"wrongest" poems
I'm not sure I was meant for this.
I'm sure I existed far too late.
It seems I came to be in the wrong time era,
and I assure you the wrongest wrong place.
I can hold my head high wherever,
but records and dusty movies are my friends,
they make me feel like I'm home at last;
make me wish the time never ends,
but it did and so forth,
I was not meant for here.
The people, too boastful,
with so much less to fear.
The relationships are wasteful,
and different by the day.
The love and optimism is fading out to grey.
I almost pity the people,
and I find their time more tragic,
while the era I love was suppressed by casual bombs,
the era I'm in has lost all their magic...
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
you've left me uninspired now
but i don't hate you
not really
instead i hate you for the wrongest reason
i hate you because i keep looking for you
even bits of your beautiful monstrous self
in these wide corridors i walk in everyday,
through the noise in the canteen,
everywhere i go and
especially in all the people i meet
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
You wake up one day and you're hollow
And you realize you let your sweet one dig so deep up on your insides
You've come to the point where you might not even bother eating
Or sleeping
Or resting the unsettling mixture of hatred and disgusted were-once-love remainings
Because they won't settle
or let you sleep
or let you be quiet, peaceful or
feel
safe
ironically the only
thing
you
ever
asked of him.
You couldn't be happy with it if you tried a million years
But you don't have a million years, dearest
You have just this one life
And it sure as hell won't be waiting for you to realize it's the absolute wrongest thing to do,
It goes on
and on
and on
and on
and on
and on
and on...
And one day
You'll look back
And see the shadow of the were-once-love
And you'll know
just then
it never was.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
there were some hints of hidden plots
but I'm unable to reveal
I found some separated spots
still unable to tell which link is real
and so I try to analyze
what rather should and must be framed
since all I see creates disguise
that's much too complex to be ever named
of course it has been clear to me
that I can never understand
trapped in the wrongest strategy
but this slight insight it could never end
living within recursive strains
and sensing that there is a sense
more valid than just causal chains
but only describable as weird chance
so all foretelling must stay vague
and loosely caught in blurring lines
just guessing back allows to make
out what still must resist to be combined
seems context can produce a part
that hides some future in degrees
of freedom interpreting art
seems the mystic whole is stored in a piece
but there's no way to find out how
to find what is the fitting view
since perspectives change truth right now
and every looking back is always new
breaking habits means crossing lines
to unveil the contexted mess
just writing what my brain combines
still so far beyond my most daring guess
but this is where I cannot get
by words bound to logical thoughts
I treat them in new ways instead
where all I is weakly felt metaphors
and all I see is kept in mind
and stretching out with every verse
but well, of course no one can find
what only contextually occurs
a strange result is feeding doubts
since all is trapped self-reference
that can be clearly talked about
asking how to comprehend any sense
outside the very performed act
but what got written down at last
is a shadowed trace that reflects
translating what cannot be tracked unmasked
with or kept by well defined terms
but ambiguous metaphors
leaving space for views to confirm
spotted patterns that could reflect my course
but each changed context brings the chance
to find new ways of reading how
the world was caught within found sense
constructed just against backgrounds of now
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
if i could control your Heart
(which i can't; other's, yes; yours, no)
i'd ask you, not force you, to give me what i want
for my greatest pleasure would come from
you simply blindly handing me
everything
you hold dear
of course, i'd want you to suffer as you do
(i'd want you to scream for no one to hear:
a silent, pathetic thing, crawling out of your
straining throat)
struggle, as you do,
while having no choice.
[ a war between heart and mind! ]
but, after that initial brawl
kneeling, bent as a nail hit upon
by a hammer at the wrongest angle
the palms of your Large Hands would face the sky
and you'd deliver.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Falling in love with you is so easy
I could do it in my sleep,
dreaming of different ways to hold your hand
imagining kisses sweeter than chocolate
Falling in love with you is so easy
I could do it backwards
I wouldn't need rear-view mirrors
it wouldn't matter what was is my blind spot
it would't matter if I hit anything
because this love is reckless
Falling in love with you is so easy
I do not even realize I am doing it
like going up an elevator,
pressing buttons and feeling the slight change in elevation
but never realizing how far you've come
until your look out the window
Falling in love with you is so easy
I feel as if it is the only thing
I have truly ever done completely correctly
and in the wrongest manner
You make my love grow like an infinite river
a never ending push and flow
of repetitive jokes and wanting to kiss you
but also knowing to hold back
because your lips would crack my sweet tooth in half
your taste would leave me breathless
I can not stop falling in love with you
no matter how hard my endeavors are
You make it so easy to fall in love with you
and I hope it is just as easy for you
to fall in love with someone like me
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
There was once a girl who fell madly in love.
Deeply in love with the wrongest of wrongs
the songest of songs
the longest of longs.
Her legs once so stable
collapsed and fell through.
Like mush mashed potatoes,
like nothing she knew.
This innocent girl,
alone and in love.
Made a promise to herself
she wouldn’t give up.
So though she loved wrongly,
though her man kept her safe,
she wanted to run,
run out of this place.
Her true love was not hers.
He was out with some other.
So she prayed and she willed
to be his new lover.
She neither cared that it wrong,
nor that it was lame.
For this was true love
to her not some game.
But this love she loved wrongly,
he just couldn’t see,
that her love was for only
the girl she could be.
He wanted them both,
but wanted his more.
For if he truly loved her
he’d be at her door.
So now she sits lonely.
She sits without any.
She lost her own dear
'cause she wrongly loved many.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
1.
In Japan the color of mourning is white.
The blinding flash of strangled brain
Festooned above the funeral route,
All the crepe-stream blank of pigment,
Blank the mind once dying's done.
Maybe find a bit of hope there, thought
Of light beyond alive, not
The blackness promised by
A firm belief in nothing.
2.
Regardless of catharsis
thus-far crying's done no good
it seems the sap can leak all
trite and flood surround with
sighs but I
I'll still be penitent for naught for all
the wrongest sins, to own up must
say "vanity's what needs my focus"
I--a deal so ******* big
no other face can crowd the mirror
of my mind's eye, I all I see, see
No one looms quite large enough
to crowd me from my view.
12/7/2010
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
I have given up on your mixed up memories.
You were wrong all along.
But the wrongest thing for me would be
To try to make right
Out of something
That is wrong.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Go on,
Side with her.
You always do...
Everyone does.
She could do the wrongest thing,
And somehow it's always my fault.
So go on,
Side with her,
And when I quit,
It'll be too late,
To be on my side.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
the plural of grief is grief,
**in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped**
**if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable**
And yet,
the plural of grief is grief
and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances
I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper
my own chosen grief,
unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place**
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 8:42 AM UTC
sleep is such a petty and unimportant thing
when i am with you
my eyes grow heavy
but my heart heavier
when sleep tries to pull me away
i'd rather live one thousand sleepless days
than ten you-less moments
i know you listen
you ask so many beautiful questions
i wonder where you keep all my silly answers
i'd rather you leave them all
than leave my side
an exhale
a step
driving 6 hours
in the wrongest direction
i miss you already
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
The end of the daze
Awaits
The heart of face
Buried alive in his grave
The other side of the fence
Begs for green
As death begets
The man
Through the armor
Of a Father husband
Gone and lost
In the cost of it
The cause
She was
The wrongest lips
The kiss of death
Will end the days
Of the minds myth
The heart of face
Beaten to a pulp
Under a chamber
Where bullets take
It all away
The end of daze
Awaits
The calendar of fate
Everything love made
Dies on the day
Earth claims
Dust to the dust
He came
And purpose
Will lay instead
Of the forever
they vowed to make
The good times
Share the memories
In the sublime
Aftermath of tendencies
A sacrifice paves the way
To recoveries
A smoking gun
Leaves the hand of the lamb
And now theres peace
The end of days
Has come to save
Everything from
All the pain
It reaps
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 5:51 PM UTC
*sometimes indecisiveness
is just the wrongest decision
for anyone to ever make
sometimes we just have
to dive in and go with our gut
embracing whatever may result;
sometimes, apologies are enough
when things don't go your way
because it's time to do it mine
sometimes, getting first time right
is not what your life has shown
so, it's okay for me to have another go
it's only taken forty years for you
to realise you love me and be proud
perhaps another forty'll make you really care
your boomer ways are so busted
they don't work here and now
perhaps I need to find my own way
it won't break your ego to be supportive
respect is not earned but extended
perhaps you only need to trust & believe;
every time my child's heart breaks
a memory jolts this scathing parody
perhaps this curse can be broken still:
it doesn't take much to make it right*
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
°
*sometimes indecisiveness
is just the wrongest decision
for anyone to ever make
sometimes we just have
to dive in and go with our gut
embracing whatever may result;
sometimes, apologies are enough
when things don't go your way
because it's time to do it mine
sometimes, getting first time right
is not what your life has shown
so, it's okay for me to have another go
it's only taken forty years for you
to realise you love me and be proud
perhaps another forty'll make you really care
your boomer ways are so busted
they don't work here and now
perhaps I need to find my own way
it won't break your ego to be supportive
respect is not earned but extended
perhaps you only need to trust & believe;
every time my child's heart breaks
a memory jolts this scathing parody
perhaps this curse can be broken still:
it doesn't take much to make it right*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC