Inconsistent Poems - Poems about Inconsistent

I was told to write a poem, but that's not how it works. A poem has to write itself, one cannot force the words.. This seems like contradiction, but really it is not. As when I began to think about it the words came on the spot.. You can't make me write a poem, it'll happen in its time. Don't think that you've succeeded at pulling...

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I’m blown away by my ability to feel It rattles my core. It’s raw and real But then there are days, without even trying I’m numb on the inside. My empathy, dying Often times, I’m clever, unparalleled wit Then others, I’m blank, I simply forget Unwillingly, it seems, I omit basic skills Left sweating and fretting and spinning my wheels I’m...

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In the abyss of my soul, I denied the urge to ignite the spark we had I’ve come to recognize the constant predictable fights that I endlessly lost They were unbeaten battles that I fought alongside God But he condemned me to failure for falling into lust Your inconsistent behavior drained my efforts to persist It enabled my...

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Life, I think, is a bit of a paradox. Floating through this desolate void devoid of context and explanation, (some might suggest value as well, I suppose); I conclude these idiosyncratic murmurings of bothersome almost-people Reprimanding my almost-conscience are just a whit of an empty, emaciated white whale of a civilization proclaiming pseudo-camaraderie and disappointing...

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I’m hesitantly ecstatic, And devoutly Republicratic, A conservative eclectic, And a pragmatic romantic. I scoff at reality, I’m a collection of coined morality, I’m a gracious curmudgeon, And everyone’s conundrum, Does this make me gregariously timid? Or just consistently inconstant?...

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Consistency was never a word for dad. He was like a painter’s wheel with squares whited out so nothing ever flowed quite the way it should. In fact, there was something foreboding about the concept of color coordination and alphabetical order that he always seemed to avoid. Things have never been in constant pattern nor have we ever viewed a schedule in...

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It is hard and bleak now, below his tired feet with the grey above him, albescent with time clouds bubble above him there like an old man’s beard, though you, his sweet one are the soft green in between, bring back salad days, when you address him you greet him with such relish to flavour his life and so he holds on - ever in mind...

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