"fonts" poems
Subconsciously,
I replaced your emotions
With emoticons
Your eyes
With profile pictures
Your voice
With fonts
Falling into this technological abyss
How could I be so stupid
Thinking whatsapp
Could compensate
For your aura.
And now consciously
I suffer...
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!
I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.
non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom
Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
⭐️
**Step I -⭐️
As you can see I have used a ⭐️above
(we can use any character/number /alphabet)
Step 2- use return key
Step 3- The poem in asterisk , which remains the same
for
italics
bold
bold-italics
Step 4- use return key
Step 5- again the character(⭐️) it could be anything
And there you get the poem in desired fonts .
I tried this in my drafts on Hp and yes it works .
Happy posting**
⭐️
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.
Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I think my words speak for themselves;}
tired of the blinded faults
disgusted by the brutal unappreciation
manifested in the untied bonds
to **** the place and fire up the numbs
maybe ending in tons of regrets and flooded ponds
yet my indecisive conscience knows no faked up fonts
and my rage is bored of a game of prison where no fun
just please me with your silence drowned
keep me with your mouths shut down
you call me rage with no bounds
well blame yourselves for the upcoming storm and sounds
-----ravenfeels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC
Tattoo Promises
Read these words now inked of a passionate verse
From miles away, beneath clouded silver linings
Far beyond every enchanted moon glow vista
Phrases of undying devotion in eternal fonts
Styled by a hand now longing your touch
Tattoo promises melodically whispered
Breathless devotion in sonnet sighs
Forevermore holding tightly your
Affectionate kisses dripping
Of sweetest pure honey
Unto my wanting lips
In poetic phrasing
Written entirely
Upon the walls
Of this my
Beating
Heart
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Waiting for that paper, a light
A cursor that keeps blinking for the next word
Even when the screen arranges to sleep in daylight
Fingers begin to itch and start being febrile.
An email, such a pity,
is more accessible than
a post box.
All the handwriting fonts that I did try, couldn’t,
Just possibly couldn’t mirror the impeccable tries
To struggle to be parallel to the top
Or bottom of a page.
The improbability of what the next thought would be
The prediction of where the addressee would smile
Or frown, or pick up eyes to stare at the wall for a while,
To embrace what had just been conveyed.
Letters are like light, they reach us later
From when they were born, but the spaces
they illuminate or burn on their arrival!
I wonder if our pupils shrink.
They more than just tag along, they tap in,
They’re the result of cleaning the ink from
the nib, a thousand times, over thousands
of sentences, or maybe just a few, but they do.
And don’t dare ask the pen for proof!
It’ll track down wrinkled pages
Who had their thirst quenched by
The swipes of fountain pens’ fountainheads,
And pictures of the fingers
Bathed in red, and black, and blue,
And occasionally of table clothes
Spilled over by the consequence of imperfect handles.
Imagine if light came as soon as it was made,
It would be difficult for our eyes to handle such bait
Sometimes, a pause is necessary,
Imagine a world without commas!
I’d like to peek into the writer’s letters,
Not to read, but to sense the shapes of emotions
And stretches of As and Ns, or the reach of commas
On the next line, and then, close my eyes
And shove my nose in it, to sniff hard
The paper and the blue smells,
And die doing so if it was eventual.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
Writing in colors
Practicing the wrong art
Illusions that discover, set me apart
Feeling too washed up, at such a young age
Could I say something real? **** turning the page.
Writing in Fonts
So that I may distract.
Its like smoke and mirrors, you’ll miss what I lack
The fancier this seems, the more elaborate the scheme,
You’ll think you saw talent, I’ll just blind you with bling.
Writing in sizes,
Milking the diversions
Fancy rhyming, bold assertions
Witty one liners, and maybe a clever rhyme
Will I ever give up this job? Oh, maybe in time.
-Taylor
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
Dear technology,
You replaced my emotions with emoticons
Voice with fonts
Love with likes
Compliments with comments.
You make distance seem so close
But you have no sense of touch
For you overrode internet connection over soul connection
You gave me a list of friends, yet I feel so alone.
You made me believe in a world all of your own
Pictures to prove their existence
Status to update me on their life
And a message to make me feel connected.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, never and I mean ever skip a song because of a childish intro!!!LISTEN TILL THE END:>
blame me for my blind eye
hesitant on the hearing not the see it dies
blame me on the reason
my last years gone depressed season
began so dull so dumb a childish try
turns out to be so **** hard to deny
drunk on the chorus that switches its motives
its so called focus
pleasant for the ear
a fancy for the crescent defeater
one with a furious raged demeanor
on the mind a wild falling pleader
thief of previous cherry symphonious instrumental feeder
to be a runaway to the arrogant feels a betrayal
when it absolutely sways the Venuses to the ultimate portrayal
to be so precious a part in the hallway gone crazy gone jealous
to be so malefic in the addicting becoming a bit waste of the Chellos
to be so lonely on the glared faults
on the failed dreams of filling constant thoughts
repressed upon charmed up lingering past fonts
plastered on the admit
flustered on the submit
a fine line between
some
savior a haven an unknown felon
some
killer a torturer soured up lemon
------ravenfeels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 12:31 PM UTC
She is the typesetter’s “e”
The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.
His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.
In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.
But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.
She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
Can you read what you read?
I'm sure you can and there's no need to ask.
But it's weird.
Feeling through symbols.
Understanding symbols.
Writing symbols.
Combining symbols to make sense.
But some combinations are wrong.
Making sounds for symbols.
Saying the symbols correctly.
Different accents for symbols.
Drawing symbols, making them look pretty.
Fonts for symbols.
Imagine. We are ruled by systems of symbols.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
Under your loving hands, like an infant, I rest, protected in hand.
Under the vast emptiness and dullness of the galaxy, your light shines, your robe, O so white!
SO glorious your face, your presence!
Your presence, it caresses me, with just a little bit more, I would have been crushed and would have been drowned under my own tears and would have dented the marble floor with certain and whole-hearted knees.
How marvelous is that cross...a word won't fit it.
That cross...if only words, dots, dashes, and punctuation can have more to offer. An endless murky drowning sea of words of different fonts and sizes won't quite make the mark.
You made my mouth like a sharpened sword. Ready to fight for your name, ready to stand my ground, ready to make the darkness fear and make fallen angels regret their mistakes. They already are.
ready to open hearts and minds, as you call many to you.
You make me like a polished arrow. Ready to go wherever you shoot me, ready to tear down what the devil has built. Ready to have your word, the gospel tied to me, as I fly through the spiritual realm and spread your word, the gospel. Simply the gospel. NOTHING MORE NOTHING LESS.
You hid me in the shadow of your hand. You cover me. You protect me. You hide me even if it seemed like all eyes were on me. Maybe they are on you. I want to be more like you in image O LORD.
You concealed me in your quiver, God USE me!!! IF only words quite make sounds of hunger and thirst and the cries of my spirit and my new heart to you! You polished me and I am ready.
Ready whenever you say its time to go, or then I have to stand strong. Ready whenever, wherever, however you call me.
You polished me.
I am sharpened.
I am a polished arrow and have a sharpened mouth.
"Okay LORD GOD, I am ready."
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC
You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.
But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
I was given, at my first birthday party,
a gift sublime, a lovely, lush garden
I played among its fonts and flowers,
traded baseball cards with Atlas and Athena,
rolled in high grass with iridescent dragons
Then one fine day through leaflets high,
I spied a fat juicy fig, haloed by Summer sun
The tree was poison, I knew, its sweet fruit
most likely bad as well, but in my arrogance
I climbed the trunk, got tangled in its branches
I lost control, lost something never truly held,
and fell, through viney snarls and vicious thorns
Fell farther than I ever rose, to putrid death,
moldered slime beneath the canopy
of verdant paradise on gentle hillside above
I crawled about in mud and earthen warrens
Slowly, year by year, learned to walk again
But arrogant I remained—had not my
lesson learned, and so I doubled-down,
made mockery of this chance for redemption
All the sweet virgins did I **** and teach
our children sin, in crystalline waters
I did shat on mulched fields, amber and green,
with cigarette butts and baggies blowing
listless on Autumn winds
When Winter finally came, as winters must,
to **** off weakened souls, and make
the garden ready for new attendants,
I did not learn, I did not take the blame...
It's Him, I cried, I have not power to do this!
But then my youngest daughter sobbed
She watched, sadly, out clouded, grimy windows
and, looking up at my limpid, sullen eyes
crawled into my arms one last, lonely time
to face what I could not...
Behold, the Silent Spring
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
Microsoft "WURD"
slang font.
i know your type.
you like Arial.
you dig Arial Black cause there's no Arial White.
she wears a size 0.
invisible to the eye.
she's from Georgia.
print her out on white paper.
she'll be prettier than Courier New Times New Roman.
her Impact on Felix Titling will be extravagant.
she'll put him under a spell with her Book Antiqua.
you'll give up on her and take a train through the Terminal towards Tahoma in the "Golden State"
you'll come across Verdana who is a size 12.
bold as you are, you'll ask why she tries to underline her beauty by showing off her colon(:) .
and you ask her why women are always cranky before they get their period (.) ?
[arial, arial black, georgia, courier new, times new roman, impact, felix tilting, book antiqua, terminal, tahoma, verdana=different fonts]
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
I was sitting at my computer
All intelligent and nonchalant
When a personality profile test popped up
In the most interesting of fonts
I decided this might be fun
So I clicked onto the site
And right away started answering questions
On what I did and didn't like
As soon as the test was over
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I hit the button enter
There was immediately a knock upon the door
What appeared to be three business men
All in matching suits and ties
With darkened sunglasses all around
Like Hollywood Movie Stars in disguise
Before I knew what was happening
They threw a hood over my head
And carted me off without the slightest word
Not a single Howdy-Do was said
My new found friends threw me into the trunk
Of a waiting limousine
Where just as quickly as they arrived
We all left the scene
We came to a run down abandoned Army base
In the middle of the desert
I had the feeling that what it was that was to come
Most certainly wouldn't be pleasant
They set me in the middle of a room
As men circled all around
I knew this had to do with the test
And wondered at what it was they found
When in walked "The Bossarooni"
And said don't worry son we're not here to mistreat cha
We're just curious as to why
You like anchovies instead of pepperoni on your pizza
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
When you feel taken for granted
thinkin' they just don't care
wanting to move away again,
but again, you don't know where
burned-out, tired of trying
to be all the bossman wants
to be everything to everyone,
reading in between the fonts
We who sit beside you
in the office and the stall
who sing along, the same old song,
while you stand and take the fall
in a cubicle, with mistletoe,
this lonesome caroler hums
it's all benign,
please don't resign
before the yule tide comes
Want to see you here on Christmas
don't leave us all alone
want to hear you 'woe ** ho' again
so don't slam down the phone
don't make that snap decision
when the pressure starts to build
just let the steam out somewhere else
and let your heart be filled...
with joy
At the meeting, you suggested
wrap the garland and a bow
and all the trimmings, here and there
around whose neck, we know
the one about the lighting
the star atop her head
and now the head of operations,
wants to move you to the shed.
They just don't understand you,
your work is so complex
you didn't sign his Christmas card
but the boss still signs your checks
so don't be rash, just try to hash it out
and make a deal,
and let bygones be gone
before the office Christmas meal.
Want to see you here on Christmas
please don't leave us all alone
want to hear you 'woe ** ho' again
so don't slam down the phone
and don't make that snap decision
when the pressure starts to build
just let the steam out somewhere else
and let your heart be filled...
with joy
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
Times New Roman reminds me of a time when I knew that romance was not dead because I got to hold it in my hand
The curve of the characters reminds me of the uneven curve of your cupids bow
The claustrophobic clustering of vowels reminds me of the cringe worthy cling of your foggy glass frames stuck to mine, failing sight feeding failed intimacy
The simplicity of each symbol reminds me of the systematic sufficiency with which you seduced me in so few words,
the straightforward soliloquy with which you struck me and bereft me of my sanity.
The length of each letter reminds me of the longevity of our last embrace
Lanky limbs looped laterally to the length of my body for literal milliseconds
The overuse in overdue essays typed in early hours of the morning reminds me of the overuse of three words and the emptiness and lack of effort behind them,
Submitting those three words for a good grade and a pat on the back, coming up short because professor and princess alike saw through the inability to do
With meaning,
That your words had no feeling.
The fact that though I've faced fancier fonts and fell for them fanatically, I always return to the first, reminds me that though a fair few have found more than friendship in my fragile forearms that the first is the forever
and if at times the former
then always the future
the finest font I've ever found is you
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Crying under the covers
half hoping that you suffocate
is not cute.
Breathing into a paper bag
because you can't breathe the air
that everyone seems to inhale so easily
is not pretty.
Ruining yourself on the outside
to fix whats on the inside
is not beautiful.
I don't care how many
line breaks you add,
how many fonts you change,
how many pictures you can etch into your skin.
It is not something to allude to.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am "Josephine Wild."
I am 35 years old.
I am an artist and an ultra runner.
I experience the world differently.
I wake up.
I work and workout.
I play.
I eat.
Then I sleep.
I see things like design and shapes.
I focus on the details.
But I try to see the bigger picture.
I look at typefaces and fonts.
I get hyper-focused.
I like to work.
To make.
To create.
Day after day
This is what I do.
I am never finished.
I date things
Because I lose track of time.
Time is against me.
So, I learn not to waste it.
Sometimes, I make believe.
But I am not a child.
I am grace.
I am strength.
I am beauty.
I am determined.
I have a good heart.
I live in my own home
With my husband.
We share the same bed.
I have toys and figurines.
I collect them.
I arrange them.
They always stay the same.
They bring me joy.
I am easily distracted.
I like to escape.
I can run away with my thoughts.
I’ve learned to domesticate my emotions.
I am an artist.
I am wonderfully weird.
I like people too.
They are beautiful each in their own way.
It’s nice to connect with people,
To feel loved.
Now, I know that I am so, so loved.
It’s hard to let people go, especially when you love them.
I know that I’m not alone.
I am apart of this world.
I just experience it differently.
But sometimes, I don’t feel free.
My life isn’t easy, but it’s a gift.
Life wouldn’t be great if it was easy.
I’m easy to get along with, and now I understand.
I love music.
I love to sing.
The music I like doesn’t need words.
I’m sometimes without words.
I search for them.
I need them quicker than they come.
But that’s OK.
I try my best to better myself.
I am not wrong, I am different.
When I fall, I reset.
I try not to cling onto people, but it’s hard.
I’ve learned to forgive myself.
I’ve learned to love myself.
I make more of an effort to think things through.
I have succeeded at leaving my comfort zones.
My effort is success.
I am not a problem.
Life is opinion. The universe is change.
And I’m always changing, always growing, always living.
I have grown a good heart.
I am awesomely autistic.
Mar 4, 2024
Mar 4, 2024 at 5:15 PM UTC
No one writes letters anymore
We live in a world that needs more
Than fast messages with emoticons;
We speak our mind through funny fonts.
Tell me you could visualize
A tortured heart that slowly dies;
I truly wish you read the signs
Tears I poured while writing those lines.
In my handwriting, I revealed
In my letter, my heart I sealed
I made mistakes I can't erase
I am so sorry, I lose face.
You won't forgive me easily
Don't expect an answer swiftly;
My words came from deep down inside
One day, perhaps, you'll let it slide.
No one writes letters anymore
But I am the kind that is for
Face-to-face communication
From afar, words must move mountains.
In my handwriting, I unveiled
In my letter, my heart is sealed
I'll say sorry until you care
Was a letter enough to repair?
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
this is my art
i present it to you all
SANS SERIF
clearly stating the emotions
hidden under layers
a metaphor
a simile
idiom
alliteration
words thatteachers throw atme to absorblike a sponge
“it’s ur art¡”
“ur own «Iîn†érP®´e´†å†iøñN« “
i like art
it fills the holes that were once numb with feeling.
A
R
T
T
R
A
look at this creation.
all over the place.
i like crying to kahlids saved
i like laughing to jon hughes ferris buellers day off
i like watching
reading
listening to
singing
writing
creating
experiencing
Art
this piece of art.
it’s messy. ive put too few or too many s p a c e s . ive seriously f,u.c/k!E'd up my grammar. Ive used slang and Incorrect™ spelling. my fonts are sometimes hard to read and I haven’t even Began to think about using colour. My english Teecher would hate this.
this piece of art; is a mess
and isn’t it Beautiful
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
Remember all the old familiar faces?
Helvetica's the nicest of the lot.
Gill Sans and Johnston take the second places;
It seems as though the serif has been shot.
Verdana has its own intrinsic glories;
The fairest text that ever left my desk
Was set in these-- for essays or for stories.
But using them for sonnets? That's grotesque.
And gravestones are a special case as well:
A mortal lack of serif fonts would be
A certain kind of typographic hell
With Comic Sans for all eternity.
In death, the Roman lettering is best.
May flights of serifs sing thee to thy rest.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC