
and I'm moving on to the next one.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
fake interviews with fake people. the wording lures them from the fattening of babies who talk early. my silent uncle dying on a bed was asked if he had any first words. I was going to slice bread but pointed the knife at my ear hole, held it with my left, and slammed it in with my right. a man writes a song and sings it to the belly he thinks houses a son. his daughter stops a bullet from bruising his wife’s spine and is delivered unmolested but in high school begins to smell like gunpowder. she joins the KKK but doesn’t tell the KKK. I wake up behind the wheel of a car just in time to kiss the driver’s neck and the driver makes a fish face so horribly a child giggles in hell and pretty soon.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
When people say “rekindle an old flame,”
I find it very misleading.
That flowery wording
Makes it sound so
Musical
So Promising
What it really is
Is that *** lighter
That you sparked
And resparked
And swore wasn’t empty
Before leaving in your pocket
Sometime ago.
When you found it,
you lit up,
Friction flicked that
Wheel
And watched that
Flame dance once more,
Enough to ignite one more
Toxic thought
Getting you high from the
Smoke
Clouding the past
Leaving you
Staggered
When your fingers
Bleed
Begging for
Fire
And you crack it open,
Look for what’s more
Not even smelling
Butane
Just smelling
Nothing.
It’s empty.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 12:26 AM 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
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
when i write about other people
frantically scribbling words on a page
to express love
or hate
or something at all
why can't i write the same way for myself
the intense verses and elaborate wording
all used to express a feeling that no combination of words will
ever explain
perhaps if i stare in the mirror long enough
my body will begin to feel like my own,
my face won't distort to a disfigured mess
i'll learn to love my long golden hair
my eyes that look like the earth from outer space
the soft jawline i've always hated
asymmetry embodied
maybe then i'll realize that even scribbles are beautiful too.
Nov 7, 2022
Nov 7, 2022 at 11:40 PM UTC
My frustration built up like walls around my sense of serenity.
Starts out like a microscopic chip.
That then builds higher and higher like the building blocks of a child.
Just like the starting of a volcanic eruption.
My insides boil with a heat and anger.
My tranquil side in the brain tries to break down this build.
Yet like a volcano nothing can be done.
Frustration cannot be stopped til it subsides.
People may only run and take cover from the explosion erupting inside.
My level of lava in the inner core grows and grows.
I begin to struggle with my wording like a toddler beginning to speak.
These are the signs of a frustration morphing into an angry rage.
That microscopic chip blows like the end of a ticking time bomb.
Words pour out of my mouth like roaring waves of a storm.
Finally the lava simmers down and hardens to form the hard crust.
My frustration becoming anger subsides.
I forget the violent words that were just spit out of my mouth.
I feel in a daze like I was not myself in those seconds of rage.
Just like a tornado destroys things in its path then goes away like it was never there.
My clear sky of tranquility and peace rises and appears.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Look far beyond your nose
Imagine the wording prose your mind recites despite the fights between the lights;
Stand-back to back with your enemies
And believe that you are safe,
A mistake;
Craving knowledge of everything from your existence
To your beliefs
I believed I was falling down the trail
And all hail the misguided princess;
She's so misguided the North Pole becomes south
And the south;
Exiting from her mouth
With a flow; the beautiful candles of her heart.
The beautiful candles of her heart
Those that lit stormy fire inside mine
Those that lit up the dark pits of something I forgot about,
And all about my whereabouts
I see the signs of inconclusive doubts
Over my forehead, reflected upon people's faces;
And eyes look at me with non-empithetical sympathy
The symphony of eyelashes flapping over a lost identity.
I'm lost.
All those spiritual stoppages
Are causing my hands to shiver
All those figurative speech as she caresses her words
Preparing mine to stutter
Are making my eyes darken
And my faith to dismay;
I may,
Or may not be the person you want to find
But I find you the person I was never looking for
Yet I still crave the carves you carve on my hands.
The snapping bones of anger;
The cracking knuckles of regret;
The apprehensions preconceived with the threats;
The young man lost his track
The young man lost in the wild
With ideas even wilder
And actions that do not convey his messages
For the circles of bees become limits to his being;
For the frontiers of fighting lions
Become barriers to his block,
That upper corner in dying arteries; hidden
Way over the Mediterranean seas forgotten,
That young man is creating chaotic cancellations,
Phones typing messages of hesitation,
Brains articulating pieces of his own creation,
A salutation be upon my buddy
The young fellow who got lost facing everybody,
And everybody cheered as they watched;
His being stepped on, and heart being stabbed
The chats between the minds
Become cramps
The cramps in his existence become fatal agitation
The agitations in his life become psychiatric misinterpretation
For he got it all wrong
Everyone got it all wrong
But does that stop him?
Let alone
Does that stop all the fake men who built their empires upon forged pillars?
Killers,
Of characteristics;
Followers,
Disciples and students
To a dark lady
Typing her last words of goodbye
Over a phone that’s found in her palms
Yet lost,
In a young girl's heart.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
"Going to be late for dinner. Rush Hour!"
Playing with the Platypus
pretending the Preying Mantis
made a makers mark
on the playing cards
secret Joker Deck.
Sitting on the sticky stick of stickers.
Sitting in the setting set by the table setters.
Sitting on the soft sofa sipping the sour soda.
Alliterating the alternate wording worth alliterating.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
Bedside table minds clean paper
Pen at the ready, lying in wait
for wording as I wait for the sandman
Thoughts pole vaulting at high speed
tossing, and turning then settling
unable to make it over the top
Mind frozen in time with selections
untamed uneducated words, hitchhiking
around my head, seeking new adventures
on paper with other more interesting fellows
Words stuck in the corners of my mind
spring cleaning energy is needed here
to pull them out of their aerobics class
Forcing the words down my right arm
in Gymnastic style movements
out of my pen they stream endlessly
inking up the page in the stillness
But I dare not move to switch on the light
for the theme will be broken for all time
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
The wood was beneath, warped
With age, as the worms crept
Falling into the gapping chasm
Of petrified air. Ingested upon
Shattered bone, was the ragged
Wanting beneath.
The stone was polished, kept
As if newly left. Never was
Their needing for never were
Clothes tattered, they dined
Upon pigeon heart and entails
Of pedigree cat.
The Woman, of both below and
Above, vested wording to the
Ever breaking of parched skin and
Bone.
Those of wood and worm, clawing
Ascending through dirt, what was
Left of flesh pealed upon roots and
Stone, now only ragged cloth and
***** bone.
Why must we of the earth suffer,
The indignity of dirt while those
Above treated differently, we are
the same are we not, death is
Universal rot.
Then those of marble spoke up,
You are not like us for we are of
Death but we are of flesh,
Parched but whole, we are of
The clean, while you are of
Earth festering and rot.
"Silence"
"Still your airless voices"
"Each has a valid point"
"But my children of decay let me explain"
My children of earth you exhume
Yourselves each day, this shows
Strength for the journey you take,
Hardening you resolve.
You are neither filth or below,
Your strength is what others
Should look up to, you are pure
Of the mortal coils of flesh you
Are flawless in death.
My children of stone, what can
Be said, you cling to life, but
That time has pasted, you
Linger upon flesh that is but
a moment from dust.
Time in earth has made your
Brothers and Sisters strong,
While yours are weakened
The weaknesses of above, my
Commands are simple their
Must never be two, death is
Singular we decay as one.
What was pasted, those of marble
Stripped of parched decadence,
They were now pure as those below.
Feast as others on that which crawls
Nourished by mother earth.
The woman of bone, wood and stone,
Was a fair keeper and the only
Marble that graced was that which
Named those who slept below,
They were pure of mortal coils
They where the dead of bone.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
Not good until its a mill or so
Rub shoulders with those who are now ghost
Walking that thin line wit ice slipper
Face to face with the d' evil
Wording u found the right *****
Comrades put to rest with bullet holes
But we just living tho
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
i like to start off poems
with a sort of unsettled sometimes
because the absence of strict time progression
seems more abstract.
but maybe i
with my broken keys
stuck without caps lock
should maybe realize
that seeming more abstract
isn't the point.
i like to start off poems
with a sort of unsettled sometimes
because i can't immediately come to grips
with the sort of starry wording
i need to describe the way the constellations
align in my heart, only sometimes
all the time
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
Guess what?
The title has nothing
to do with what
you're reading.
Shocked?
Don't care.
Melancholia
Sweep through my insides
Signing away my life on a slip of paper
God's given graces
God's men
You looked like you had a fork tongue
I came to you
Modestly
Dressed in Enjoi and a Beanie
I wanted to hide the cat gang on my shirt
Look presentable
I was in front of the higher ups
This was serious stuff
But you mistreated it
I should have come naked
And flopped my **** around
It would have been about as serious
As you took this get together
Wow, that was atrocious
I can't believe I wrote that
But these feelings are true
And I won't try to fight back
My wording could be better
That I will admit,
But honestly, the way you handled this
Makes me sick
So I sign again,
Hoping this time, for the better
I signed this piece of paper
Letter by letter
Signed the date,
And away
Goes that weekend
On a retreat
Hoping for different
Not expecting much
Praying for better
Than a fancy lunch
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
heart and effort
****** into a collection of letters
that form a bunch of words
with hidden meanings
that only five sets of eyes end up seeing
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
To the English-speaking people of earth:
When you speak of new year's, do not mention resolutions.
We need to make up our **** minds about what we want: a beginning, or an end? How can something you just started be resolved already?
I know it's all in the wording, that it's YOUR resolve as a person we're talking about, but I think we're doing ourselves a disservice with this syntax.
I have no resolutions for this new year. My resolutions are gone, done with, vanished, they have already passed into the great and vast "past". You can have my resolutions.
As for me I'll hang onto my goals, my wishes, my aspirations for what this next cycle of days and weeks and months will bring.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC