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Sam Po Sep 2014
Every blink of the screen,
she sees his affection
through pix elated font forming
into I Love You.

She can feel the radiation
keeping their relationship, alive and electrifying.
The satellites are always on their side.

Her heart beats so fast
to the ringtone of his high-tech heart.
Every keypad pressed
are thousand sweet words expressed.

The radiation won't keep us apart,
signals will bridge our undying love.
Cause, as long we have this electronic gadgets,
I know we are in love.
:)
Juwayriya Jun 2020
Quivering lip under my teeth,
wide eyed I stared into the blank.
It lured me a moment earlier
now it just disappeared.
So I peeked into my subconscious
unbounded by the passing time
Waiting to be struck by that perfect rhyme.
OnwardFlame May 2015
Green envy flame, Titania reigns
Sweat/glisten, some men can't listen
Make up less face, love me the same way
Hard to leave this place
But new beginnings written
All over my eager face.

Extension of yourself,
My spirit--soul reaching, like inked limbs
Of tomorrow, crescent moon
Consumed in the artistry of every moment
Like my picture 142 times
Gotta wear overalls, crop top
Reach for the back audience members

Everyone is losing a nickel and dime
All the time.

Padding and sheets on the floor
"Talk about bohemian dream livin"
I jest in my nest of what has been
My nurture, vulnerability, intimacy.

We all comment and slosh
Our glasses embedded with whiskey
"Its so embedded"
Long Eyelashes said, as muscles and new dreams
Look sweeter, but lets kiss on Friday night
As I fly away from the ultimate Bohemian
Who told me in my cocoon:
"You talk too much."

Why do men say such things?
Is it that hard to listen?
To fill others with sincerity, joy
I don't know.

That extension of love
My mind wheeling around
Geography, topography, calculous
But in essences of green, red, purple
My keypad does not allow
Quick, swift fingers to say to past violence
"Wish you well."

Remember how I use to send you poems of the day?
Me neither.
But I can, through that lie to myself
Outline what I thought we were
Like an ink gun exploding
Just GO, girl

Because my wishing, my kissing
I flutter like a sea of dragons
For those who join the ride,
Next to me.

The Windy City.
Sometimes I worry heavily
About popularity.
But I took my time walking the city street
Tonight.
I stopped in front of the grave site
Where freedom was won for us
Through ****** wounds and all the tunes
Of men who fought so valiantly
To just tell women: "You talk too much."
?????
????
??

Lets fight the good fight
Lets replace our swords with sharpness of wit
Lets put down our guns and aim generosity, instead
Lets let go of the mallet
The grenade
The pitchfork
The joust
Wouldn't you rather save, expel
Your energy for a peaceful humanity
Happiness rings at its doorbell.

Wedding veil, do we run out of things
To discuss?
Past the age of huge mistake, some say
Wait until you are at least 30
While the South croons and cranes
Patriarchy.

Who is to hammer down their gavel
Of how to map out your life
Who needs an exact map?
Lets sleep on the floor
Ink our bodies to look like paintings
Kiss lips of those we love
Trust that success, happiness
Peace--
Is no where to be found
In weaponry.
That Girl Oct 2012
Canvas shoes
Highschool blues
Straight hair
but nobody cares
Slim waist
I hate the taste
Sweet talk
Ticking clock
Young love
Fake hugs
Bright blue eyes
Pitch black lies
White keypad
I'm going mad!
onlylovepoetry Aug 2016
the desperado cowboy-poet awakes
anxious, needing-ending relief,
the craving greater than great,
he begs-raggedly, with Raggedy handily Andy words,
to all and anyone in the aroused surrounded vicinity,
give please give, of something to write

the bay, soothingly plays the would-be author,
"place me, look my way,
have I not droplets endless
from which you've drunk exquisitely,
so many more to fair share"

the birds twit and flit,
raucous caucus demanding
to be seated
by the tablet's keypad
to gain entry
to one more congressional natural tribute

the sky and sun organize a
joint session, extraordinary mission;
"we are the first of your day,
thus primarily,
we win the primary,
deserving in your recording of our
nomination as the first day's
sound and light show victorious"

sorry folks,
got a better tale to tell,
natural in its way,
titillating, and quite suitable
for reputating Au Naturel humanity
and it's a quirky, say hey tale,
morning coffee fresh,
a first word report from an
untelivised convention
of a different kind of congressing

awoke to find the:

chauffeur in bed with the cook,
the Poppy, beside the sleeping Nana,
the poet, eyeing the lying next to him, tango dancer,
the classicist eyeing the sleeping moderne,
ditty ditsy Ogden Nash astride a Shakesperian sonnet,
the thinning gray line defending his bedded half,
from an invading horde of unionizing blonde tresses,
the republican with the democrat,
the conservative with the liberal,
heated discussions, non-neutralizing negotiations
conducting and watched by
peeping tom skies, clouds, birds and waters
pretending to fly flow past



wow

now that,
is quite interesting
deserving worthy of a
disrobing disputatious disreputation,
very newsworthy and why not,
a poem all its own?

the bay waved goodbye,
the birds disbanded in silence,
quietly disenfranchised.

the sun and the sky hung around
pretending to be UN neutrality observers
wearing cute blue and white helmets
looking every where but not,
at the line of demarcation


the beggar, by his new impoverishment, enriched,
another love poem writ,
niched and pitched
one more itch,
so very well scratched
new sign on the bedroom door:
No Politicking Beyond This Point

8:09am August 6, 2019
Bina Mukherjee May 2020
The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...

But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..

The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones

We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.

It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .

Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out

Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!

May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?

We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages

We have become mute.....

So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?

Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!

Bina Mukherjee
KRRW Jan 2018
Bagong-bago
no'ng panahon ni Nokia


Oras-oras
keypad tinitipa


Upang maabot
ang final level


Na babalik din
sa unang level


Cheat code gamitin na
para mas masaya


Everwing ni FB
ay walang panama.
Written
10 August 2017


Copyright
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
Scott T Jan 2014
Night bus
And the pug nosed guy in the suit over there
Staring me down
Is a thousand broken dreams
And the young girl down there
Who looks weird
But my kind of weird
Is a thousand unexplored
And the ***** with the cap trying to finish off his crossword
Is Gil Scott-Heron
And no one sits next to me as I spill my poison through the keypad into a cracked screen
Shan Coralde May 2016
Its for your own good.
Words no one ever thought was true.
6 words no one ever believed.
Even though it is the truth.

There's a simple reason,
For people to never believe
The words of assurance
that you force on them.

Even if you tell them,
"Its for your own good"
If you'll never say why
They will always live,

With the fact that the thing,
That they wanted and loved,
At that point in time,
Was never for them.

A kid wanted a toy,
It wasn't bought.
Instead he got words that said,
"Its for your own good"

Not knowing that in time,
A new toy would come out,
That would be his,
In a lifetime than an instant.

A candy he wanted,
His mouth watering for desire
Again he never got it,
"Its for your own good"

Not knowing he'd get,
a fresh batch of cookies.
That would satisfy not only his mouth
But his stomach as well.

Wanting a smartphone today?
don't get it,
"Its for your own good" they told him
With envy of others he lived with his keypad phone.

Not knowing,
That, in a few days
A new, better, improved, and sexier. Smartphone would be released

That's why,
As I walk away from everything,
That we've built with our wounded hands.
I will tell you,

"Its for your own good"

But I will not leave without saying why.
No, I won't, I've been living with the question,
"Why" for a very long time,
So much so, That I don't want another.

"This is for your own good,
Because I know when I leave,
Someone will take my place,
By your side,
Not a boy, But a man.
Someone whose Arms would make you feel safe.
Someone whose eyes would let you see his soul.
Someone whose hearbeat would make you stop,

To stop asking why. Because for once, you'd think, that this is good.
That this is right, that everything in this messed up world,
Where everyone wants to hurt someone,
where everyone yearns for something else but you.

You've found a place that would make you feel,
That everything is as it should be.

So believe me when I say "This is for you own good'"
My first longest poem (lol)
Ryan P Kinney Dec 2015
Cross My Heart
by Ryan P. Kinney

He awoke that morning feeling more alive than he had in years.
The usual good morning kiss with his wife turned into more.
She could see that old youthful magic in his eyes,
The kind that had outlasted his wrinkled, scarred face.

They made love like nothing had ever mattered.
He would be late to work this morning.
It was worth it.

As she made breakfast,
Humming that song he had not heard since their wedding
He caught sight of her curves,
Slyly slipping in and out of the folds of her robe
He remembered how much he loved that woman in his kitchen
And briefly considered an encore performance

He heard a door swing open
Creaking sharply under years of abuse
Tiny feet came thundering down the stairs

“How does such a little person step so loudly?”
“Dad!”
He turned,
Just in time to duck a Nerf dart sailing past his cheek

His son gave him a mischievous grin
And his wife rolled her eyes
As he reached under the table and pulled out his blaster
Launching three darts into his son’s forehead before he could raise his

His son flopped to the floor
“You got me. I’m dead.”
The cat walked over and licked his forehead
“Alright, I guess I’m alive,”
“The kitty gave me one of his lives.”
His son laughed and bounded into his seat, just as his wife handed him his coffee.

His first sip was like no other before.
If morning *** could be coffee,
That would be what he just stuck in his mouth.

She handed him a plate of eggs and potatoes
And a bowl of cereal to their son,
Kissing him on the forehead as she did
“Ewww, Mom!”

He had long since taught her the virtues of a good breakfast
Though she only ever ate a bagel
She was always happy to send him off to work with a full belly
Even more happy to send him off with more today
Even the eggs and potatoes tasted special
Like a little extra love had gone into them

“Love tastes like eggs and potatoes…”
He trailed off, biting into an empty fork.
His plate was empty.
He had devoured the entire meal while musing over silly thoughts.

His wife shot him a “job well done” grin
Then leaned in to kiss him
“You guys are weird,” their son said,
As he pulled out his chair,
Placed his bowl in the sink,
And went skipping upstairs

“He actually remembered to put his dishes in the sink,” said his wife.
He got up, and threw his arms around his wife,
Kissing the back of her neck
As he reached into her robe
She giggled, and handed him his lunch.
“Go to work,” she said.

He grabbed his lunch,
Yelled up the stairs,
And walked out the door

The car started on the first turn this morning.
He eased it into gear
And it glided gently out of the driveway.
“That’s much better.”

He couldn’t get the grin off his face as he drove
The sun had risen to greet him in a kaleidoscope of hues
He began picking out shapes in the color kissed clouds

There was a light breeze in the air
A calm comfortable spirit blew around him
With just a hint of the flavor of the impending autumn
Yet still not betraying the richness of summer

His eyes snapped out of the daydream
“Today is way too good to be wasted at work.”

He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he no longer had to look at the keypad for.
“Hello,” his wife answered”
“Honey, call our son into school. We’re doing something today.”
She paused for a minute and he expected a recrimination.
Instead, she just replied, “Something? Like what?”

“How about the beach?”
“We’ve lived two miles from the lake for years and have only gone twice”
“It’s time we stopped wasting what’s been given to us”

She paused again, then, “Ok.”

“Oh, and wear the bikini.”

She sighed, “That was not meant for outside the bedroom.”

“It’s Monday. Everyone else foolish enough to not call off are at work.”
“No one will see, except us.”
“Meet me there.”
He hung up before she has a chance to object.

An hour later, he was there.
He slammed the car door with a reassuring thud
Her car was here, but empty.
“They must already be in the sand.”
He took to the concrete path.

As he walked, toads hopped out of his way
Butterflies danced to a tune none, but they could hear around his head.
His every step sent a cascade of grasshoppers in every direction.

He finally reached the sand and kicked off his work boots into the weeds.
He scanned down the beach and picked out the outline of two people,
His wife and son.
As he thought, no one else was here.

His wife had already removed the tank top and shorts she’d normally hide behind.
She was wearing the red bikini he had gotten her for their last anniversary
Her body showed all the marks and scars of age, wisdom, and childbirth.
He couldn’t have loved any of those marks any more.
She had earned each one.

She caught sight of him and smiled that beautiful smile,
Then tapped their son on his shoulder,
Already engrossed in a sand castle
He looked up and took off running,
Barreling into his father.

The rest of the day whisked away in the blur of one who forgets that time is a measure for events we have to think about.
He and his wife worked muscles long past functioning properly.
He swam in his work uniform and when it became too heavy,
He cast it onto the beach and swam in his underwear.

While his wife prepared lunch,
His son and he built a sand castle taller than either of them
It was more like a mound than any recognizable structure,
But it was magnificent.

When the next wave came in and took half of the empire with it
They just laughed
And jumped in to finish the job

Lunch was PBnJ, a necessity for any day spent playing hooky.
They tasted of forgotten memories and a sun-warmed nostalgia,
That up until now had only left a bitter taste in his mouth

Lunch was quick,
As both boys hurried back to the water
Making sure to share plenty with Mom.

After a few hours, the sun began to sag
And their son began to droop on this father’s shoulder
He carried him back to the concrete path,
All three with irreplaceable smiles on their faces

Their son was nearly asleep before they came across the first toad
This time they just sat and watched.
The grasshoppers remained still and not a butterfly stirred.
Everyone sat silent in their seats,
Transfixed by the building chorus of crickets,
The melody growing richer as the sun sank into dusk

By the time they reached the parking lot, the frogs had added their amorous harmony.
All of nature had serenaded their son to sleep as they strolled.

He placed him in his wife’s car gently.
He looked at her and pulled her close,
His hands groping under the bikini.
She pulled away.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said.

“I love you,” he paused, “…both,” looking at his son.

She got in the car, started, and drove out of the parking lot.
He stayed there, watching her taillights fade into a magenta-orange curtain trailing the horizon.
Just before she vanished from sight, he caught her eyes watching him in the rearview mirror.
He waved,
Casually,
Slowly,
Until she was gone.

He got back in his car and closed the door.
The reddening sun was half gone
A deep blue was inching in slowly, closing around the falling orb
Pink, blue, purple, green
Every color of life was lavishly splattered across the sky,
As if color and beauty were so cheap that it could spilled everywhere,
Without a care.

The sunset was the same it was 20 years ago.
The day he left his parents
As he was driving the last load to his first taste of adult freedom,
He had stopped at this park
To bid farewell to the boy who spent so much time here.

Here he was again
Back with a new boy to give to the park.
The sunset that sent him to become a man was back to greet him once again.

“Today was perfect,” he said, as he slipped on his jacket.
“But, it’s time I woke up.”
He pulled a revolver from the jacket’s pocket
“I kept my promise.”
He pressed the muzzle to his chest.
“Cross my heart.............”
Raj Arumugam Sep 2010
NOTE TO POET, RAT ALUMUGUM:

Dear Sir
I saw your profile
on this site
I love your
profile
and methinks
I fall in love with you
you can send me
email
my email address is:
realhotsexbomb@badmailgirls.com
Write 2 mee
and I slew you my ****, **** pix…
and maybe we can live happily ever after




DEAR REALHOTSEXBOMB:

I want to write to you
and give you all I got
but since the last time I gave all I got
I think it was to dirtybombgirl
my wife sits beside me
at the computer
and makes me read aloud every note
and every item on the screen I see
and she forces my fingers on the keypad
and she says –
her words, not mine
and her misspelling, not mine
and her opinion of me, not mine:
"Get off my idiotic man
u beach!
Don’t you steel him
and his money;
God knows
I've waited long enough
for him to die!
Go find some other sucker;
this sucker is mine!"
another fun poem - a ha ha poem...This poem refers to the scam (through e-mails; notes) in which many middle-aged men have been baited with promise of love and then cheated of their money; some have even traveled to foreign countries in order to 'rescue' their new-found damsel in distress but have found themselves in danger when they land in the country where the girl is supposedly living...This poem is meant to be a light-hearted look at this scam...
Micheal Wolf Apr 2014
Ink flowed from the pen with such ferocity. He often was lost for words but not today. No today was different. The pen couldn't keep up with the words tumbling out of his headspace. The pen was thrown and the keypad assaulted. This was war. A war with himself. A war of lost words.
Charlotte Hill Aug 2014
I open my eyes from another restless sleep
I realize it's you I think of down deep.

They say what matters most is where your mind wanders.
This leaves me wondering, why on you I do ponder?

Is this love, or is this lust?
I'm not even sure if in you I can trust.

I barely know you, we've only met a few times.
But I know towards you I am inclined.

I love your smile, I love your face.
When I see you my heart starts to race.

I love your humour, you break the mould.
Oh those eyes they bore into my soul.

You're witty, clever and look great in leather!
Always a smile, whatever the weather.

This was my secret I kept hidden away
Until my thumbs they began to play.

Upon the keypad of my phone
And now my feelings you do know.

Do I regret this?
No I do not, as life is too short to keep things locked.

I'll be open and honest about how I feel.
It's all just about keeping it real.

I am me that is that.
So I am glad we had that chat.

I know how I'll react though next time we meet.
I'll look away and shuffle my feet.

I'll try to avoid any eye contact.
Because I can be coy like that.

It's all about confidence and self esteem.
It's growing more and more though it would seem.

So when I do see you, I will try.
To keep my head up, and not go all shy.

I cannot believe I told you those things.
And when I look back my mind it spins.

I'm never that forward to someone I fancy.
I always think of it too chancy.

Scared of rejection I guess you could say.
Or I find it too risque.

Well this is it, I can't take it back.
I've said what I said, I was open and frank.

What's done is done and I feel more alive.
My brains just gone into overdrive!

So I like you that's it, I've let it be heard.
I relish the fact you're a bit of a nerd.

You love science and nature, and you're creative.
Not at all unappreciative.

You dance to trance and you swing from the trees.
All of this makes me weak at the knees.

Now I must stop or I'll go on all night.
But how I feel I just had to recite.

I delight in you that's it, you're one of a kind.
I can't wait for the day our bodies entwine.
Derek Yohn Dec 2013
Hunting easter eggs in December,
and yet they seek me out instead.

i never find them at my pace;
standing, drunk, outside familiar
bars in the cold, randomly
dialing number combinations
to hear whispers or silences.

Radio wave transmigrations
they are, a look to the
past, a nod to the future,
a moment in stasis
where the keypad blurs,
doubles, focuses, blurs,
and i am lost one more time.

Crackling...

clearly static, the white noise
of separation, the
                    (hidden)
     message
             bro      ke  n
    a
        p
            a
                r
                    t,

perfectly human, but alone.
28 | 31 Poems for August 2016

The battle with cancer is won but unfortunately the war is not over.
White sheets and peaceful dreams, this hospital is starting to feel like home but you feel all alone.
You’ve been here for two whole weeks now and the doctor won’t tell us what’s really going on.
Your organs are slowly giving up on you, you feel like something is bound to go wrong.
White sheets and peaceful dreams, sometimes reality is not as clear as it always seems.
I pray to God that He cures you and I pray to God that He hears you, if only cancer was just a star sign.
I hope your family gets here in time, I heard the nurses say that your operation starts at eight.
I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep, I guess you’ll be in the ICU before I see you.
The battle with cancer is won but unfortunately the war is not over.
This whole thing hurts but I try my best not to let my emotions show.
It’s sad to see you drifting away like autumn leaves on a windy street.
I don’t know if heaven will patiently wait for you but I pray that you recuperate.
As soon as your family got here I inevitably cried with the rest of them.
Your days are numbered like a numerical keypad and that’s why you’ve been asking for heaven’s telephone number.
But I pray that you pull through with immense alacrity because the war is not over.
This whole thing hurts but I try my best not to let my emotions show.
White sheets and peaceful dreams, sometimes reality is not as bad as it always seems.
woolgather Apr 2016
Clicking and clacking, keypad strums,
Shouting every word it conjures,
From the mind of the insane,
To visions quite humane;
Unsettling ******* of words.

I serve not to your entertainment;
Sovereignty still reigns,
It is yours to spend a tad of time, or not,
I merely am placing my thoughts with words;
For it might explode if I bottle it in my brain.

Masterpiece would be an overstatement;
Nonsense would, truly, be an understatement,
Mediocrity seems to fit my anecdotes,
For what one sees in front of them,
May hide something much more hideous.

Wrap your thoughts in my words,
I implore you in your attention,
Yet, who am I to fend off nobody?
I may speak highly for myself,
But, honey, I try to sound like everybody else.

My ears buzz with white noises,
Words seem to fly off my head,
Like a flock of birds startled briskly,
Quite a description, I know, I've tried,
**But I just seem to be a distasteful poet.
A bloated philosophy.
Kylie Nov 2014
Relentless buzzing,
Eagerness to make contact,
The thrill of the chase.

Mushy sweet nothings
Hugs and kisses, I love you.
Honeymoon period

Fingers hovering,
keypad ready and waiting-
"Read with no reply"

Three successive beeps
One minute of hanging on,
Calls never returned.

Desperate beeping,
Threats of violence and suicide,
Curtain call for love.
Cíara McNamara Feb 2017
Swipe left, swipe right
Swipe left again.
The familiar heart shape of a match pings a new life into the shimmering screen.

As I press letters into my keypad,
Forming words that my friends and I have constructed
As if the words on the buzzing screen
Were a fine art only we had mastered.

And that was how our story began
Swipes, typing, buzz.
Laughter and scrutiny from my friends and I to your reply.
Adds, follows, likes...

Then the little read icon
Had been left idle and blue for days,
No double text, or vaguely targeted picture could tempt him.

Then back again,
Swipe left, swipe right...
Followed by more typing and blue ticks.
Ishika Oct 2018
She sat straight and suave by the bar counter. Her brown, wavy hair
curved along her delicate waist. Her long and manicured fingers gently
held her glass of whiskey and she took sips from it, gazing off into space.
She likened the least bit of a celebrated model with high fashion looks or
one of a potential bud waiting to be found, but she was beauty
unfathomable. So intricately built was her face, that the matted lipstick
on her full lips felt honored within its contours and peaks and the
eyeliner sought delight in adding a magical depth to her dark brown
eyes.
But she sat there alone.
She was the only glowing light in the dimly lit bar, in the form of an
alluring pulchritude, but neither did she have any man flocking within
inches of her nor any woman as company.
“Sameer! 10 o’clock! In white. God, she’s a stunner!”, Ishaan remarked.
“Not now, Ish. I need to send this e-mail to Jeff right now. Gotta impress
that American and lock my possibility of a promotion.” said Sameer
typing his e-mail with one hand and sipping his beer from another.
“Then, we are off from here. Too tired to flirt tonight.”, Sameer
responded in an unvarying tone.
“I don’t know, man. There’s something about her. Who knows, she’d
probably be far better than that chick you wooed last week.”, Ishaan
laughed as he said.
“The one who cuddled her teddy bear at the end of the night? I felt done,
dude.”, Sameer sighed and continued tapping on his keypad.
A few minutes later, Sameer veered his head off his smartphone and
looked at the direction his friend had been pointing at with a curious
expression only a man could produce.
She sat there smiling at a group singing the Happy Birthday song aloud
for their friend, clanging their beer bottles with each other’s and
bellowing cheers.
Whilst Sameer sat there staring. She was one of the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen. Although, he realised he had associated himself
with that statement before, but tonight, this woman raised the bar high.
Almost as if struck by an intuition, she turned towards Sameer and their
eyes locked for a few seconds before she let go with an innocent smile
that almost seemed to ****** him.
She continued to drink her glass of spirit and engaged herself in a small
talk with the bartender.
“Hey, um Ishaan?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s go. Gulp your beer down, I’ll be waiting in the car.”, Sameer took
one last look at that bedazzling woman and walked out of the bar with a
heavy sigh.
“You’re funny. A guy like you lets go of a girl who looked so worth the
attention which you give to all the other stupid advances out there.
Lame.”, Ishaan shook his head and almost looked disappointed.
“Well, you should’ve given your shot, if you felt I was being an *** in
there.”, Sameer pulled the car off the parking lot.
“I don’t think I could have, actually. I could have, but I don’t think I
could have, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t deny it but she was fiercely intimidating.”
Sameer looked at Ishaan and smiled.
Watching the man leave the bar, she drank the last sip from her glass,
placed it on the counter with a faint thud, sighed and eventually smiled,
tucking the flick of her hair behind her ear.
Rasha Omer Jul 2014
It has been 20 something years.
And on a single day within layers of hours.
I've felt a shrug for the first time.
Like pins on the pillow you have
left behind when all the dust have settled.

The ball has dropped. A million times.
And then some.
And on a ***** slippery and distinctly
overwhelmed.

I've felt a beat within my rib-cage
slightly loud that it has shaken me
in sleep.

The dust you have left to shrivel
still dances around my plethora
of emotions, unsettled.

And, I'm standing here, surrounded by
what could have been
but should have never been.

Saved by frantic clicks
on a keypad. Typing into the existential
delusions of your listless memories.

I have stood here, unshaken, by the mistakes
we have accumulated down the polarizing roads.
And the dainty trickling down the drain.

I am standing and withstanding
a shootout of the most frivolous nature.

Like the pins striking this pillow
in a poetic wave of dissonance.
Francie Lynch May 2014
The sheep are shorn.
The lambs have flown.
The rams are caged.
The ewes left alone.

The fleece now woven on foreign shores,
And the toilets are flushed,
Filling sewers strewn with rebel nails.

Near embers of tri-coloured blazes
We hear yarns of ancient wages,
Now spinning in their graves.

Our heirs have no airs of their own.
No promises kept for mothers weeping.
There is no wool on the wheel at home.

The keypad is the abattoir,
The counter a barred cage.
John Barry faces East,
The Rebel faces West:
One for reliance,
One for defiance.
All wait in requiem silence.

The Dailys wrap the Dail
Stained with lamb's blood.
Penned after a prolonged stay in Ireland.
susan Jul 2015
the poetic soul
screams love!

there can be
no greater poem
than one written
with a broken heart

passion oozes
from fingers
typing words
encased in agony

a being
wallowing in self pity
makes oh, such embraceable poetry

blood soaked keypad
from overworked fingers
desperate to convey
the pain held within

give me a spirit
crushed by love
and i will give you
a kick *** poem!
Making your bed while the moon is awake, slowly but quickly depriving arguments with you.
I have prolonged self pity, constantly rendering speechless moments with you.
The keypad begs to be touched.

Galloping through Nebraska summer cornfields.
Drinking natural crisp unsweetened tea.
Childhood reeks of off-brand gold antibacterial hand soap.
Mead Canary Legal Pads kept my father stagnant.

They keypad begs
The moon awakens slowly while
You argue and I pity the moments
We washed over cornfields in Nebraska
With sweat glazing our foreheads
And the scent gold Dial soap in the distance.

A canary pad,
A tan leather jacket,
A tray of amber glass,
A bunch of sour grapes
(A split with Sebstian Rodriguez)
Al May 2019
20yrs, 5 free.

Nokia keypad.
Isolation free.
A smart user ?

Freaked out by early morning alarm calls.  This life we create - symbols on monopoly boards, roll the dice, wait ya turn, play your part.
Annie Aug 2018
Kisses,
sweet fake kisses
on the keypad.
Kisses that
could be on his cheek.
Give it a year,
or a month or
maybe even a week.
I read a small quote
that said it's not love
if you only want them at night;
it's lust.
The quote said
something like that;
it's not love if it doesn't feel
right.
Deep Dec 2020
I'm a person in whom you see;
a friend, a lover and a compeer,
The letters you type late night
on keypad comes to me,
And when the power cuts and
your mind starts making phantoms
you dial my number,
Late-night cravings, scholarly discussion,
A video call in the morning,
And on a certain day, a certain moment
I bend on my knee and ask you to be mine
forever. And you, nod in YESSSS!!!!!!

Ah! Love, thou unruly dictator!
I sat to read for exams
instead started dreaming a dream
of some other world.

I'm mad, hopeless, pathetic,
and sometimes sounds creepy too,
But how can I comfort
the sad, deluding, and longing heart?
Is there any medicine or herb?
How can I love and hide the flame of it
from you?
I'm doomed like a moth
flinging myself deliberately into fire.
I wander through primordial moments
when the tapping of a keypad
becomes the substance of
standing on the floor naked.
****** is truth.
It is when the fabrics bought
from corporate stores no longer
disguise your carcass truth.
I find myself yelling like a
wounded animal dying.
Pretending that the icicles
shoved into my veins
are only secret encounters.
Nobody notices the contradiction
of white flesh dripping blood.
I hug the eggshells of words
that will not be silenced anymore.
They are my words. My truth.
Unlike the falsehoods that will
be contained in my obituary.
Vacant phrases that shall inform
of the dates and people connected
to my worldview. I shall not be
allowed to edit the content. Exposed
like a rock left on the grass.
Pick me up. Digest me. Tell
stories of things I did, embellished
as stories told tend to be.
In my coffin, I shall be naked
underneath the clothing. My
truth will be not be set free.

We are all **** bodies
fearful
of
confronting
our
truth.
SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
I ask for your grace.
My fingers are clumsy here
On the small keypad!
I have trouble with my keypad when I
select poems for collections!
It selects your collection almost every
time  regardless of what the poem is about!
Sky Apr 2015
New note

Blank page

No pencil,

no pen

Just a smart piece of plastic

With a yellow background

and a keypad.



New note

Blank page

Half-awake and

bleary eyes

Half-blinded by no light

As the early morning

starts to rise.



New note

Blank page

Not sure what to write

A dozen thoughts

Spinning and twirling

And dancing and singing,

searching for release.
Dylan Mcconnell Nov 2017
Love. Love is so much. Love can be that hug you get at just the right moment. Love can be the song she showed you. Love can be the first time you two had *** on the bathroom floor. Love can be an object.

Love is the sound of a pen writing and typewriter clicks. Love is the sound of keypad clicks because you know that means they're typing something just for you. Love is playlist after playlist. Love is the sound of knitting needles going back and forth and back and forth because she's knitting the scarf for you. Love is the sound of the perfume/cologne bottle spritzing. Love is the sound of pottery. Love is the sound of comforting words. Love is the sound of confessions late at night. Love is the sound of hang-up buttons and cars starting up. Love is.

Love is the feeling of the universe and stars moving to my brain stem and *******. Love is the feeling of you kissing my lips and moving slowly until you're at my collarbone. Love is the feeling of you moving my fingers to match yours. The feeling of poetry being written about me. The feeling of the zoo and butterflies, and even the robin outside moving around in my stomach because that's how you make me feel. Love is.

Love is the sight of you in the red dress that I bought you for our one month anniversary. Love is the sight of the paragraphs when I wake up. Love is the sight of seeing your wrist clean for a year. Love is the sight of waking up and realizing it's our one year anniversary. Love is the sight of nakedness. Love is the sight of you smiling. Love is the sight of our first date and delicious looking food.

Love is the smell of ha long bay and ginger tea. The smell of perfume on your girly days and the cologne on your not so girly days. Love is the smell of our house, along with bath and body works. Love is the smell of your hugs and your chapstick. Love is the smell of fresh vinyl and flower bouquets. Love is the smell of marshmallows and a crackling fire. Love is the smell of **** on my favorite sweatshirt. I love the smell of your sweatshirt and that's perfect.

Love is the taste of ha long bay. Love is the taste of her lips and chapstick against me. Love is the taste of wine and blood. Love is the taste of well, love. Not much to say for taste is there? Love is you.
makeloveandtea Oct 2018
under soft sunlight
at the beach we left
in seven days,
on our vacation three years ago,
the boat is collecting rain.
the weather is like
air conditioning
and i've forgotten
things.
wonderful things
have happened to me
and i've been happy;
i've been
weird.
i'm never used to
the keypad
and i've found
old conversations.
the color in the drawings
change all the time.
you
and the vacation,
are blurry.
i don't like
the playoffs anymore
and i don't
mind you smoking.
it's been a long day
and three years —
lazing around
in an evening-balcony
's unremembered
yet
the boat
at the beach we left
is withering
but still
collecting rain.
Amanda Kay Burke Apr 2020
Hope the feeling of worthlessness flees my worried frame

Can you make my brain stable?

When you know the security code
Punch into my mental keypad
No other combination of words will silence the alarms of self-loathing blaring within
Ricocheting off the walls of my skull
Echoing each and every flaw exposed in myself

All it takes
One little thing to trip the sensor
And it hurts my whole defense system

You are the one able to disarm my security
And the reason is because you installed it
I had no method of protecting myself before you put me in your perspective
Now when something breaks through defense mechanism
Instead of letting confidence get stolen
Triggered noise helps me block out the negativity and focus on things I do like about myself
Then to revert my day back to normal completely all you have to do is enter the magic passcode with a sweet whisper in my ear
"You're beautiful"
Using a burgular alarm as a metaphor for an emotional defense barrier
Not writing poetry?
you must be smoking ****
because all I need
is a pen or a touchpad
and the ink or the keypad
goes mad.

A bit like me
sans poetry.

If I don't post much in the next
fortnight
hang tight
I am writing.

— The End —