Contradicts Poems | Examples

WHAT IF LOVE IS A MYTH?

Love is kind.
Love is patient.
Love gives.
Love understands.

But what if
love is only kind
until it teaches you to kneel
for crumbs and call it a feast?

What if love isn’t perfect
not because we weren’t
but because fate crossed our paths
when we were meant to grow apart?

They say love is giving
but what if I gave too much
until I forgot the sound
of my own heartbeat?

What if love contradicts
everything we swear we believe
just to soothe a moment’s ache?
What if love is a myth

a beautiful lie we chase
to avoid learning
how to love ourselves first?

And what if
after all the breaking and bending
I still call that love
because it hurt just like they promised?

Prescribed Celebration

(yes, I'm serious)

Three minutes.

That’s how long it took
to name a swarming mess:
A self-appointed poet
with rogue chemicals sizzling in her nerves.
The diagnosis long and fancy—
bitter but addictive 
on my tongue,
like the gin I’ve grown fluent in.
(Is that why his voice was slurred?)

                         “…The patient flinches
                         at the morning rains in May.
                         Her ink contradicts herself…
                         …and her thoughts betray.”

                         “…Well, this is why.” He pointed at my brain.

I sighed and rest
my head against the chilly wall
painted a welcoming shade of yellow.
The nurse lit branded candles:
they reserve lavender
for calming the stormier souls—
but I blow out the flame
with laughters drumming in my rib cage—

All this time,
I’ve been stuck
in debates on who’s to blame
But finally—finally,

Printed on stapled prescription bags—
a long, fancy name.
Now we can toast 
with tablets in paper cups—
Here’s to 
finding an enemy that's not me.

In a Pickle

being in a May-December relationship 
could test the boundaries of patience
like the football socks under a teenager’s bed
it does not age well

these relationships have unique challenges
the rehashed stories of ‘the good old days’
smell of figments of their imagination
as it contradicts with history lessons taught

they harp on about ‘songs with words’
ones people could dance to
with their cheesy renditions of songs
accompanying conga lines of yesteryear

unlike today’s noisy club music
and the ability to twerk
will score you a Grammy Award
the mobility challenged can’t compete

they’ve bequeathed us an unhabitable world
where we all are now in a pickle
forming conga lines at border posts
as we try to dance out of harm’s way

Instead Of Doing Wrong

The heaviest guilt inside
in never that easy to hide;
just think how the conscience
will react to a false pretense!

And instead of doing wrong,
you could have been kind
avoiding conflict and move along:
can untrue words rhyme in a song? 

The laughter of a cheater
is always a heartbreaker:
when it contradicts belief
and leaves one in disbelief!

And instead of being jealous
you should be glad you have me;
get a clearer vision of what can be
and stop being so ridiculous!

The harm done can't be undone,
can an apology spare a loss?
Put down all the stones, it's your loss:
trust is not earned with a rude tongue!  

And instead of doing wrong,
show your kindness, not anger;
admit that weakness is the worst fear,
admit that courage makes one strong!

My voice will never be heard

Don’t protect me from NATO countries
I didn’t ask you for that
I need some Atlantic breeze
Mixed with fume of my cigarette
You brave or coward warriors 
Don’t shoot me for the music I play
I really can’t get your phobias
There is no point to stay
Wild people clash and fight
For the reasons they can’t explain
Or in case they can, I’m in fright
To know they’re completely insane
I could be shot from both sides
Freedom fighters from the West
With beasts from the East collide
Me is the victim among the rest
Who doesn’t support the world
Of disastrous competition
But my voice will never be heard
Cause it contradicts the tradition.

fear of missing your ''self''

there may be times when you think that everything's changed...
but you look around, and you still don't see anything for what it is...
so you willingly forfeit the hope of what could be, in exchange for the theory that should be.

so naturally, you incline towards your conviction that things simply must be this way...
and anything else that contradicts what has been true since you've been alive, was conceived by the mind of an unborn fetus. 

you don't just want to avoid pain, you want to hurt it back.
you don't just want perfection, you want to make it look easy.
you don't just want to live in spite of everything, you want to work against the world's form and shape, because of the prehistoric theory that it symbolizes true strength.

and what will you do when you have all those things?

you'll always feel like a soldier in a garden.

will you trample over every flower, squirrel, and anthill...

simply because you deem it to be inferior, and that no flower, squirrel, or ant can say otherwise?

life will go on.

so why choose the death of everything,

over the life and oneness of it all?

My Sympathy

my sympathies aren’t born of grace
like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,
ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands
to feed the twittering songbirds 
perched on her windowsill 

it comes from a far more wretched place, 
emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts 
the inherent virtue of the word 
because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,
but by every instance unaccounted for 
in which i should’ve felt the same pity 
for myself 

my sympathy is abundant and involuntary
as though in response to constant overflow 
and extends much further than hungry birds 
or grieving friends 

it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans 
that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,
and to the virtual strangers that walk past, 
their defeats and quandaries overheard,
and to every unfortunate soul between, 
under the sole condition that
they don’t share a brain with me

Sophie His Sister

"Inspired by  The Sick Child by Edward Munch 1907  Oils on Canvas." The Poet

Motif etched first then done in hues of green,
Light embracing her red hair to set the scene.
A sign of resignation on her pretty, pale face,
Once she carried herself with style and grace.

Her dear mother weeps in deep misery,
Besotted with grief, there’s no cure for her TB.
Kneeling she is portrayed with a touch of her hand,
Reaching out to her adored one, trying to understand.

Her daughter pale and weak, her hair lost its sheen.
Her life ending too soon, she is only fifteen.
No longer was the young girl so distraught.
Despite all the effort and how hard she had fought.

Paint was applied with rapid brush strokes.
Using vivid color as we see the passion it evokes.
Despite this painful true memory the artist depicts,
Not a traumatic scene, but one that contradicts.

His dear sister looks calm and rather sedate.
Sophie, knowing her fate, for death she will wait.

Unrelated Matters of Life

flying through the dimensions of life, my heart beats with anticipation
is today the day, will I finally finish my journey through the seas and over the mountains of the otherworldly planes by which my existence contradicts the very nature of
if the beasts get me, then I am trapped here forever, in a place where I do not belong. An otherworldly fear strikes my like a bolt of electric lighting, my bereavement already begun.
... will I be alone?

Meaningless Rhymes-3

Yes its true, 
Stopped waiting for you,
Served aces easily once,
Now I get no love from you.

He contradicts then preaches,
Advices flying none teaches.

So you roll up your sleeves,
Let the green arteries speak,
Volumes about your struggles in the day,
And in the night you may weep.

There Was Born Only One Perfect Human

To write in a 'poem' that one is perfect
and worse yet, made that way by God
is to be guilty of arrogant disrespect
when it's yourself you praise and laud.

A humble person, who is mild and meek
would never pen something so absurd
and risk insulting God... His anger pique.
Such a person belongs in a swineherd.

It was only Jesus Christ, born of Mary,
God's begotten Son, the only perfect human.
Of one who contradicts that, be wary.
Such a person lacks humility and acumen.

Quiescent

Hawaii's Kilauea volcano erupted,
as lava flowed over its cauldron!
                          The quiescent
                            Goddess awakes!

What once was a placid pool of liquid lava,
has morphed into a geyser of magma.
And it's ejecting molten plumes of rock
high into the atmosphere, lighting up the night.

        When Gaia flows into the sea,
        is she giving birth to the land?

                          Time contradicts;
                            permanency.

Life Fights Against Tomorrow

And suddenly we realize
that life fights against tomorrow:
it contradicts the parting of the orange sun
that there might be no sunrise
for anyone who plans to wallow
in pleasure, not relieving somebody's pain!

With each fear we hold,
we'll be asking others
if they envision more tomorrows,
or nothing that really excites...
until they grow old!

We'll reward the humble givers
and condemn the avarice hearts
standing still, not feeling emotions;
giving less doesn't mean you haven't
given anything, be glad of your deed...
bread can fill up bellies, water is different:
it has  the power to quench the thirst
and give back the fortitude lost:
an arid garden can grow roses only when rain falls,
any dreamer can materialize the vision of his efforts;
constantly feeding his ego, trusting more in his creed!

And suddenly we realize
that life fights against tomorrow,
and having no minimal strength to lead
ourselves in the battle to sustain our convictions,
we'll be caught in a dense blaze...
where all hopes turn to ashes:
unless we rise above the causes of greed
and vanquish every shadow!

A Pact To Ignore the Others

not with her
she is paisley, this daring turquoise
her mind is lithium

I refuse to dance past my grayscale self
yellow and pink hippies enter the realm
imagination laughs
I will save you, she says
snicker snicker

purple rain contradicts my ideology
I note that veins of purple posies
not paisley at all gather around turquoise

Those veins soften her, Brown whispers.
We are from a variety of countries
I do not know Browns. 
Having never met them

I pick up my pen and make a pact to ignore the others
They are laughing and readily include me though
We are painting the world now

I am enticed and enthralled
In spite of my silly resolve
Having fun with these borderline strangers

Within minutes I feel we have known each other
all the lifetimes of our souls.

All-Or-Nothing Thinking

For what reason this all-or-nothing thinking?
     Too hot, too cold,—but never in the middle
     I live, a victim of this ruthless riddle
that contradicts reply (and has me sinking!?).

This anarchy of mind that's got me drinking
     is never gray, but too much or too little
     like a deranged, mad instrument, a fiddle,
that counterpoints a melody without blinking.

Unlike my thinking, life's not black or white
     but somewhere in the middle, where insane
          poor souls escape manic, psychotic thoughts 
like refugees from their depressive plight,
     a Scylla and Charybdis that won't drain  
          the swirling stream of mania's onslaughts.

• Short Contradicts Poems
• Famous Contradicts Poems
• Best Contradicts Poems
• Read Contradicts Poems
• Long Contradicts Poems
• Contradicts Quotes