"deadbolt" poems
Thank you,
I don't need anymore than this
just a deadbolt
and a locksmith;
To crack you open without a key.
Thank you,
I don't need anymore than this locksmith;
The bitter sweet symphony of just letting things be,
after letting you out to see the world beneath your feet,
I wanted to be the one to set you free.
Only, that wasn't good enough to me…
Thank you,
I don't need anymore than this
just a deadbolt;
and with a single pull of a kiss,
lock you up inside of me,
so you could never leave me.
Thank you,
I don't need anymore than this
just a deadbolt
and a locksmith.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,
By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.
“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
[Passed down from one generation to the next,
Dating back to an invaded India,
Surviving six hundred soldiers,
Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
Stories etched in souvenir gold].
“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
[Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
A physical furthering,
From my immigrant ancestors,
Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].
How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Hands that look sunburned
at first blush
count the silent ticks of a cognitive clock
grasping and releasing in stilted syncopation:
one-two-three-five (must avoid the four)
Did I remember to lock the front door? Out
of bed—again—freezing feet tumble
down
into slippers
awaiting the circular inevitability. Again, again.
Pad, pad, pad:
light shuffling accompanies the one-two-three-five
pounding in the head; that mind ricocheted with worry—
worry about the front door, the evil intentions of four,
insidious germs and subsequent scrubbing-scrubbing-scrubbing
in bleach and Comet. Pad,
pad, pad to the front door.
It’s one hundred and thirty four steps, so take a baby-shuffle:
still avoiding the four.
Cold, unyielding brass **** Locked.
Deadbolt? Check. Creeping black.
Chain lock? Check. Crawling germs. Oh, god.
Pad, pad, pad to the kitchen.
Clorox-fume greetings in the sparkling sink
from twenty-three minutes before. Never twenty-four.
Clorox on the cracked fingers, blistering
out that imperceptible blackness I know it’s there
blackness choking, bleeding in the bleach.
Scrub brushes, pumice, and fingernail files
wear down the nubs where the blackness may hide.
“Shh” the steaming water soothes
as it stings, scalds. “Shh.” Burn it all out;
conclusion so comforting. So predictably round.
This is the last time I can do this tonight. Pad, pad, pad
back to the bedroom. Downey quilt beckons in lover tones,
pleading pillows nudge against that head, that infernal head
still panicking amongst the softness:
Did I remember to lock the front door?
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
The clock struck mid-night London on the cheeks of her rosy smile. Glancing at Big Ben her high heels shined posh over the moon. Bold, intelligent and independent she stood at the corner of Westminster and Margret upon a shadow that faded her invisible to the alley of the big black door. She wanted a walk on the wild….. so with crimson lips the brazen beauty blew a kiss that knocked deaths door three times firm.
Beauty: Hello sweetheart. Could you be a doll and crack the bolt. She playfully inquired.
Death’s Door: ****** off!” I’m tired and about to hit the rack!
Beauty: "Eee you cheeky monkey" Do not play coy! For you may be a Fit Bloke for most but I’m
Karen Wankerstien the sexiest women in England! Crack the bolt I say!!!
Death’s Door: Who?
Beauty: Don’t be a ****** I’m Karen Wankerstien, business women of the year and the toast of this year’s Queen Charlotte Ball! Crack the bolt I say!!
Death’s Door: Who?
Beauty: You Nitwit. You know me well. It’s me Karen!
Death’s Door: OOO Hi Karen!!! You know I don’t recognize any of those fancy titles! For once you pass through these doors they all vanish. It’s best you live your life for the unseen beauty that never fades! “Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing, But a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.” (proverbs 31).
Then crack goes the deadbolt! Fluttering her spine with the momentary thrill that danced upon the sun-rise of her temporal fairy-tale identity.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
At the end of the day, it could go either way
much like at the end of this song
Well I write for a while then I sink to a smile
when I think how you draw me along.
Well we came with a story, a beautiful poem,
unheard verses locked deep in our soul
and to way to discover what's locked in a lover
find the key that will fit the keyhole.
Must we all be inspired? Seems like that's how I'm wired
I've got something to share, but it seems
that I still blame myself for what sits on the shelf
unreleased from my closet of dreams.
From rejection to strife, anger cuts like a knife
and it tore at the door to my pride
it was then your sweet voice through the keyhole rejoiced
and released the deadbolt from inside.
So now I can tell you just what's on my mind
I am corny and weird and unkind, sometimes
but I say what I feel 'cause i know what is real
and it sure beats what I left behind.
Thought the answer was finding the right key
for the words and the music to roll
but the Master unlocking life's sweet mystery
is the Love sown in each others soul.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
Visions of ****
And burglary
Dance around in my head
As darkness creeps over me
And I turn on all the lights
In my empty apartment
When you're not here
I toss and turn
Through the night
Popping sleeping pills
Just to catch a wink
Daydreams turn into
Night terrors
As the dog barks
At every little noise
Making me aware
Of all the scary things
Outside my window
Someone knocks at my door
But I'm not expecting company
Even with the deadbolt
I don't feel safe
In this big empty bed of mine
As I sleep alone
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
Recoil from the unclaimed toil
Back-lashing at your Now
events past Elbow forward
muscle through the supernatural blue night's bustle
to you, to you, to you
The zizz of machines
the eager Hums of moonbeams
and train steam
upload pesky echo's live stream
To you, to you, to you.
Discharge the memory burdens
The tomb stones inside
you lug up the flights
to last door's deadbolt on the right
Then Subdivide my pride to tiny bits
Super-collide dustified then broom aside in clouds
,of specks held in new dawn sun beams,
probing through lace curtains and velvet drape seems:
the atom of time, caught in full stride
Coming
to you, to you
Our deep core sample of memory
in forgotten ice.
Why, for what? Why? For what?
Why infinity times why plus why.
It's simple.
I died.
Between that death and my final breath, I reside.
Living ghost ever ready an endless Snide
Comment hurtling from another time
to you
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
I built these walls to protect myself.
Encase myself in steel to keep intruders out.
I ripped my heart out, pickled it and put it on a shelf.
Zipped my mouth and lobotomized myself to exsponge doubt.
I encase my house in a steel cage, bottle up my sadness, fury, rage.
My room sealed shut, locked with a deadbolt.
Strapped into my bed just me and my colt.
45 that is hallucinating and yet peacefully bliss.
A knock on the door.... What the **** is this.
Who's is this knocking on my door. I sealed myself in this world, never see anyone, anymore.
I peek through the window, can't believe my eyes.
In the wall lies a huges gaping hole, dynamite explosion marks her introduction.
Chainsawed bars from where the sparks flew, instantly I knew it was her kiss that broke through.
Her hug was the key that opened the door to me.
Smiling at me is what set me free.
Hopeless I stare, whowhatwhenwhere?!
Feelings arise deep from in there.
She found the jar, brought it to me empty.
Smug devilish smile, for some reason began to tempt me.
I ask "What did you do with what defined me"
She replied "Inplace of mine is where it shall be".
And we traded, easily I see, I'm still pondering how in the hell she got the key.
Key to my heart what leads to me, who are you? How can this be.
She: I am your desire whoever you wish me to be.
Me: you are perfect as you are, as long as you stay with me. I have no mind to think with so nothing can ruin us.
And in an instant she pulled it from thin air, without a care.
She: use this to please and entertain me for you are great, a caged king to be. You have been hurt by others this I can see.
But I hold the key, I belong to you, and you belong to me.
And with that she set me free, the ******* that I have set to be. Something to encage and enslave me. To such a low point and hoplessness for which light you cannot see. I am now whole and happy as can be.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
Ethereal. That's the squirming quality of that health-hazard house,
where a byproduct of divorce emulsion slept in a bare room on
a bare air mattress, vacuously lying around with the blinds down,
vicious AM radio mumbling through the walls. Homeschooling was more like
becoming housebroken, given that my social network consisted of thirty feral cats.
I suppose some boys require a deadbolt on their room's door.
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
The apathy cloud that crawled the house led to a
(the deadbolt was to lock me out of my room; not in)
prison break; I awkwardly assured myself that I would
never be anything if I was still Pinocchio, and pleaded
to go to liberal-dominated-non-Rush-Limbaugh-approved public schools.
I did; I got into university, I got a grant, I do research,
I got a job, I got a girl, I got a job, I got a girl...
I don't know how to leave my room now that I'm free.
I still hear the crackle of conversative talk radio.
'Cause we'll put a boot in your *** / It's the American way.
Like trembling flotsam I drift into every class,
every party, every... A poem can regurgitate a person who is all
covered in spit and acid and memories. I still know that house
better than I know my own breathing body. I'm just going to keep running;
like a yellowed refrigerator housing second-amendment-upbringing-coleslaw;
like an overheating computer; like I always do; statically, in stasis.
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
The first time we had ***
(Or made love as you like to put it)
I choked you
And if you really want to make love then you need to
close the door on me and use a triple deadbolt
I am incapable of making love
I am hot water on the burner on the stove bubbling over
and if you don’t want to get burned you need to put a lid on me
I wrapped my hands around your neck while I was on top of you
and I watched as your face changed colour
and your mouth opened and closed like a fish flopping on deck
but there was no air to breathe
And it was really making me excited until I realized that you liked it
so next time I held your throat with one hand and
bit your chest so hard you started to bleed in a few places
and for some reason you got off on that too
But when I asked you to spank me I got four tiny slaps
and then you held your hands around my neck gently
and told me that you couldn’t bear to hurt me because you loved me
So I guess that goes to show
You will get no love from me
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
You asked me to tell you
About the angels and God.
You swore you could hear them—
You just couldn’t understand.
So I told you of Michael
And how he rose to the occasion
While fixing the front door that you broke in.
You warned me to lock the deadbolt from now on.
“Don’t just lock the ****
Use the chain too, in case I break through.”
You never could trust.
Life left you abused.
Wherever you are now,
Know that someone is praying for you.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 11:44 AM UTC
i'm sure she's a terrorist
she drives a stick shift
and wears sensible shoes
and everything she does
arouses my suspicion
she's up there now
in her cluttered apartment
yapping about her congressman
and the debt ceiling
i hear her every sunday
yelling at her tv set
giving attitude to
all those panelists
on the political programs
and someone told me she
sneaks off to the mall
in plaid sneakers
and has four computers
and hides her cats
in shoe boxes
whenever the property manager
comes around
and she always has a smile
for the property manager
i'm on to her and
i have a plan
that involves deadbolt locks
surveillance video
and a bugging device
she's up there now going on
about the governor
give me a break
at least he isn't driving
a stick shift
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
I keep the deadbolt unlocked
Just in case you come home.
You don't.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 10:33 PM UTC
the key went
in the lock
easily enough
with no resistance
in the cylinder
nor any loose pins
catching inside
yet try as i might
it would not turn
all three keys
were the same
identical in height
of teeth and
depth of notch
i could not have
picked the wrong one
still the deadbolt
was unmoved and
would not let me
into my own home
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 7:23 AM UTC
Growing up, the feeling of being
good enough was very seldom felt.
Living in a broken down house that I was forced to call home and
forever trying to please people who were only pleased by pills
ripped me from my hinges and shattered me into pieces,
like the doors and coffee tables I've watched my father destroy
time and time again.
I tried my best and my best was never
enough.
And for them, I am still not
enough.
----------------------------------------------
Seeing compassion and adoration in a stranger's eyes
opened mine to what could come.
The undeniable love from a girl with a genuine smile and golden heart
helped me grow and blossom into
a garden not of hate but of hope.
Finally I was good enough!
Until.
Until the morning kisses went away,
and "Do better" came every day.
Until the realization of imperfection set in
and the promise of staying felt more like a deadbolt than a doorknob.
Until lying in bed together
felt less like heaven and more like sin.
---------------------------------------------
At least my parents tried to fix the house.
At least they tried to flush the pills.
At least they tried to pretend that things were good enough.
At least they didn't give up.
At least I'm trying not to overdose.
At least I'm trying to fix us.
There is no denying that for you,
I will never be
enough.
And I've never been good at closing doors,
But at least I'm not giving up.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
im in the hallway just a searchin for some conversation
to find a line so i can tie along and get a head
no need to ever be concerned about my reputation
half the time ill just forget all of the things i said
im in the stairwell just considering some contemplation
a little thinking, see if i can straighten out my neck
im on the top flight waiting for an explanation
but i always find another stair to climb instead
im in the attic just relying on my intuition
i feel around up in the cobwebs with the things unseen
i see a light so i believe that its what ive been missin
then realize its just another television screen
now I'm laying in the bedroom
broken pictures on the walls
im locking down the deadbolt
im not taking any calls
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
i do not feel safe
on the fifth floor
with all the windows locked
and two turns of the deadbolt
don't forget the chair under the door
i do not feel safe
walking home from the grocery store
in this horribly gentrified neighborhood
at 4pm on a sunny
saturday afternoon
i do not feel safe
handing over my clothes to someone else
i know they have to be washed
i've gone too long already
but i bite my lip until my belongings are
back in my line of sight
i do not feel safe
alone in zoom office hours
with my camera off
how can i be hurt through a screen?
but it never reassures me
i do not feel safe
when the electrician comes to fix
the circuit
i called it an electric circle
he does not look at me that way
the way that makes me sit in the
backseat of my own mind
but i cringe when he looks at me
at all
they call it hypervigilance
vigilance
from latin vigilare
"be watchful"
i am watchful, watchful, watchful
maybe that's why i cant fall asleep.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 8:18 PM UTC
One has a population of 1,700,00
The other 2,000 locals,
swelling to 10,000
come the summer people,
the likes of him,
and noisy day trippers,
neither like
both born and bred on their respective islands
he locks his car always,
when and where ever
where ever is
mostly,
she leaves her keys
in the ignition
especially when
she leaves
the car running
on the street,
when doing quick errands
both are life long islanders,
that from time to time come
avisiting each other's home plate
at night,
he just locks the doors
but once,
no deadbolt,
a sign he is cool
on her countrified territory
her house door has a lock,
but no one knows the
key's exact whereabouts
going on,
as long as she can remember,
which is most of
her twenty years total
he lives in a tall apartment building
on a finger shape island that probably has
10,000 tourists arriving daily
she from an irregular shaped isle,
twenty five miles as the osprey flies,
and they do,
hers, nestled tween two forks,
and ferry's connecting you to the
"off island" till about 1:00am running,
after that, well, find a beach...
she, in a house,
outback,
behind the
country-package-store-deli
where the
most expensive gas on the island
for sale to touring folk
on the island's main gig highway
that store where
only the localest of locals
come in for
to buy their beer,
and the lost tourist,
looking for free directions
pays for them with expensive gasoline
he has one job
she has three
when not waitressing at Sweet Tomato,
she's planting flowers for the landscapers,
or working the counter at said store
she was prom queen
he did not go to his prom some 45 years ago
Two islands, two people,
one ancient, even borderline old,
one a student studying
modern farm management,
with the future openness of youth,
who won't take down college loans,
the other,
edging closer to his distinct extinction
but they talk for hours,
and he tips her more
than the cost of his meal
and the bottle of Pinot Grigio,
which loosened his tongue,
on a Friday eve
having traveled almost
four ungourmet hours,
to get to the island
he borrows from her,
in the summer time
and two days later,
one is encapsulating
the memory of the meet,
on an island of poetry
and he thinks he will go back
to conversation continue,
but that first meet
well, no repeat,
so he leaves
it's taste
here
for you to share
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
Dusty shadows,
Darkened windows,
Watching cars go by
In the dead of night.
Deadbolt locked
To haunting thoughts,
Staring off to space,
With an expressionless face.
None of what's inside shows,
Even though an inner storm blows.
Just watching the rain
Slide down the window pane.
Dreary, wet, and cold,
Waiting for someone to hold.
Searching for the warm light
That will bring back life.
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
oxymoron overdose
deadbolt atriums
intersected playlists
the unluckiest clothespin
a mailbox full of compliments
wallowing asterisks
carpeted portraits and
unearthed apologies
it all stemmed from backseat rattling complexity
lighthouse morphine
seventeen somber ached explosions
sipping acrylic reveries
cleverly blossomed illusions
thigh stumbling permission
clumsy german metaphors
thirsty chapter jigsaw keys
worried cities newfound screams
vision confusion and pity bottles
poisoned school affection
oh christ, darling
a deaf chorus
thoughtless phantom
seed eyed stranger
road scarred sighs
***** locked moths
velvet butterflies
a sweeter sleeping spine
growing began expression
storms lack protection
yesterday placed comfort in salvation
the vast presence of a strong man's island mother
hazel vacations
a shattered soldier
trembling girls in sorry gardens, limbs in full bloom
naive humming mirrors
children having mistook living
trees half known
whispered smiles and mattress lullabies
cigarette stories firework insecurities
books begging
floor stopping feeling
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stammers
And I'm not too sure if it's too high or too low
But it's missing something
There's a power that wont pass these lips
And a commanding tone that can't quite rally its troops
This is no smooth, jazz inspired tongue
This tongue has been bitten
There's a metallic feeling of blood and it's pooling into deadweights
So, on this tongue lies a thousand pounds of blood stronger than feeling
And I can't quite get it out
When these words are weighed down,
These feelings sink back into my chest and the metallic taste passes these lips and forms a deadbolt
I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stutters
And I'm not quite sure if it's just an extension of myself
Where the feeling stays inside and the blood collects
And there's always something missing
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Taking a stroll down Monopoly Boulevard.
I think I’ll pick up some “meat.”
I say hello to my local butcher ,
Mr. McDonald!
For a discounted receipt.
I’m so claustrophobic wearing 9 layers,
Of a grimy coat called hypocrisy.
Sweating out grease, it’s good for the skin,
As well as a Christian Democracy.
I pass a line of white picket fences, with crucifixes,
And my old friend Mary,
With eyes that judge piercing through the window,
At anyone willing to vary.
I pass the old couple rocking,
Sipping their synthetic tea,
And I see kids soaked in acid rain,
And society’s debris.
I get home, lock all my windows,
Deadbolt on the door.
Lay my gun under my pillow,
And get ready for another war.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
As rough and as difficult
life may well be
it's still so deeply beautiful
down in the
philippines
The beauty of the village
might not be apparent
at first glance.
What deters at first
might be the killing
and the nature of a life
dictated by chance.
But once you start accepting,
adapting and reflecting,
you'll notice that it's just
the island way of living.
Nurture nature's native nest,
share what yield the fields have held,
food to feed for feeling folk,
care about your neighbors health.
Live in tune with natures wrath
but don't exceed her measure
stick to filipino paths,
thus warmth and generosity
will provide you with pleasure.
Red Horse Strong for everyone,
Tuba, Tanduay and San Miguel.
Menthols, **** and beetlenut,
you just have to treat us well.
Sabong's not for the soft,
it's difficult to watch.
Roosters duel over
who avoids the cooking ***
blades fly through the air
and blood adorns
the sand with spots.
The winner stays a champion,
the loser's in a plastic bag, granting us that evenings dinner
and we've just made our money back.
Wet markets aplenty,
with fish you've never seen before.
Smells of seasalt, blood and gore,
mix to form a memory,
akin to sobering melody.
Watch out for the Aswang
and do not break a mirror.
Keep the deadbolt shut at night,
to avoid unpleasant surprises.
The ocean's at your doorstep
and so are the bananas
and the coconuts.
Skinny teens disguised with bandanas,
strapped, riding through the village.
Don't worry they're just cousins,
standing vigil, chasing cops.
Fistfight near the fish ponds,
neither one backs down.
Tilapia watch eagerly
for who'll sink to the ground.
Their brother came by earlier
selling pastries with his friend.
Buy three each for everyone,
your total's fifty cents.
Everywhere there's laughter,
music, sun and food.
Really nothing better
than the filipino mood.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
Let me just hit this real quick, and I've got a question to ask you.
What the hell am I doing with my life?
I've seen a quarter century
easily fly by my head, right past my eyes. Credentials fill the whole of a short list, shorthand black ink on coffee stained white napkins. Got a paycheck, pay rent, I'm okay, then. Name it, it's likely I haven't done it. The thing is, I'm short on hobbies, too. When you got holes in your pockets, watch the pennies dropping. What's a penny for a little get-high? What's a penny for the internet when I don't have a vehicle? I couldn't pay for cheap unleaded. I pay for my shows and drink the TV. Deadbolt my door and get to thinking. Maybe it's all right if I imbibe just a little more. Maybe a few short words arranged in a line, will kiss the void if written right. Correctly.
The ground
Is burned
Rolls away
Life
Is short
So blaze
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC