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The Best Confused Poems

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The Park Bench

The Park Bench

I wish I was a poet
With magical words
To make people see all of the absurd
Tears fly, paintings in pastel die

When we look into our mirrors
We sometimes miss
What love dumps upon all of us
We shed tears, for we forgot to shed fears

I have no legs, nor any crutches
So my voyage has ended
I only observe
Sadness upended

When goodness is confused
When gestures are refused
When the kiss that could have been
When a poets tear seems obscene

The one who hears is often deaf
The deaf sometimes have nothing left
If I could give a kiss away
I would give it to lovers with hearts that sway

Drawing love on paper in may


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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SNOW GLOBE

Welcome to my ----- life
A beautiful broken aura
             Unsettled flakes
             The sound of yesterday
             Shattered winter glass
Transcend to the unconscious mind
Frozen, dead, yet alive
Hell, escapes my future of eternal suffering 
Tiny buttons of snow -fall to my feet
Firewood burns endlessly,
The hairs of her soft skin rise like wheat
Shadows by hand flip the hourglass
The possibility of change takes  --- need
She stands on the outside of my dreams
Looking in;
Quietly she summons the cold legion 
Confused, trying to cleanse her soul 
She wipes off old fingerprints 

White glitter, forgotten notes
Spiritual spells enhanced in a quiet villa
Shadows of hands toss the glow
Daydreaming inside another dream
Falling flakes in hopes of peace
A warm bedded cabin sits at ease
Observing, breathing, mind settling
Swirling into an earthy feel
Another long downward drift
 
Shadows of hands set the tide
She awakens, sharing the stars
She mocks the sun, her eyes sparkle
Covered in snow - aging peacefully
She fibers to soothe her soul
She reeks, neither heaven nor hell
Temporary punishment, rattling thoughts
Captured in a transparent globe
Passing through a purgatory world
No walls, no in between
Falling far from the echoes of life
Sacrificed by death before salvation 
Transcending to the unconscious mind
             Shattered winter glass
             The sound of yesterday
             Unsettled flakes
A beautiful broken aura
Depart from my ----- life             

By: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015


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When A Man Cries


No one ever told me that your heart could bleed without a drop that anyone could see. I didn't know your soul could lose weight that your shadow could get thin. I had no idea that there were dry tears that one could shed while sporting a joker’s smile for the crowd.

No one told me you could be naked, closed within yourself, folded and squatting in the black, as your pillow bled white against the dark but I have had those nights.

I know I have walked miles alone left a trail three miles deep in the cement on the street where I reside. I remember and still live moments where everyone talks as if we are in echo chambers and my ears catches every word and my mind never processed even one.

My mother never warned me that love could be so deep. She didn’t tell me that another could own so much of you. I still weep dry ice tears. I still scream in empty fields the wind against my back to mask my wail and hide my pain.

I know I still function perfectly. I still roll the dice , last week I bought Boardwalk and when I crossed Go I collected my two hundred dollars. As far as the board game world knows I’m just quieter than I use to be but fine otherwise maybe even improved.

So in these days of my haze as I function in a fog of loss I replay that moment over and over again. She is gone, she left me in a rage and frankly I was confused because she played the love game until the last moment, until that moment.

I admit I'm ashamed how the crows tear at my flesh just thinking of her with another man. How the sun burns when I see her smile or think of her laugh shared sincerely with another guy. 

Apparently she never gave me that. In my blindness I accepted us as in love but she tells me now so many years later how she despised me but never said a word.

Me the fool I still want her I still yearn for her touch. I would chew on nails just to sit with her. Why is my love so deep, so singular? Other people move on. I’ve seen it. She is gone, she wasn't even here those twenty years plus. She wasn't around when she bred our child. Why won’t I move on?

No one ever told me that losing her would be like this. Told me that you could break every bone in your body and it would hurt less than this less than losing her. When I knew she was gone for good when I finally accepted it, I cried until I couldn't cry another tear and then I cried some more. 

29~12~2014
Armand






Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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The Grake - For Dr Seuss Contest



On a warm summer’s day, in the month of July, 
in a town that’s as small as a grasshopper’s thigh,   
walked a girl with a flower, her eyes looking down,
when she bumped into somebody wearing a frown. 

Now this Someone was someone she’d met once before, 
and the words that he’d said, she had tried to ignore; 
so she turned on her heel and she headed away
but the Someone called after her, shouting out “HEY!”

He said, “Hey you, Missy, you know who I am?
I’m the Someone who will and the Someone who can! 
I’m disliked in this town, but I know what I’ll do -  
since they seem to hate me, then I’ll make them hate you!”

Now, the girl with the flower was starting to shake, 
'cause she knew from before that this guy was a Grake!
And all Grakes are unstable, they’re mean and they lie, 
and they like to cause trouble, and make girlies cry. 

So the next day, she’s walking, her eyes are cast down, 
when whom should appear but the Grake with the frown!
“See, I told you I’d be here, to maim and to crush!”
Then he shouted out words that would make a hog blush! 

Well, the girl with the flower just stood there, confused, 
'cause she didn't deserve to be hurt and abused,
just an unlucky victim of graking, it seemed,
from a Someone who’s vengeful, and grumpy, and mean. 

So she just stood there silently, knowing she should,
'cause defending herself wouldn’t do any good,
and a crowd began forming, just gathering ‘round, 
just to watch the poor girl, and the Grake with the frown.  

And the Grake carried on for what seemed like an hour, 
(for when Grakes have an audience, this gives them power).
He ranted and threatened, and made quite a shrill, 
'cause he’s Someone who can and he’s Someone who will. 

Now, the crowds that all came (and they stopped and they stared) 
Well, they tried to speak up but they felt a bit scared 
so they just stood there, watching, and shaking their heads
and they thought, “glad it’s HER there, and not me instead!” 

Well, the next day it happened again just the same; 
that Someone, that Grake, played his same awful game-
He attacked the poor girl and he caused such a scene, 
and the crowd gathered round, just to watch him be mean. 

And the girl with the flower just took it all in, 
with a tear on her cheek and a trembling chin, 
and she felt her whole world start to crash to the ground,
when suddenly, she heard such a beautiful sound: 

“Stop it, you meanie! You’re nothing but bad!”
(‘twas the voice of a young girl named LuLu McMad.
“You’re nothing much more than a big awful Grake!
So stop it right now, You! Go jump in a lake!” 

Now all eyes were on LuLu, but she held her ground; 
she walked up to the girl and they both turned around
and they stood there with both of their backs to the Grake. 
Such a simple, yet wonderful statement to make. 

Then two people joined them, they stood with them, proud. 
Then two more, then three, then the whole bloomin’ crowd, 
until every last one had their back to the Grake,
and he finally realized, he’d made a mistake! 

See, when someone is being harassed or put down,  
it’s not nice to just stand there and not make a sound. 
So don’t be afraid to stand up for what’s right!
And make all the Grakes of the world lose the fight. 

!!!!


If you're being bullied, don't engage - just walk away... and tell an adult.  
If you see someone being bullied, speak up!  It can be scary to stand up to a bully, because we’re afraid we might become the next victim.  But sometimes all it takes is one person to break the power that a bully thinks he or she has; it also helps others to be bold enough to speak up too.  Be the brave one ... and do the right thing. 

Dedicated to the sweet and fearless Laura Loo. 



Copyright © Becca Teagan | Year Posted 2016


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bloody wrists

I'm sitting on the floor
I'm crying so much more
trying to erase this pain
trying to forget your face
sitting here with the blade in my hand
running so slow blood dripping down
in a deep red color
flowing freely the way i want to feel

I'm sitting on the floor 
holding my hand out
I'm holding a bottle
a bottle filled with pills
I'm crying so hard
the pain is unbearable
I'm feeling so weak 

I'm sitting here on this floor 
holding a blade
crying like crazy
trying to take this pain away
I'm trying my best trying to fight
my eyelids feel heavy
my door is so far
the whispered yells to far
falling deep in to sleep

deep..deep..deep..deep
I'm laying on a bed
I'm so confused 
where am i?
my throat feels sore
my body screams in pain
I'm looking around
I'm in a small white room

i try to move,
my hands are stuck
i try to get up
i feel restraints 
what happened to me?

I'm laying on a bed
trying to get up
my head hurts
a nurse is here
a shot is administered 
i drift to sleep
I'm in the psych ward
why am i here?

I'm lying on a bed
laying so still 
my wrists hurts to no end
I'm crying out loud
screaming and cussing
my body hurts
i can't remember

all i remember are my bloody wrists
and a bottle of pills
all i remember is the pain i was in.....






Copyright © GRACIE GONZALEZ | Year Posted 2013


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QUIETUDE AND BOOM



I decorate a grotto for you, Mama where orchids and holy images embellish this special place and day, that saintly icons guard you there as if they beg me to be released from years of guilty devotion… Yet I polish their laced clothes; then close the night waiting for wind chimes to knell,’ Magnificat.’ Scenes from younger days resound, while you, Mama, gift me with love and hate flickering through my confused mind: and sharpened bells ring in my ears; the gong of your voice banging across the hall, yet I still recall, mouth so tender, droning lullabies in the soft of window sills, ‘Magnificat’… How can I reconcile quietude and boom, when the little girl in me longs for your lithe timber within that special place, till holy statues listen to my wind chimes and finally understand this adoration. The Seeker's Contest: Your Absolute Best


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015


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If I Were The One For Nicola

If only I could make my way to Paris
To search the boulevards and rainy rues
I'd look to find my lonely heart an heiress
An Irish lass vacationing her muse

We'd find a quiet cafe' on the Seine
Where we could sit and share a laugh or two
By candlelight we'd toast with French champagne
Pretend that we were on our honeymoon

But how could I convince her I'm the one
To make all of her fantasies come true
She knows there's more to life than having fun
In Paris hearts get easily confused

I'd get down on one knee under the stars
Give her the paper ring off my cigar



   an original poem by Daniel Turner
      



Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


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Loves Fragility

Love is such a fragile sentiment
So oft confused with sex,
So in our daily double dealings
We render it is so indefinable
Like the faint flicker of a candlelight
That is blown out by our despair,
An intimate venue of self torture.
We add to its impenetrable obscurity
Blowing the flame right out,
Thus our outrageous shadows 
Are silently snuffed out.
 
How easy it is to forget 
All our wistful whispers, those
Sweet nothings of past affections,
We no longer trudge the path made up for two.
Forgotten are those bygone days
When we believed that thistledown tufts
Were really friendly fairies in disguise.
 
We head for a dull and empty living
Blaming everyone else uselessly.
Aren't we the product of our time?
We slam the doors of love in our own faces,
Building woeful walls around us
Painting it with a tinge of misunderstanding,
When we can lead such a colorful life,
Giving our hearts a chance,
Laughing at ourselves.....
And at the moon above.

P O T D  28 March 2017


Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2017


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Psychedelic Whistle Plays a Rhythm into the Darkness

Psychedelic Whistle Plays a Rhythm into the Darkness

Entering the dark side of a moonbeam on this evil lens of life,
A gruesome old man recreates a murder time and time again, 
As the cold and lonely howling bitterness of the night escapes. 
The psychic contrasts go up in a surreal smoke-filled entirety.
This is not lost to the all-seeing consciousness of the cosmos.

Moaning a malefic agony of selfish needs devours all that’s good, 
Whilst under black leather gloves bleached deadly-white his bones, 
Fill the heart expelled with a legion of grieving spirits—sad and lost.
A maze doth open as Dark Demons are made of rotten plank ridges,
And scraps of empty emotions that maketh them all deliciously evil.

Inside ashes intoxicated with the Hallowed Eve's evil kiss bringeth 
All a Gorgon-like gift so cursed and raised in Lucifer’s own Hellfire. 
Leaveth them to their executioners and wash your own hands clean!
Cain within life's garden dwells as a zombie—a grief-stricken animal,
As a psychedelic whistle plays a rhythm into the darkness of the cosmos.
 
Ebony darkness seduces as a fire burns black ebony removing the flesh. 
Ice-cold tears in anxiety fall, shouting loudly that nobody sees nor hears
The jealous whimpering of jackals needing love with no way to find it. 
There remains emotionless beings who kill passion with a crocodile’s bite.
Fear not the tempting by Lucifer as long as the silver crucifix adorns thee! 
 
Fireflies born in a hellish fury cast in anger the past sins of those doomed, 
Yet they can be "Bearers of an Ancient Light” for things good and noble,
If they can passeth through the veil of evil and darkness into God’s light. 
When the smoke blows away pride there’s no remorse only danger ahead! 
The silence afterwards is deafening to those of holy-pure mortal blood! 

Understanding of reality loses its meaning in this evil realm of darkness,
As an agonising pain is cleared in an eclipse found under “Hate's Trigger.” 
Under a deep crater twilight ghosts rise as “Shadow Beggars of Despair,”
Whilst feeling unholy torment in nerve fibers of a past-life enchantment.
Only Lucifer knows this truth as he collects souls for eternal damnation!

Uncanny conversations are secret and bloody-confused in Hell’s own pit. 
Rising from the ashes unhappy beasts mark the ground with sharp claws, 
As disoriented tongues of envy are struck down by lightning bolts blinded.
Lucifer knows the omnipotence of the psychedelic whistle as it plays its
Rhythm bewitching all lost souls as they enter the darkness of the cosmos!  

Anne-Lise Andresen, Gary Bateman, and Liam McDaid
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
May 5, 2017 (Narrative)


Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2017


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Slave

Like a herd of cattle, placed on a ship.
Upon my back, I felt their whip!
Ripping into my flesh, excruciating pain.
Forced across the big water on a trip.

Living in darkness with little to eat.
The feel of chains around my feet.
Amidst tortured cries, the ship did shake.
Waves pounded the hull with relentless beat.

Only once a day, would we see the sky.
Huge sails, caused the ship to fly.
Further and further away from my home.
Feeling confused not understanding why!

A white devil, steered the wooden ship.
All his mates evil with scabbed putrid lips.
Yet we, depended on them for our lives.
Without them, into the ocean we'd slip.

The journey long, felt like an eternity!
I longed to be anywhere but on the sea.
My mind occupied with thoughts of my home.
yet, I could not escape this horrible enemy!

Sick and dying were forced to walk the plank.
Then into the cold water they quickly sank.
The sailors laughed, as the last man was tossed!
Their spirits boistered with the rum they drank.

Many days later we finally made land.
A place of stone and wood, I could see no sand.
Crack of the whip, we rose to our feet.
"Off of my ship!"was the devil's final command!


For Verlena's "Writing in a black Perspective" Contest



Story continued for my own pleasure, not part of the entry.

Slave Part Two

Brought in chains, to a raised wooden stage.
Bids tallied carefully, sales written on a page.
That was when I witnessed, a most perfect girl.
Bought by a fat man, she was placed in a cage!

I was up next, I stood still as he bid on me.
"One dollar, gimme two, two dollars, sold for three!"
Then I was taken and locked up in the cage with her.
Together we both dreamt, of one day being free.

Brought to the plantation, in late September.
I worked in cotton fields, until November.
Then I would be purposed, to cutting fire wood.
For cold and snow came, by early December.

In the evening, we were left to be with our kind.
While in the big house, our master dined.
Later at dusk, my angel girl would come.
Her beauty so amazing, she made me blind!

The taste of her body, my rememberance of home.
We gave each other pleasure, when we were alone.
Even though the master, wanted her for only him.
I felt like a free man, when I would hear her moan!

Her pregnant, I wondered if the child was mine?
If I was the father, I would be bound in twine.
Still inside I prayed, that the child belonged to me.
In the end, that would be certainly be fine.

Nine months later, almost to the day.
The love of my life was taken away.
In death our child born, middle of September.
The master's anger, I could not sway.

I was awoken, ripped out of my bed!
He took out a musket loaded with lead.
Finally free, in spirit we both travel.
There are certainly worse things, than being dead!













Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


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Afterglow

Momentary lapses of shyness 
within pretentiousness the size of a non-la-hat 
offering shade from your sweltering Sun, 
confused the boy still residing beneath an exterior 
of brashness. A wooing of rose or lotus petals?
Did she not enjoy such frivolity? Wot of a bard
letting words slide through the air like silk,
for I didn't possess such romantic poetry.
____


No, I embarked upon a journey of false-heroism,
took a bullet, figured it to shape me into a man.
I showed off the wound, blood soaking through the bandages -
you seemed far from impressed by this display of stupidity.
Yet you played coy,
bending over, letting sunlight play through a thin summer dress,
highlighting inner thighs, lines arching up into a dome of dizzy-delirium
so sensual it almost appeared sinful.

At night you'd undress before a naked window,
letting shadows flirt across moonlit dew.
It was all I could do to keep eyes averted,
instead, living on dreams of unwrapping gifts
under the influence of feverish waves,
even though I never forgot to take quinine.

And after all the games, 
I had only to stay still long enough for you to complete another sketch,
take its lines, breathe together a new poem,
unleashing torrents of words into my ear.
A funny sort of unconventional, tactile courtship.
You wanted me to listen, to test my patience,
and once your head was emptied out,
heat arose from the bloom, enveloping me in soft petals,
vanquishing my fever, with a different feverish embrace.
Your eyes almost felled me with their complexities
of virginal innocence and a whorish lust. The thrusts,
lips and fingers, the blended push-pull of rhythm and wild abandon
caused me to lose myself long enough,
to find your soul drifting alongside my own,
amongst the stars that had always been shining.
Amongst the light already written before our birth.












June 2nd, 2012


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012


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The Old Dark House

The Old Dark House

This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.

Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!  

The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!

Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.

Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
God Himself.

Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!

The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!

Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!

I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!

Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.

These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!

Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!  

I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!

Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!

I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.

What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!

I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
redemption! 

As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams, 
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.

Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke 
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!

Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!

Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)


Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016


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MY EYES

My eyes,
you traced the beauty of nature.
The starry sky and inky ocean,
smile of winter in the heavenly garden,
dancing of waterfall on the lap of hill
and kissing of butterfly with lips of lily.
You painted the alluring nature
in the canvas of my memory.
It refreshes my soul
and revives my heart.
My eyes,
you are lovely, you are smart.

My eyes,
You traced my childhood
with your experienced hand.
Sacrifice of my mother
and hardship of my dad.
Depth of their love
and length of their sorrow,
thickness of their sympathy
and width of their care.
My eyes,
You are cute, you are fair.

My eyes,
you age out books stepping with time.
My career holds what I need.
You created hopes
and enhanced expectations.
You make my avenue successful and vivid.
My dreams slept on rose petal bed.
I know, a good book is equal to 100 friends,
but a good friend is a complete library.
My eyes,
you are my friend, you are my diary.

My eyes,
you traced a queen
in a marriage party.
Now, she is my darling
she is my sweety.
I never forget that wonderful  night.
When you traced her sensation
and her jumping heart,
her tender lips
and her undressed beauty.
I was clean bold
with extreme delight.
My eyes,
you are spicy, you are naughty.

My eyes,
you are very clever.
You can speak more than tongue.
I know, you can't be wrong.
My anger is apple red,
my love is pearl white
and my pleasure is crystal bright.
When I am confused
you fly kingfisher flight.
My eyes,
you are my teacher, you are my guide.
--------------+++++++++++++-------------------


Copyright © Manmath Dalei | Year Posted 2016


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In Search

I am a character
In search of my author
Walking great distances in a circle
Wishing for a plot
Wanting a destination
Perhaps a soliloquy
Please fill my lips with your words

If you wish I will play the fool
You be my King
I am yours to rule

For too long
I have been without a script
From a confused heart my thoughts have dripped
Within your story I wish to be gripped

The Author of me
From whom I have roamed
Through your scriptures I will comb
Till I learn the lines that lead me home
As I study please capture my mind
Till within my spirit we are intertwined
Light from light no longer blind

You are the beginning and completion of me
Apart from you I cease to be
Thankyou, Thankyou for helping me see
The part of Your story written for me



Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014


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Princess of the petals

Beyond her veil; eyes induced by secretive stars became drawn to a path illuminated by flickering, shimmering pale moonlight. Each spirited step led to the revelation of her secret garden. But upon arrival at her doorstep; disbelief disabled my soul's delight. Through the mist all I saw were rotten leaves among crushed rose petals - wilting. In shame, a naked cherry blossom tree stood in silence, immersed in a puddle of soaked blushing buds - drowning. So I collected every bud, gently placing them in an empty fountain. Patiently I sat, embracing her; waiting for the winds to blow and take all her imperfect petals with them. But all they brought was a spiritless stench, haunting the air. As the mist cleared, a crow cried, perched upon a tree stump whose rotten roots lay amongst its once magnificent torso. So I placed all her branches into a barren river, hoping the rain would wash them away. But no rain fell. Now lost, I followed confused caterpillars crawling along a trail of blood. Upon journeys end; a breathless butterfly lay in slumber, So I placed my lips onto hers, but could not breathe life into her. To soothe her decaying wings, I built a cocoon, but only the caterpillars accepted sanctuary. Cracks crumbled her wings, preventing her from healing. Silent saffron sun awoke blackbirds, whose chorus of chants guided my mind away from the valley of misconception. So I left. Weeping. Unable to save her once magnificent garden from ruin., The Silent One 4 December 2017


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017


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- Shiny Stars -





I put my thumb up while the thoughts of darkness came and went
In each person's life there may be sorrow and defeat
You see a little angel lonely, left and confused

The joy is so delicious and grief is lonely
We just have to taste what's coming,
something is sweet and something is bitter

No matter what happens,
I have seen beauty that holds back the darkness
You may say I'm a dreamer and violets are blue
















28.07.2017
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved


Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2017


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Ordinary man

Snow is falling and floods are flowing,
people dying and children keep crying,
but he's just an ordinary man,
sitting there watching TV.

Icebergs melting and penguins starving,
men in suits talking and big guns firing,
but he's just an ordinary man
playing on his smartphone.
 
Storms blowing and seas are raging,
children starving and refugees leaving,
but he's just an ordinary man
at home warm and free.

He seems confused,
Daffodils no longer bloom in Spring,
bumble bees have stopped buzzing, 
butterflies have stopped floating,
confused birds have stopped flying and
factories have plumes of smoke burning,
but he's just an ordinary man
sitting in his garden all alone.

So who is he to fight?
He just follows the rules he is told.
Instead of trying to be something he is not.
Because he is just an ordinary man.

The Silent One
Simple musing
11 January 2018


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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An Eternity II

And I begin my own steep climb into 
The Chalkland Downs                                                                     
Where none but stiff blast and 
Continous drone,              
Warbling chants from drifting curlew,
Muffled and alarmed bleats from 
Scattered flocks of confused and 
Wandering sheep -                                                         
Home to the ancient Guardians!                              
And still the blustering winds, 
Blowing hence Time-Immemorial,                                     
Eroding into disapproving frowns
Etched on every crumbling brow
And sharp escarpment of balding peak;                                                        
Here all meddlesome tribes of men 
Are held in equal contempt                                    
By these benign Spirits
Secured far above the bustling and 
Intrusive sounds;                                                                                                                   
Scrupulously bearing witness 
To mundane existence of shabby 
Lives -
Disorganised and unkempt!                               
Every day noise slowly detaching, 
Floating absently upwards -
Forever removed from the creeping 
Sprawl 
Of pretty seaside towns.                                                                                           
                                             


Nothing but a void -                      
An inestimable void of invisible 
Owl                                                    
Whose serrated flight shuns the 
Chaotic hours of Humankind;                            
A great void whose voluminous 
Updraft
Could quite easily inflate the 
Narrowing corridors 
Of a wearied and depleted mind;                                       
Above, hurrying nonchalantly,  
And, somewhat, dismissively by:-                   
The outlined caricature of
Silhouetted clouds                                                             
Weakly traced against the dreadful 
Expanse 
Of a vast grassland sky!                        
...And thus I find myself wondering,
What now of abandoned promises?
Pledges, once earnestly sworn,
Callously disowned and then thrown
Aside?
Thee unpalatable stigma of this
Undeserving unworthiness!
How easy words are to utter -
What an utter confoundment 
When one tragically feels so
Compelled 
To irretrievably renege on all such 
Solemn vows!                                 
                                                                                                                     
                                                                                  

This bellowing furore that does,
At an instant, 
Most strangely, inwardly roar 
As if enraged like a muted, 
Pebble-tossing sea!                                         
Sudden squalling gusts, slamming 
Into the car,
Appearing, apparently, from out of 
Nowhere                                                                
To vigourously assault unto the 
Angry columns of towering air;                      
The tumultuous display of Heavens
Showering Firmaments...
Finally, at last - arraigned enmasse!            
...Then...a subdued wail that wails 
Amidst a wailing silence...                                    
Which, more and more,
Oh so ever disconcertingly...                                             
As if a lamentation for happier
Moments long since past...                                    
Would seem to emanate from within
The very depths me!                                                                                                


Me...me...driving...all alone...
Helplessly trapped in an                  
Infinitely immeasurable,
Solitary, brown-coloured bottle of 
Beer -
For all of a damnable eternity!!                



Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017


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My Poetry Garden

My poetry garden of late 
has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay
upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted
and now vehemently raged among 
adjoining unmade beds of subjects and verbs.

Modifiers that had been 
carefully kept in check upon their trellises 
now dangled everywhere.

Sentences had spilled out of their beds
in fragments or running on and on while
cases of subjectives and objectives
shamelessly intermingled and
were now easily mistaken
one for another.

Grammar, whose care I had entrusted 
to first, second and third persons,
lay in shameless disarray, 
as if no one could tell the difference.

Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives,
many of which had split. I recalled with a sigh
how many years it had taken me
to tightly bind them.
[to bind them tightly is what I meant.]

Commas were everywhere,
rendering those in appropriate position
practically unrecognizable, 
which I suppose was better
than what had happened
to the capitals, 
now completely ignored.

There was no reason for the rhyme,
and forms had somehow been confused
or misplaced altogether.

My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl

An unfortunate mis-spell
had been cast 
and provoked an infestation.
Many of my friends I noted
had simply departed without comment.

The contest entry was blocked,
so I bowed my head in shame
and shuffled silently
through the exit marked N/A.


Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014


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- Falsehood -




Is there still a rainbow after the rain?
An unanswered message, life is full of lies

Darkness falls - like a thief steals the daylight
I get confused - hear demons whisper

It happened so suddenly, struggling to breathe
Tired of all the things that hurts

If life was an adventure I would love to dance
Everything around me is in a white blur - the truth?








  20.07.2016
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
  (unrhymed couplets)
  Copyright © All Rights Reserved


Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2016


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Precipice of a Lost Innocence

I am standing outside my bedroom, on the precipice of lost innocence.
Wide eyed, and barefoot on cold hardwood.
Someone is hammering on our front door.
My father, looking a bit annoyed, shuffles anxiously down the stairs.
Tussled hair, a bewildered vein bulging in his forehead,
wearing his old, blue plaid robe, (one with a woven rope belt),
he frowns like a lightweight boxer, ready to enter the ring.

There are two grim faced policemen waiting on the front porch.
My mother, at the top of the stairs, clutches the neck of her gown.
She looks as if she might choke herself.
Confused alarm, reflects in sleep-swollen eyes.

They ask my father,  “How well do you know those folks across the road?”
As they notice me standing on the stairs, they quickly lower their voices.
In a hushed, rather husky monotone, they whisper to my father... 
something about a boy who has taken a shotgun into the hillls...
and into the chill of the night… 
He has taken his own life…and has been identified as the boy..., 
the teenager, who lives kitty-corner across  our road.
The same kid who mowed our grass when Dad was sick for a spell last summer.
The one who bags Mom’s groceries at the local A & P.
They think I don’t hear them            ……but I do…
and I hear them ask my father, 
      would he,  please, come along to help them break the news?

My father, glazed eyes, and head low, steps away a moment, to quickly dress.
I remember hearing my mother gasp, then suck in a  sob,..
But then is right behind me, pulling me towards her…..
and I can feel her heart pounding, through flannel of my pajamas.
She is squeezing my shoulders..so hard that it hurts,.... somehow I don’t mind.
I look up seeking reassurance,.... her eyes are huge, …
                      and she knows that I have heard…. 
And we both know,...that nothing will ever be the same. 
After this day is over,  the childhood of yesterday, will wear a different face…

Father pulls a coat over his pajama tops, …he gives my mother a touch on the arm.
With a desolate look at me, he touches my head.
He steps out into the darkness of a not quite dawn.
And through the window,  I can see the line of shadows on the lawn.
Three men, like hunched over soldiers, walking slowly into the wounds of a new day.

.............................................
(Sadly,  this is based on a true story)

100 in a ROW contest #1 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by P.D.


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011


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My Turn To Cry

I’ve distanced myself
I didn’t mean to
Didn’t set out to do it
An unconscious act of the mind 
For self preservation

My visits went to once a week
Sunday dinners that once lasted for hours
Became shorter and shorter
Until now its get in
Get it cooked
Clean it up 
Visit
And we’re out

Occasionally circumstances would
Happen and one would be missed
Oh well I’ll go during the week
Sometimes I did
Sometimes I didn’t
Today my heart cried to be near you

I entered the home and immediately
Settled my mood into the atmosphere
Funeral home-esque for lack of a better description
I speak in hushed tones
Slow my movements
And quiet my spirit

You want something
Oh thank you give me a job
What do you need???? Anything
I’ll gladly do anything

So many things hurt you now
You who were so tough reduced to such pain
Questions, answers, questions, answers
Over and over and over
This is the part I know
I’ve practiced this so many times before

You speak and in mid sentence you cry
Have I seen my sister,,you can’t remember 
Ever seeing my sister, have you seen her
Yes mom remember mom
My answers are calm
Almost rehearsed
Repeated
Sterile

You look searching in my eyes
Yours, sunken, confused,
Pained, with a depth of sadness
I haven’t seen before
I look away.

I meet all the needs you’ve asked of me
I pat you, hug you, pray with you
I look at my brother, the saint
He’s tired, worn, sad
 
I leave, I’m OUT
I drive
How’d I get here
How long have I been driving
The sky so desperately gray
Muted tones of nothingness
The air feels so heavy
Like a shroud encompassing me
Choking me

The river runs beside me
It rages from the wind
There’s no stopping its power
It’s dark and gloomy and brown
And suits my mood

I try to pray
HOW DO I PRAY
Do I pray for healing,
Health, life, death
Joy, maybe peace

I cry out to you
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PRAY
I look to the sky and see
The smallest spot of the most beautiful sapphire blue
In a sea of nothing
And I cry


Copyright © Laurie Ginn | Year Posted 2009


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Dust From The Past

Looking back again, back into the past, 
it was written in sand, all those questions we asked
on those last days of summer, something was wrong
as the leaves started turning, and shadows grew long

There was dust on the tables, and the clutter remained
where never before, .... had it not been restrained
You were known for your grace, now your pride was at risk
Quickly swept, polished fine, brushed away with a whisk

This just wasn't you, having bricks without mortar
You were never unkempt ...now a life out of order?
You would never have allowed such things out of place
Something so small, would have been your disgrace

There was something to blame, something was strange
Even small tasks, we noticed, had changed
Another piece of a puzzle, fell into place
Your trace of bewilderment, when a name was erased

Your memory lost, and a world gone absurd ...
Then, once it was you....alone and disturbed 
Lost and afraid, but mostly confused
Forgetting the day, many things you would lose,
or someone you loved, so much undefined
shoved back to blind spaces, your words couldn't find

Dust motes collected where never before,
would settle, make home, in your mind evermore
Without any warning, without any sound
until you were gone, and the years fell around

Dreams that you had, were drawn in the sand
into the traces of dust of a far away land

_________________________________________________
Inspired by Isaiah Zerbst's Contest: "Pick a Title"
10/31/14


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014


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Inspired Muses

Inspired muses reach out from the page
To touch the hearts and minds of those who read
Their presence in descriptive rhymes, a sage
In words of ink your thoughts become a seed

I wonder if it's ever crossed your mind
Someone in years to come might feel your muse
Will it be inspiration they will find
Or will your words just leave them more confused?

And yet we bleed our muse to feel the high
Then cover up the blood in metaphors
We make them laugh, so no one sees us cry
Those fears we hide in words forevermore

But muses rarely ever get the blame
Cause down below, they wisely sign your name.


    by Daniel Turner


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


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The 4 seasons of you

I was thinking of the seasons
when suddenly
i was reminded of you
how you loved me and taught me
all about
the 4 seasons of you

I was dormant in my ways
confused by the meaning of the word content
but like a SPRING downpour
you drenched my thoughts
and planted a seed in my soul
then slowly my love for you
began to grow

Suddenly, in a blink of an eye
our delirious passion
was overpowering and explosive
on-going, like a relentless SUMMER heatwave
refusing to show any mercy

But as time paced itself
steadily on course
you predicted
the infectious novelty of my hungry desires
would eventually come tumbling down
like a leaf on a FALL tree
once bright with color
now, on the ground
succumbing to its eventual fate
of loneliness

In the end
no words were spoken
just a heart that was
broken...
frozen, Like a twig
brittle with frost
lying in it's WINTER grave
never to be part of something good again

I was thinking of the seasons
i was reminded of you
how you used to love me
and teach me about
the 4 seasons of you!





Copyright © Kurt Kohls | Year Posted 2010