"backspaced" poems - Hello Poetry

some evenings it's early before anyone has a chance to notice before any mouths can open for objections before my limbs can react to your magnetic pull of opposite forces some evenings its late so late its barely evening at all so late the moon creeps up like an hourglass counting down the seconds that belong to us an alarm clock you can't reach to turn off so late my words have strung out and dried beyond the comprehension that we share before you have a chance to hear them some evenings it leaves my back pressed against glass like a prisoner and im forced to watch people crack my exterior like an exhibit some evenings it leaves me stumbling over backspaced words and eraser marks some evenings it is comfort that envelops me it lingers until the next some-evening when i am trapped and desperate like a caged animal i am still waiting for the evening that plays out our scenario im waiting for our odds to improve the some-evening where you sit next to me in this glass home and pretend you are not as uncomfortable as i am alive and i don't have to sit and catalouge all of these post-five PM hours you are here before day turns to dusk as you were always meant to some evenings i immobilize my eagerness by shoving "now is not the time" down my own throat some evenings i glance at the door at my watch i settle on my own hands that beg to make your existence poetic some evenings i just wait.

0

Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC

scully

evening

some evenings it's early before anyone has a chance to notice before any mouths can open for objections before my limbs can react to your magnetic pull of opposite forces some evenings its late so late its barely evening at all so late the moon creeps up like an hourglass counting down the seconds that belong to us an alarm clock you can't reach to turn off so late my words have strung out and dried beyond the comprehension that we share before you have a chance to hear them some evenings it leaves my back pressed against glass like a prisoner and im forced to watch people crack my exterior like an exhibit some evenings it leaves me stumbling over backspaced words and eraser marks some evenings it is comfort that envelops me it lingers until the next some-evening when i am trapped and desperate like a caged animal i am still waiting for the evening that plays out our scenario im waiting for our odds to improve the some-evening where you sit next to me in this glass home and pretend you are not as uncomfortable as i am alive and i don't have to sit and catalouge all of these post-five PM hours you are here before day turns to dusk as you were always meant to some evenings i immobilize my eagerness by shoving "now is not the time" down my own throat some evenings i glance at the door at my watch i settle on my own hands that beg to make your existence poetic some evenings i just wait.

34

7 and one half years ago you were in my room and i was on my computer. i wrote the password to log in, but i made a mistake because i was nervous and i backspaced all of it. you noticed. you said "i do that too when i mess up" i didn't realize at the time, that i would remember that about you and my birthday party. you were the only one to show up and my dad made you listen to ICP, i'm still sorry about that. i haven't forgotten any of it i wish i could think about you without hating myself

0

Apr 20, 2014

Apr 20, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC

leahleah757

sidenote, while i'm at it

7 and one half years ago you were in my room and i was on my computer. i wrote the password to log in, but i made a mistake because i was nervous and i backspaced all of it. you noticed. you said "i do that too when i mess up" i didn't realize at the time, that i would remember that about you and my birthday party. you were the only one to show up and my dad made you listen to ICP, i'm still sorry about that. i haven't forgotten any of it i wish i could think about you without hating myself

15

When I took my words to The permission man, he was Less than enthused. “No, no,” He said, “these won’t do. They’re Robotic and archaic - and this one’s Overused.” “Well pardon me, sir, But all I have are these. You see, My pen is a keyboard, and I have Backspaced all the previous drafts.” But he just frowned and turned away And told me to return some other day.

0

Sep 11, 2010

Sep 11, 2010 at 7:01 PM UTC

sleepy-sigh

Struck from the Record

When I took my words to The permission man, he was Less than enthused. “No, no,” He said, “these won’t do. They’re Robotic and archaic - and this one’s Overused.” “Well pardon me, sir, But all I have are these. You see, My pen is a keyboard, and I have Backspaced all the previous drafts.” But he just frowned and turned away And told me to return some other day.

11

Hey you I was thinking about you last night Wrote a paragraph Then backspaced all the lines I'm sorry it's become this way That things get in the way That it's always too long When I speak to you again I think about you from time to time Send a little prayer your way I hope all is well And life is treating you swell I think of the troubles and harm you face And believe you have the strength To pull through and keep good pace I hope these problems are never long in length My friend I'm betting on you I'm cheering on the side Some battles have to be faught alone Whilst people like me watch helplessly on There were times I didn't go a single day Without speaking to you My friend I miss you And I wonder at the changes life has done Responsibilities And duties Have tied us down I didn't know that growing up meant growing apart

0

Sep 3, 2017

Sep 3, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC

simpleton

My friend

Hey you I was thinking about you last night Wrote a paragraph Then backspaced all the lines I'm sorry it's become this way That things get in the way That it's always too long When I speak to you again I think about you from time to time Send a little prayer your way I hope all is well And life is treating you swell I think of the troubles and harm you face And believe you have the strength To pull through and keep good pace I hope these problems are never long in length My friend I'm betting on you I'm cheering on the side Some battles have to be faught alone Whilst people like me watch helplessly on There were times I didn't go a single day Without speaking to you My friend I miss you And I wonder at the changes life has done Responsibilities And duties Have tied us down I didn't know that growing up meant growing apart

28

I have now backspaced Probably, too many times All for a haiku

0

Jan 26, 2019

Jan 26, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC

thespaceman

High Coup #24

I have now backspaced Probably, too many times All for a haiku

3

He’d been tapping away at the keyboard So he could get the ending straight, A labour of love he’d called it But it was dark, and getting late, The villain had to be sorted out By the heroine, called Cath, He wanted it all to jell before That final paragraph. The Moon had risen outside and shone In a strange and subdued light, He should have finished before, so this Was not a welcome sight. He backspaced over a typo, then He looked hard up at the screen, But all that he’d typed was gibberish, In a font he’d never seen. It must have jumped to another font Was the first thing that he thought, So he scrolled back up, to see how much Of his work had gone for nought. The font looked vaguely Arabian With a hint of Russian too, Had taken all of his storyline So he didn’t know what to do. He tried to highlight the paragraph And switch to the font he’d used, But when he read what the wording said It had left him quite confused. ‘You’ve stumbled in to a place of sin Have opened an ancient page, Locked down for over a thousand years You’ve opened the world to rage.’ ‘Delete the whole of the manuscript, Don’t let it stick in your head, The more you read you will feel a need And will probably end up dead. Delete the curse, and the final verse And destroy your hard-drive too, Be sure, if you wish to stay alive, To do what I tell you to!’ He thought of the work that he’d put in And the rebel within him stirred, ‘Why should I wear some other’s sin When I only have your word?’ The screen grew misty, and Cath appeared, The heroine of his tale, ‘Take no notice of him, my dear, I’ll die if his will prevails.’ His villain pushed her out of the way And snarled at him through the screen, ‘Where do you think my evil comes from, Not from some fictional scheme! You drew me out of an ancient well Of lies, of sin and deceit, To clear me out of your sub-conscious You’d better hit the delete!’ He heard the footsteps pound up the stairs And beat on his garret door, ‘You’d better not have my wife in there, Or else, I’ve told you before!’ And Cath appeared for the final time In the tale that wasn’t complete, His neighbour beat on the padlocked door As he sighed, and hit the delete. David Lewis Paget

0

May 20, 2015

May 20, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC

david-lewis-paget

The Tale that Couldn't be Told

He’d been tapping away at the keyboard So he could get the ending straight, A labour of love he’d called it But it was dark, and getting late, The villain had to be sorted out By the heroine, called Cath, He wanted it all to jell before That final paragraph. The Moon had risen outside and shone In a strange and subdued light, He should have finished before, so this Was not a welcome sight. He backspaced over a typo, then He looked hard up at the screen, But all that he’d typed was gibberish, In a font he’d never seen. It must have jumped to another font Was the first thing that he thought, So he scrolled back up, to see how much Of his work had gone for nought. The font looked vaguely Arabian With a hint of Russian too, Had taken all of his storyline So he didn’t know what to do. He tried to highlight the paragraph And switch to the font he’d used, But when he read what the wording said It had left him quite confused. ‘You’ve stumbled in to a place of sin Have opened an ancient page, Locked down for over a thousand years You’ve opened the world to rage.’ ‘Delete the whole of the manuscript, Don’t let it stick in your head, The more you read you will feel a need And will probably end up dead. Delete the curse, and the final verse And destroy your hard-drive too, Be sure, if you wish to stay alive, To do what I tell you to!’ He thought of the work that he’d put in And the rebel within him stirred, ‘Why should I wear some other’s sin When I only have your word?’ The screen grew misty, and Cath appeared, The heroine of his tale, ‘Take no notice of him, my dear, I’ll die if his will prevails.’ His villain pushed her out of the way And snarled at him through the screen, ‘Where do you think my evil comes from, Not from some fictional scheme! You drew me out of an ancient well Of lies, of sin and deceit, To clear me out of your sub-conscious You’d better hit the delete!’ He heard the footsteps pound up the stairs And beat on his garret door, ‘You’d better not have my wife in there, Or else, I’ve told you before!’ And Cath appeared for the final time In the tale that wasn’t complete, His neighbour beat on the padlocked door As he sighed, and hit the delete. David Lewis Paget

65

I sat up for endless nights, staring into the imaginary mirror of perfection; just trying to get it right. See, the mirror once struck fear into my inner ear. I recall being a mess that year. Looking into something that was so clear, I didn't understand why clarity showed no signs of being near. Maybe the glass was fogging up from the steam that would leak from the seams of my pores - the doors to the things that I should feel more. The numbness was an empty vein, but it sent a shock wave to my nerve endings. It was in this moment, I knew the rest of my life was only pending. I hated the message I had been sending. So I backspaced into a new place with a new face. When I went back to the mirror, the glass broke. I listened to the sound of the shatter and it reminded me: I am my last hope. I am the last note in the song you wrote to everyone who's told you "no". I didn't know I could be so bold. Or maybe I did, but I had only been told. I am no more than what I allow my soul to feel. I am no more than what I perceive to be real. So here's the deal: I won't conceal this passion until I'm in that casket. And even then, you couldn't bury me, when my legacy is my tactic. But will you listen to my echoing voice? Will they send you the chills that I feel? Will you understand? I will scatter my soul in all the grains of sand on which you'll stand, contemplating if you should have ever ran... - L.G.

0

Oct 15, 2014

Oct 15, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC

lauren-gorger

The Promise

I sat up for endless nights, staring into the imaginary mirror of perfection; just trying to get it right. See, the mirror once struck fear into my inner ear. I recall being a mess that year. Looking into something that was so clear, I didn't understand why clarity showed no signs of being near. Maybe the glass was fogging up from the steam that would leak from the seams of my pores - the doors to the things that I should feel more. The numbness was an empty vein, but it sent a shock wave to my nerve endings. It was in this moment, I knew the rest of my life was only pending. I hated the message I had been sending. So I backspaced into a new place with a new face. When I went back to the mirror, the glass broke. I listened to the sound of the shatter and it reminded me: I am my last hope. I am the last note in the song you wrote to everyone who's told you "no". I didn't know I could be so bold. Or maybe I did, but I had only been told. I am no more than what I allow my soul to feel. I am no more than what I perceive to be real. So here's the deal: I won't conceal this passion until I'm in that casket. And even then, you couldn't bury me, when my legacy is my tactic. But will you listen to my echoing voice? Will they send you the chills that I feel? Will you understand? I will scatter my soul in all the grains of sand on which you'll stand, contemplating if you should have ever ran... - L.G.

19

Silence There is a silence, Hidden in the loudest chaos. There is a pain, Hidden in the brightest smile. There is a feeling, Hidden in the backspaced words. There is a thunder, Hidden in the calmness. Not every silence, Need chaos to understand. Not every pain, Need tears to heal. Not every feeling, Need words to express, Not every thunder, Needs calmness to burst. Sometimes things are, Just meant to be understood. Not to be justified or explained, Just meant to be felt. ©Sanjana Tripathi @wordz_dreamer

0

Dec 1, 2020

Dec 1, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC

wordz_dreamer

Silence

Silence There is a silence, Hidden in the loudest chaos. There is a pain, Hidden in the brightest smile. There is a feeling, Hidden in the backspaced words. There is a thunder, Hidden in the calmness. Not every silence, Need chaos to understand. Not every pain, Need tears to heal. Not every feeling, Need words to express, Not every thunder, Needs calmness to burst. Sometimes things are, Just meant to be understood. Not to be justified or explained, Just meant to be felt. ©Sanjana Tripathi @wordz_dreamer

23

What should my first short story be. Kid loses his ball... Being a bad person before I’m good... Venturing out onto a tall ship to sail… These are adventures, yet none of them are calling to me. So.. I paste and type, I grab and hold on to every word ever so tightly What if I’m bad What if I’m good These are the two are having conversations in my head While I trickle words down on to the page Each letter getting slowly backspaced Yet I still keep going even though, I should be negative I’m done for now, getting up to get some coffee. See you in a few, says the excuses The rhymes are over for now, they have gone to rest Just the prose is left, and even he wants to go, but like an annoying house he stays Not letting him have peace or space I keep writing the little words hoping the weight of them grows, Do I have a thumb for this, Can the greats hear me, My call forth, into the dark, telling them I’m here. Only time and my punchy little fingers floating down the river of this keyboard can tell Here, I roar, if ever so silently. Here I am. Here’s my bow. Signed, Isaac Ramiro

0

Jul 12, 2014

Jul 12, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC

isaac-ramiro

My first step into public

What should my first short story be. Kid loses his ball... Being a bad person before I’m good... Venturing out onto a tall ship to sail… These are adventures, yet none of them are calling to me. So.. I paste and type, I grab and hold on to every word ever so tightly What if I’m bad What if I’m good These are the two are having conversations in my head While I trickle words down on to the page Each letter getting slowly backspaced Yet I still keep going even though, I should be negative I’m done for now, getting up to get some coffee. See you in a few, says the excuses The rhymes are over for now, they have gone to rest Just the prose is left, and even he wants to go, but like an annoying house he stays Not letting him have peace or space I keep writing the little words hoping the weight of them grows, Do I have a thumb for this, Can the greats hear me, My call forth, into the dark, telling them I’m here. Only time and my punchy little fingers floating down the river of this keyboard can tell Here, I roar, if ever so silently. Here I am. Here’s my bow. Signed, Isaac Ramiro

26

I deleted you. Backspaced your name. Unfollowed your face. Closed your window to me. Shut down your connection. Cut the cord that bound us. It felt good for a minute... Then I wanted to add you. Follow you again. Snap back. But it's too late. Your memory is corrupt.

0

Oct 10, 2017

Oct 10, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC

artistry

File Unrecognized

I deleted you. Backspaced your name. Unfollowed your face. Closed your window to me. Shut down your connection. Cut the cord that bound us. It felt good for a minute... Then I wanted to add you. Follow you again. Snap back. But it's too late. Your memory is corrupt.

11

I overthink everything. I overthought this starting poem, writing and re-writing it time and again in my mind, smudging the subdurma and grey matter with graphite smears and flecks of rubber eraser. I’m not a poet I’m not artistic or good enough I’m not comfortable with vulnerability enough to let people see me as I am I don’t know if I trust myself enough to not betray everything I’ve ever believed in with my musings and thoughts from Somewhere. That thought was cut and backspaced prematurely because I’m obsessed with perfection and pleasing everyone but pleasing me isnt okay because I’m not okay to let myself be okay. I’m done. I have to let me be me, and let go of the I I never was, but was presenting alone My mother wouldn’t like this poem. She’d say it’s choppy and why doesnt rhyme and what are all the spaces for and I don’t like poetry or get it and I think it’s just a bunch of people pretending to be impressed by something they don’t understand This isn’t for you, mom. I love you, but it’s not for you.

0

Jul 2, 2018

Jul 2, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC

Ya_es_Sollen

Untitled

I overthink everything. I overthought this starting poem, writing and re-writing it time and again in my mind, smudging the subdurma and grey matter with graphite smears and flecks of rubber eraser. I’m not a poet I’m not artistic or good enough I’m not comfortable with vulnerability enough to let people see me as I am I don’t know if I trust myself enough to not betray everything I’ve ever believed in with my musings and thoughts from Somewhere. That thought was cut and backspaced prematurely because I’m obsessed with perfection and pleasing everyone but pleasing me isnt okay because I’m not okay to let myself be okay. I’m done. I have to let me be me, and let go of the I I never was, but was presenting alone My mother wouldn’t like this poem. She’d say it’s choppy and why doesnt rhyme and what are all the spaces for and I don’t like poetry or get it and I think it’s just a bunch of people pretending to be impressed by something they don’t understand This isn’t for you, mom. I love you, but it’s not for you.

15