Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
it's been used
quite meaninglessly
       three times
in between that
it is simply
a dust trap
in hindsight
it was
a waste

i must
have known
that it would
     if ever
get used
beyond sense
     and reason;
the novelty
behind the idea
any concept
of logic
     or prudence

being able
to say
i own
the same typewriter
as such
a great mind
must mean

even so
         if not
it shall remain
on display
amidst the pages
of my bookshelf
Juliana Apr 2021
On the wooden tiles,
the tanned shade a reminder
of tiny grains of sand,
the border to the ocean,
to the unknown.

On the wooden tiles,
where words flow out my fingertips
like a snowboarder slides
over serene snow,
leaving a scraped scene in her path.

On the wooden tiles,
where I do my best thinking.

A journal to my left,
the reminder of my past.
My memories.
A melody of murkiness clearing
into lines of text,
serifs removed
as I’m reminded of the truth.

A font is a beautiful thing.

My mind is a font
of which I paint with lead,
little lines, circles, and swirls
transforming before me,
recorded for eternity
in the open notebook to my right.

Right where I form my future,
my wishes,
my dreams.

Dreams created on a
teal and tanned typewriter,
erasure impossible,
only blocked out and burned,
escape imminent,
awoken as I turn off the screen.
Faith Jan 2021
You say you love me
But cut me to pieces with a heart-shaped cookie cutter
You say you treasure me
But throw me away like a half-dwindled candle, melted like butter
You say you'll never leave me
But push me aside like the old typewriter on your desk
You say you want to give me everything
But take all the love from my heart and I have nothing left
You say you trust me
But when I try to unlock your heart all you give me is a rusty key
Darling, you say you love me
But you only say and never be
I wrote a poem inspired by the words heart-shaped cookie cutter, half-dwindled candle, and a rusty key. Hope you like it!
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Give a man a book,
He'll burn it for a day.
Give a man a typewriter:
His mind will burn forever.
Pockets Aug 2020
Wake up
Spill some seed
Dig a hole
Plant yourself at the type writer keys
Water with whiskey
Give it some time
That’s how you grow the best lines
Karyna Holleman Jun 2020
its time to say goodbye to paris
to the dreams of you/a typewriter/ an early morning cigarette
to you forgetting your coffee until its grown cold
to the muse I used to be with a glass heart and amber dreams
a golden room collects dust and unfulfilled daydreams
I erase our paris from my memory
Kris Feb 2020
What are you hiding from
In the grand pictures you paint

Surely you must know by now
That stories are only stories
Never mind the gold coating your fingertips
And dripping sweetly from your lips

Did you really think you could forget
In the shadows of this ink
That this is all you have
you're not as subtle as you think you are
Secret thoughts like raindrops

on the rings of Saturn,

things forever lost

float into mind

on rivers of golden words

written with budding lips,

scribbled by satirically serious fingers,

or pounded with mechanical keys,

portable, painful, with ribbon tedious to thread.

My darling Olive

with your boxy frame,

sky white skin

and sticky fingers.

how methodical and slow

our fighting dance.

How joyful

the new agonies that await us.

Joyful new crimes, joyfully jogging type bars, joyfully resisting

joyful beneath

Shuddering, trembling,

flowing over with sweat and *******.

Pulling men to flame

ripping off their wings

Ripping men into

meandering, lost thought vehicles,

perpetual machines of confusion and shame.

Ripping men into ribcages,

pulling at the sinew

until we actually have become moths.

Flesh turned inside out

With the smallest words imaginable.

Men slunk to sand

With the smallest words imaginable.

Determination set to dust

with the smallest words imaginable.

Women shredding men into typewriter ribbons,

with the smallest words imaginable.

“I Hate You”

pulling cupboards out of walls,

breaking bathroom faucets,

“I Love You”

pulling the skin off

like socks.
Caitlin Ellis Mar 2019
I've sat once again
at the foot of my mother's old typewriter
journals of ideas scattered at my feet

The letter A is missing
I never realised the effect of one letter
the ripples it causes in an ocean
How it changes my writing, what I need to say

I dreamt of waves a few nights ago
At first they terrified me
but as they reached me
they were gentle and soft
welcoming like an old friend greeting me with a hug

I hope he is my missing letter
The ripples and waves in my ocean
and when he is not around
I am without
Next page