"deadbolts" poems
six deadbolts
and a loaded gun
tucked beneath your
pillow, what are you
waiting for love?
is it the rapists or
the sociopaths or
the criminally insane
come to shatter your
suburban dream?
they may come for you,
or maybe you are
one of them.
it doesn't really matter
anyways, you'll still
rise when you rise,
laugh when you can
and never, ever cry-
that would make you
human. you'll still
be seeking answers
if you're lucky and
pretending to know
what love is
in a dark, dark place.
everything will go to ****
on its own. be wary
not of the sociopaths
but the preachers
of god, of love, of war,
be wary of
your own mind.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
My Country 'tis of thee
A footnote in history
Of thee I sing
I will dare to compare
for those who were not there
I will try to be fair
Of thee I sing....
My Country was very proud
My Country is full of PRIDE (Insert your rainbow flag here)
My Country was safe at night, you could leave the doors open
My Country is scarier, you don't feel safe until the deadbolts are locked and window bars are in place.
My Country was a place where you knew you could get a housecall from a doctor if needed.
My Country is a place where patients die waiting for a doctor, in the hallway no less.
My Country was amber fields of grain
My Country is Amber alerts and looking for missing children in Amber fields of grain
My Country was the CBC
My Country is satellite television with 400 channels and nothing to watch.
My Country was a place where our flag was respected world wide
My Country is a place where we are respected still....as long as it involves a puck.
My Country was leading the way into the future
My Country is always looking over it's shoulder to see what's coming
My Country was a great place to vacation with the family
My Country is The Untited States for at least 3 weeks annualy, because it's cheaper there.
My Country was strong and a world leader in science and technology
My Country is on life support.
My Country was my families first choice of a place to live
My Country is still my families first choice of a place to live...barely
My Country 'tis of thee
A footnote in history
Of Thee I sing
I hope you get the gist
There's not much I have missed
I loved, but now I'm ******
Of Thee I sing.....
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with slanted eyebrows and stiff, silent upper lips. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we’d never really had to do the holding before and, as far as we knew, this is how men mourn.
We dusted antique left-behinds with delicate, moth-wing hands that fluttered here and there and never stopped trembling -- dead giveaways that within the corridors of our arms our heartbeats went stampeding, arrhythmic. We couldn’t quite bend them into the proper shape for prayer, so instead we ran them, with touch somewhere between float and feel, along every ashtray and age-stained picture album. In that moment I think we each wished that memory read like braille, but no one ever said as much. Because this is how men mourn.
We honored our patriarch with whiskey, hidden away for what must have been twice my age, between the carved out pages of old stacked books.
We drank like secrets. His portrait played witness.
We promised between our teeth with tinged lips tight, keeping words in that might otherwise crumble us like great ancient empires.
We singed and smoldered in a burn that coated our throats, quelling a choke that kept climbing its way up from a chest that never quite stayed sunk. Boys grow up loving the clinking twist of unlocking deadbolts but men peek through keyholes. Because this is how men mourn. Silent and straight with head only slightly slanted.
But when my father betrayed his rigidity with words that clicked clean like unfastening locks, we traded this stale air in for wind laced with the electric taste of thunderstorms. We forgot how men mourn.
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with lightning behind bleared eyes. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we have umpteen days left to dress in bittersweet vestiges and, as far as we know, this is how men live on.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
How are you still here?
Are you locked in a maze of my memories?
Trying franticly to escape and
screaming your way into consciousness
New pills but the same tunes
It’s been so long and yet some days
It feels like I’m still trapped
In the personal hell you constructed for me
You owned not only the key
Nor the concrete windowless walls
Nor the velvet-thick darkness surrounding me
as I begged for you to let your light in again
but you owned me too
You didn’t even need chains to keep me there
My heavy heart held me down more than any metal could
I can’t even say I escaped
Because you
let me go
Twice
Both times reopening the deadbolts to call me back
And obediently I came crawling in
And then you shoved me out again
This time without warning
The light burned my eyes and my skin
My hands bled as I scratched at the door
Tears choking all the words back to my stomach
And when I couldn’t feel anything anymore
I grabbed a knife
and carved a map into my skin
Desperately waiting for you to call me back again
But you didn’t
And I’d like to say that I’m ok now
That you no longer torture me
But I’m not.
And you still do.
Of course she helps
I swear someone sent an Angel
And I’m not worthy of her
But she still loves me
And I’m terrified that one day
my demons will tear through her wings
just like you tore through my heart
And though she helps mend it again
It will never be whole again
Because you stole a piece for your own sick collection.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
what texture did the skin take on
before it gave up and swallowed you?
did you ever for a second think
that you could be safe when
your fingers never stop twitching
every time you examine your neck in the mirror
there was a time before your hands
were reasons to hold on tight to anything
that could breathe
don’t tell me they’ve always been
this hungry
you must have known a night
before you had to bury them beneath pillows
to keep them from biting at your ribcage
fenced in by notions you put in your own head
they weren’t always this restless
there are ways to think about dying
without burning it into your skin
and there are nights that crackle like pyres
when you slip and let the embers sink in
and you think what is a body
but a vessel for sacrifice
but living on sharpened stakes
never felt so good
stop convincing yourself
it feels good
this depression is overgrown
you’ve never weeded the garden
didn’t water the flowers
and then turned away from your withering
too ashamed to call it your own
don’t you wonder when this self-hate
became the only trait that stayed hidden and safe
take those itching fingers to the shovel
and dig fresh beds to lay in
stop lying in the excuses
and uproot this grave
how does one climb out of a life
when every day is the same
when did you get so forfeiting
that you stopped attempting
to pull your body out of this?
i know it’s hard
to convince yourself this woman is not
the sum of her parts
don’t believe the man who spits at you
when you don’t agree to be the object of his rage
is sane
he will stay the same
but it’s up to you to stop
believing him right
and seeing yourself through his eyes
you are not a statistic
or a receptacle for pain
stop blaming your ribs
for holding on so tightly to your heart
for all the ways that you hate them
your organs are still smarter than you are
because they hold on
like deadbolts and locks
when you manifest the world’s sickness
in your brain
stop blaming yourself
and take the reigns
get a grip
that isn’t cataclysmic
learn to live
instead of picking at scabs
just to feel a pulse
you have gotten in too deep
and you are above this
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
some knobs come without locks
they live in houses where
the windows and doors are open
through every hour of the day
bees and flower petals
float through the open air
the cat comes and goes as it pleases
even when the seasons change
when the weather brings a gentle snow
the covers the floors in white
remember the beauty
of living without deadbolts
of walking into old spaces whenever
the sky reminds you through
contorted clouds
you do not need to pack it all up in boxes
to mop the floor, to sell the couch
you can keep the door open
as long
as you like
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
So you got robbed. Don't think of yourself as a victim. Look at it as an expression of the robber's occupational and social deficits. Don't let it traumatize you for life. After all, can you compare it to being murdered? We need to have some appreciation for scale here. We don't want to go back to the Victorian notion that people are fragile flowers who can't handle having a gun pointed at them and losing a few dollars. That's a form of condescension, after all.
You're complaining about a burglary? Some men see a mere doorknob lock as a flirtation. And surely we don't want to see the end of flirtations and seductions! Must we all now install deadbolts and security systems? What's next--chastity belts? What happened to joie de vivre and devil-may-care?
So a drunk driver hit your car. Do you really want to have him arrested? It was a misunderstanding; he didn't realize that four cocktails and driving are technically illegal. And should they be? Do we want to criminalize ordinary reckless behavior? Haven't we all done something a bit foolish or clumsy in our younger days? Do we want a society in which everyone has to be careful what they do, all the time? A society in which people must count their drinks before getting behind the wheel? We are moving away from the ideals of a liberal democracy and toward totalitarianism!
So you were murdered. You can look at is as an opportunity to learn more about what happens after death. Your career was ended and your earthly form deteriorated, but that's not the end of the world. Now you live as a memory, and people appreciate you more. What doesn't **** you makes you stronger, and what kills you enshrines. There is honor in being dead. It is time we brought back the old virtues!
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
Things are different and sometimes I wish I remained in the shelter labelled as The Indifferent where soap bubbles were as indestructible as bulletproof glass.
But you have a way of making me roll down my windows long enough to pass me nibblets of living and I wish you never reached your hand in to touch mine.
Safe houses aren't constructed to keep people out but deadbolts are in place to keep me in. I'd never advocate a limb to give me comfort;
your legs aren't strong enough to walk in this shambled home and your arms will burn before they can reach me.
I'm in the middle of flames that do not burn as strong as your eyes and I may not be a locksmith but I could very well create a lock that will keep you out.
I have a lead heart that's as fragile as the granite that define your sketches so don't you try to ring that doorbell because it won't open.
I find comfort in loneliness and solace in pain but you'll never change my mind about spring and how blooming flowers always close up from the world.
Morning Glory eyes that open with light and shut in darkness, you haven't been touched by the poison so let's keep you alive for as long as you are meant to live.
There's a difference between pessimism and realizing that the moon is as good as it gets so while you are safe, I will be as safe as dry wood in a bonfire.
I realize that pain is subjective and that iron walls are as needed as titanium souls but it doesn't stop me from being as frivolous as a dandelion.
Don't look at me like I hold treasures because I'm just a body of ashes and tears that is as significant to the eco system as a star that has burned out eons ago.
Remove me from your thoughts and eradicate every memory that acts as a landslide once I'm gone.
Your soul shines brighter with each passing day that I cease to matter.
And of all the words I've every said or written
remember that the most important is the poem about goodbyes and endless apologies.
I love you,
please forget me
and don't forgive me.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
For what its worth,
and it sure as hell ain’t worth a ****
I felt, the hit.
When it fell it broke, pieces never mean ****
Left nothing but a scratch on a wooden floor,
but it was treated as a sore in my mouth that I bore.
Tongued and picked until I bled it out.
Packed and labeled as misunderstood.
You hit the ground and you never mistook.
The cracks and frays that wouldn’t let you be.
You spend nights in the cold.
Kept out by unwelcomes and deadbolts.
Hit the bottle harder than it could ever hit back.
We **** and scream till the day dreams freeze.
Fleeing but clinging, we pray for the memories.
We get, we just get on with it
Broken heads, lay as they seem.
To never mend but wait for what comes to be.
Don’t pity the dead, they’ve done their bit.
Clocked out of a world that we never come to fit.
Afraid of the hours just before sleep,
and the thoughts that tend to seep.
You never saw it coming but you’re **** glad it’s here
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
I found her
Kissing her knees
Cupping her neck
Gasping to feel a pulse
Nails bitten to the core
Spewing profanities
About how everyday ends on a cliffhanger
She stood slowly
Defiantly
Tiny and dainty
Hair a messy mane
A lioness
Concealed beneath layers of indifference
Her hands trembled
And her body swayed
I won't beg she growled
Feral and wild
As though her lips were not a flat line like that on a heartbeat monitor
She reminds me of what it felt like to be betrayed
And what it felt like to be loved
She made me want to get involved in something I no longer believe in
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
And she made me want to change the locks
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
every ***** and deadbolt securely fastened in
my chest was unlatched, unscrewed, unfastened,
like a brassiere, yet it was also captivated by you.
for so long, i was simply a crane building towers
around me but you saw more use in me. turns
out, that use was also used to manipulate my
inner chords. no matter how long it took me to
write the musical notes, the harmony i once knew
was becoming weaker and weaker. at the time, i
should have known there was only static noise.
there was only brick walls and towers, only screws
and deadbolts securely fastened to your chest, only
a harmony i can't find the right notes to hit.
- kra
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
*Locked up like a fortress
Behind rows of deadbolts
This is how I live.
Nothing good ever comes through.
I'm still learning this.
Every time I crack the door
Peeking out, hoping to see
A familiar or friendly face
It only causes me shame.
Did you see my secret pain?
I'm trying so hard to hide behind it.
My door swings on nothing.
I'm floating on it in a sea of confusion
Clinging on for dear life
Because it is all I have to keep me safe.
Only now I've lost the key
And there are millions of doors,
But none of them are mine.
Frantically I'm searching,
Screaming into the wind
As it tears my flesh with icy fingers.
But I think I've given up, it's hopeless.
Ill just let myself sink to the bottom.*
**I'm awake now and the nightmare is over
But to my horror I'm looking in the mirror
And the nightmare is my life.
I'll just go check the locks
One more time.**
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
i've the mien of a human,
alien among his own.
gross animal urges, brackish greengold flits, uncrushable surge; then,
demispoonfuls of Other emerge, light like photons
barely reaching, then lapping,
at my fatigued bare feet, toes curling up
in the sand of someone else's time.
i don't let people in,
because i
myself am
outside of me,
full of blocked ways,
full of rationalizations.
i am all hallways
without any room.
--- it's ******* weird, i know that.
i am not
altogether
normal.
i am out
there, but
still here.
please please, understand
this. it's key.
like, the other day..
while taking out the trash (that i pathologically neglect to do),
as i approached the dumpster,
that old-as-the-hills
tall, ornately carved double door glinted
into my space
- yet again -
out of nowhere;
made of an ancienter wood hailing from
a lost time and a lost space,
whose two adjacent hatch windows were lithely guarded
by some bizarre crisscross adamantine sentient metal -
this precise door, which
i have never been able to open up, let alone fully approach -
laughed and widened its grasp:
and, with a confusing series of heavy deadbolts
receding from its nook with a resonant boom,
the left door,
ajar,
beckoned my
being,
as i
am,
and i crossed its threshold
into a velvety grooved room, remembered again
as a toward flesh warm and sliprune.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I knew I promised I’d keep writing,
I don’t break promises,
so I’m writing,
but you don’t know that.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,
it’s only that the leaves started to fall,
and I started to fall in love with old flames and blades,
so I asked God,
if He would please,
put eleven deadbolts on my heart,
and then toss the key in the Thames,
just so I could save myself from you.
My heart is healing
and soon won’t need such protection.
Don’t worry, He can craft new keys,
and don’t even think,
not even for a second
that I want anyone but you
to slowly take off the locks,
one by one, slowly,
one, two, three…eleven.
I promised I’d keep writing,
and I’m writing, and please just know,
that even though the keys sunk to the bottom
of the river, don’t even think that means
I didn’t try eleven times every day
to rip the eleven deadbolts from my chest
just to get closer to you.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
Wrote you a letter but I wrote it
On the wall
You could come see it but I know you're not at my
Beck and call
I just came by here to recite it but I
Can't recall
But I came by so that should
Be enough
And it's enough well it should, be enough
And it's enough well it should, be enough
It all looks different from up here above
Street level
And I had to wreck some things to build it up to
Get this view
And now I see each conversation formed a
Full circle
With a dead center, no good reason, what do you want to do?
Is it enough, well I doubt it's, enough.
Is it enough, well I doubt it.
Let's find ourselves a little puddle
Dive on in and swim
Pretend to be big fish in
a little pond, such a fun game
But you know now each time it seems to always
End the same.
With me dry and you dripping.
Take a step back.
As a matter of fact.
And reconsider.
What you want out of love.
Though when I tried to do likewise
You took it quite bitter
I'll be the bigger one
But I am no babysitter
I'd like to slip a little bit of me
Under the door
And have a look around
You've got your deadbolts tight
Play risky with your light
And now it's all burning down.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
Commonplace language
Comfortable impressions
Automatic concrete deadbolts
Stockpiled beginnings
Automatic appearance
Comfortable language
Unlock the commonplace deadbolts
Holding us concrete
In our beginning language
and stockpiled impressions
Appearances automatic
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
This is my collection
The paintings stand for those who won
The statues are those who lost
My trophies are locked in cases
My medals are hung on the wall
Those rings aren't for touching
Those awards are supposed to be hung
Dust the floor
And wipe the ceiling
Don't forget to clean the glass
And please don't breathe on the ones with diamonds
Stop starring at that
Put that down
No you can't touch anything
What was that?
No go through that door
If you have any questions, please ask
Wait
One more thing
I forgot to tell you something important
Do you see that door?
The one with the locks and deadbolts
Never go inside
Don't let anyone else inside
In fact
Find a curtain
Let's cover that door
So no one will be tempted to enter
What was that?
The door is unlocked?
But who could have gotten in...
Well go in there!
Find out who it is
What did you say?
He has a key?
But
how
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
In the room across the hall,
You see me, I’m all alone
Behind deadbolts and locked doors,
I built them on my own
You knock and knock, my ears are closed
To everything outside,
I’m smothered under voices,
And all they let me do is hide
“No one’s knocking,” I’m convinced
The door is closed and locked.
And to all the affirmations
My head is being blocked
The walls keep getting smaller,
I’ve barred myself inside
Chained down by doubt, by every word,
“I love you” is a lie.
I can’t hear you over all the buzz,
Just tell it all to stop.
I want the truth, never said I could take it
I’m bracing for the drop
I’m locked inside this room,
And I’m just about ready to snap,
And you don’t know to let me out
Because you don’t know that I’m trapped!
I’m trying to believe it.
Someday I’ll ask you for the key.
Just know that I, I’m sorry.
For the nightmare that is me.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
It's a bland looking place on the outskirts of town,
the sign is missing letters and the building's run down.
Sitting at the corner of an old gravel road,
a rugged, not too friendly looking distant abode.
Built back in the 60s on a small, ***** tract,
half the deadbolts don't work and the front window's cracked.
It's a glorified shack, only seventeen rooms,
And its thick with the grey fog of cigarette fumes.
But far from abandoned, there are plenty of guests,
they drive in from the north and fly out from the west.
From the old to the young, to the meek and the great,
they all find their place on this darkened estate.
It's played host to rock stars, to artists and writers,
corrupt politicians and heavyweight fighters.
They travel for miles to this little piece of hell,
the rusty old spot called the Sampson motel.
In the small cluttered office just beyond the wood door,
you'll find the manager Wayne, he lost an eye in the war.
He's a bit rough and tumble and he's got skin cold as ice,
but if you show him respect you might get a good price.
The ice machine's broken and the power cord's frayed,
so little of elegance or fancy displayed.
The plumbing is awful and the wall paint is peeling,
and most of the souls that you'll find here are reeling.
Housekeeping doesn't do much, there's only one maid.
She smokes a cigar and wears her hair up in braids.
She won't leave you a mint or turn down the sheet,
But if you mistreat her, you're out on the street.
It's the #1 choice if you don't want to be found,
as long as you don't mind the trash on the ground.
Folks aren't too friendly here so if you come stay
Mind your own business and go about your own way.
Guests come and they go almost quick as flash,
And you can be certain they always pay cash.
In darkness they'll be, transfixed by the spell
of the rusty old spot called the Sampson motel.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC