"handwriting" poems
I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
97.4k
Did you know you sound blue
That I feel yellow when you laugh
That your small hums make the air orange
Did you know your handwriting is pastel
And the way you run your hands through your hair is aqua marine
And the way you walk is every shade of neon
Did you know that when you fidget I see sparks of silver
And your smile is scarlet red
And that when you look at me
I feel violet in my finger tips
Did you know that you are the number 7
Or that I smell amber when I read your name
Or that I can't call you just one,
Because every colour comes to mind
Whenever I think of you
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:08 AM UTC
Never again,
Never ever again,
Will I ever type my work up!
I'll save myself from computer err
By handwriting my poems.
Then and only then
Will I put them to the computer!
The self hatred,
The hate for technology,
Increases as my rage boils over.
Realizing that all the words,
All my emotions and feelings,
So thoughtfully phrased and typed,
Are lost,
Is a feeling like no other.
Rewriting the words,
Trying to remember exact phrases,
Is just painful!
Never again,
Never ever again,
Will I ever type my work up!
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
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Misogyny,
The hatered, objectification, and sexualization of women
His hands were too big for my eight year old body
My stomach turned in ways I could only describe as "icky"
I screamed until I could no longer feel any breath left in my lungs
"Stop it! Please! I don't like this game. Daddy stop!"
Time slows
Seeming like an eternity
Every touch was like a sparkler
Burning while tracing the path his fingers left on my body
When he was finally done
I gathered my thoughts and prayed to God to save me
When I went to the bathroom to clean up
I saw his handwriting on the mirror
Scrawled across it was a verse saying Hell was my only destiny
My body is not a bag of bones for you to play with and the burry
Poisonous words foam from your mouth like rabid dogs You pick pieces of my pride from your teeth
You think it’s okay to mess with women
To make them feel vulnerable
Just because you have a Napoleon Bonaparte complex That does not give you the right to steal our self-esteem To make up for the lack of your own
You say “Well maybe YOU shouldn’t have worn those slutty heals,
Or that dress,
Or your hair that way.”
You say “Maybe YOU should have done something
to avoid being a target.”
You say “Stop being so disrespectful.
I just wanted to see your ****
You have a real flair for excuses
So excuse me when I tell you
You will regret messing with a woman like me
You see, I keep my heart strapped to my steel-toed combat boots
And an army of mistreated women of speed-dial
We will hold you captive and make our war paint from your blood
As ransom notes fall from your mouth
With the words “I’m sorry” scrawled across them I hate to break it to you
But those words won’t sew up the open wounds you left us with
When you came in to *** in and steal our innocence
The thing you don’t seem to realize is
You might have taken our innocence
But that’s not what we are made of
We consume strength for breakfast,
Courage for lunch,
Wisdom for dinner,
And guys like you for a midnight snack.
We’re not just warriors
Were survivors
What you do to us doesn't define us
Were not broken
Were beautiful
And the more I think about it
You’re just dogs chained to a tree
While I’m the person
Who’s going to put your treachery to sleep.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
A vacant room of dark spaces,
where furniture once lay
An empty lot of trash and cracked concrete
Where weeds take root with hopes of becoming trees
And cobwebs span for miles
Worn wind chimes still glisten in sun
Papers of bad handwriting fly with the wind
This place left unoccupied for so much time
Small lives make home in the walls,
While this home settles further beneath dirt
This place reminds me of our forgetfulness, our need to not rebuild
As a place turns old we leave it behind,
never to fix again,
never to feel loved again
Weeping floorboards
Walls crying tears of yellow paint
Roof caving in feeling hollow
Abandoned places
Forgotten
Always forgotten
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Cursive attempts;
simple words
misread
misinterpreted
mislead
every juncture
appendage
spins
dear readers
a web of confusion
blame not the spider
deceiving its prey.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
sometimes i feel like
sometimes
sometimes i feel like i'm in a dream
but only sometimes
and it's foggy
it's hard to tell
maybe i'm awake and it's more clear than my usual dreams
but then
what if i'm dreaming
what if i'm not real
what if
what
is going on
and my brain goes in a million different directions
my handwriting is messy
so is my head, i guess
that's all
i guess
i don't know
my hands are just making words
this room is filled with a cloud
hey guys
my name is ally and i think
i may be dreaming
how about you
how are you
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Just like your handwriting
You’re a mess
You hide yourself
By cunning words
Trying to disguise how you really feel
But that’s okay
I see right through the facade
You are the type of guy
Who sometimes cries alone
In his room
The type of guy
Who teases and messes with girls
Making them feel awful
Because it’s hard to express how you really feel
You are the type of guy
Who never shows his inner thoughts
You don’t believe anyone will understand
The chaos in your mind
But that’s okay
I see right through it
I am the type of girl
Who’s willing to put
My heart out there
However
You are the type of guy
Who never sees
A girl like me.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
i am worn books and french vocabulary, ice cold chai and steaming earl grey. i am stone stares and eyes watering, uncertainty in silence and sharp decisive conversation. i am shaking hands and reciting poetry during anxiety attacks and i am indie rock showers and top-of-your-lungs pop radio in the car. i am empathy without sympathy, crying in the bathroom stall and i am childhood cartoons and your favorite stuffed animal and the beach in the summer. i am desperate to be alone and desperate to scream and desperate to find someone who knows what i mean and still likes me. i am comfort zone constellations, Orion's belt on every nighttime stroll, i am the hollow tree in the backyard of the house we don't own and i am my handwriting and the words in my poems. i am everything you have made me out to be and i hate that; hate that you see all my flaws so clearly but that isn't all of me and i know that now.
i am the trinkets my grandmother left me and her eyes when she looked at me and the way she cried when she read my poetry. i am a thousand ways i have loved those dear to me and the children who fall asleep on me and the way my cat runs to me and i don't need your or anyone's approval but God's and my own. thanks anyway.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
A smudged grainy ring against blue lines
it cuts through his handwriting like a breadknife
the blue ink ripples with the water-damaged paper
reassuringly human amidst the bleached whiteness
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
There will never come a day:
1.
I stuck my head out of the window in rain
Without looking for your presence in between
2.
I drink coffee, any kind of coffee
Without pretending it's you I am drinking
3.
I see lines of poetries
Without reading it in your handwriting
4.
I blow a candle
Without imagining it's her in your heart
(I tried to read a boring book as if
it were your letters ----
But you've never sent me one)
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
As her fingertips brushed through the fragile pages;
familiar notes of handwriting flit onto her lips, then her ears. She could almost hear his voice again.
The thin, ribboned memories sweetly tie themselves into the hollow spaces. The one on the left side of her wrist, the little corner behind the eye socket.
And especially, the ones where she holds her breath, hoping her very heartbeat would be enough.
Enough rhyme & reason to stay here.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
Because when I was 4, my mom told me that I could not like blue because it was a 'boy' colour.
Because when I was 5, the kids at kindergarten made fun of me for my 'boy' hairstyle.
Because when I was 6, dad refused to buy me a toy car because it is a 'boy' toy. He got me a Barbie doll. 'Good for girls,' he said.
Because when I was 7, my teacher scolded my for my 'boy' handwriting.
Because when I was 8,after a bad fall, my mom lamented that I would never be able to wear a skirt, instead of asking if I was ok.
Because when I was 9 I watched as my relatives mocked my male cousin for cooking. "Leave it to the women" they said.
Because when I was 10, I was told that I ran like a girl. 'But I am a girl', I said. They laughed at my innocence.
Because when I was 11, I was warned my my mother that I would be too fat to be loved. As though his love had to be spread all over my fats.
Because when I was 12, puberty started and the acne set in. It was my mom's worst nightmare.
Because when I was 13, my mom reemphasised that I was too fat to be loved. I felt like ****
Because when I was 14, I starved myself so that I would be beautiful. I did look like a 'proper girl', my parents agreed.
Because when I was 15, the stress of impending national exams got to me and my hair started to fall out. My mom prayed for my soul, and my scalp.
Because when I was 16, in the car 37 minutes ago. My mom scolded me for my acne scars, saying that I was too scarred to ever get a job, or a husband. Most importantly a husband.
Because gender roles affect us all, male or female. Stop labelling people.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
Forgetting is…
Forgetting is being told you've had two birthdays, for the fourth time,
Talk about a surprise party.
Forgetting is calling a number that has been disconnected for nearly three years and still expecting an answer.
Can I leave a message?
Forgetting is family portraits with a stranger in each one whom you cannot help but miss.
They say you have his smile.
Forgetting is not being able to close your eyes for longer than 8 seconds without thinking yourself 800 miles away.
How did I get here?
Forgetting is waking up from nightmares 7 times a night,
Right into another one.
Forgetting is the feeling of walking into a room and not remembering what you came for,
All the time.
Forgetting is wondering why the words "I love you" sit perched on your lips ready to take off,
When they have nowhere to land.
Forgetting is coming to in a room you don't recognize and slowly realizing that it's yours.
Welcome home.
Trying to remember is...
Trying to remember is running face first into a brick wall that you used to know was there,
Didn't you?
Trying to remember is riding a bike up a hill without any pedals.
Remember that time?
Trying to remember is being waterboarded in a bucket of question marks and memory fragments.
How do you feel?
Trying to remember is looking back at what you had written only moments before and being convinced that someone is in your house
And they have your handwriting.
Who's there?
Remembering is…
Something I've forgotten.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
As a student you hold a pen,
Just so very often.
Hold it carefully and take its care,
For it can get broken.
Threading all the letters beautifully,
Cursive you write so neat.
We complement each other,
That too so well.
You need polishing just a bit more,
I need a lot of it.
Earlier my handwriting used to be worse,
But now it has improved as you have come.
Come and write your name,
Not on paper but on my arm.
Come now and come closer to me,
This feels like a dream materialized.
Now that Both have chosen The Best,
I am just glad that we chose each other.
I look at your handwriting,
It means the world to me dear.
When your heart is so beautiful,
Your handwriting is also gorgeous.
Yeah you saw my handwriting,
It is not like your elegant one.
So I am content that our children'll have beautiful handwritings.
Your handwriting tells me that you're innocent,
It also showcases a beautiful heart which I love.
Capitalize on your boon of good handwriting,
Success beckons you and now you just need to study sincerely.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
This is a lot more formal than writing it out for you, besides you usually can’t read my handwriting anyways. I’m sure you’re sick of my notes by now, but later in life they might matter, or we might break up and burning them might be part of your healing process. Being with you has changed my life drastically, in the best way possible, I didn’t want to live. I had no hope for my future, I felt as if I was standing three feet in cement and I was sinking fast. And then a man with ******** comments came into my life for whatever reason, and changed me for the better. I want to succeed, be the best woman possible for you, though I make you mad at times because of my quick temper and tendency to befriend a bit too many guys, I appreciate you in more ways than you can ever imagine.
I have never met a man as kind as you, or a man who cares so much about the people he loves. Loyalty has always meant something to me because I never had it; the amount of people that have been disloyal sickens me at times, for I was the one to believe they were something different. Yet, I found you; you are the most loyal man I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Being with you feels different, I have never craved the attention of anyone before, but having you with me eases whatever pain I’ve felt in the last couple of days. Our relationship has been something I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world; you’ve accepted me as myself and loved me for my flaws. I am but a plain girl to be frank, I am not extraordinary or exceptional, but holding your hand, or lying next to you, makes me feel beautiful for whatever reason.
I haven’t had the courage to tell you ever story in my head, or blurt out every thought in my head for I fear I am partially insane. You put up with me wishing I was a leaf, theories on dead birds, and the habit of my resting in too many trees. Just the fact that you’re willing to climb trees with me, or explain how beautiful crows are, makes me fall so deeply in love with the person you are. I understand at times why so many people adore you, as beautiful as a person you are. Being without you feels like two thirds of me are missing, as if I have ghost limbs and I keep reaching out to see if you’re there when you’re not. I love you immensely, though I love you doesn’t compare to the way I feel, words or actions can’t describe who you are to me.
You treat me as if letting me go would be the end of the world and I thought I didn’t understand that until I think of the thought of you leaving. Thoughts like these steal my breath away, and the ground beneath me, because losing you means losing a part of whom I am, and that is terrifying.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
I hope she knows what she's getting herself into.
I hope she knows what your heart sounds like after a night of
comparisons between her handwriting and mine.
I want you to know that I am through with dumbing
myself down to fit inside your god complexed hands.
Don't tell me I never tried to save us.
I wrote you songs with knives on my palms
and your ears were anything but listening.
I had a dream about you every night since you told me
you didn't know how to love anything with a heartbeat and hope.
I started sleeping again when you came back, and oh when you came back...
I am not sorry that my temper is as short as the lifespan of us.
I am not sorry that your smile is the only one that ever made me
want to wake up in the morning.
I am all pain and long long longing and she has always been
a storm with a heart dead set on your stillness.
Our problem is that I never stop shaking long enough for the dust to settle.
I've been writing with the same pen for four years and
you still only recognize my words when she plays them back.
Let it not be confused, foggy or incomprehensible-
you were the one.
Until the one became none and I stopped being a number when you stopped counting miles.
I hope she loves harder than a woman with dementia, relearning parts of you every morning
in the places you reserved with my first and your last- maybe next time.
Maybe next time, maybe next life will be different.
Maybe I'll be patient, stronger, I'll stop covering my smile. You'll stop pretending to be in love.
I will stop shaking and the dust will settle and her poetry will make you sick.
Her poetry will sprout evening primroses and she won't know that you always fall asleep before midnight
or that you're allergic to flowers that bloom when the sun is down.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her;
The sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery,
The delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five,
The selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another,
The scent of new books in the store,
The surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.
You must remember when she forgets.
You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you;
Your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality,
Your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly,
Your mindless humming when it is too quiet,
Your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper,
Your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite,
And more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.
She remembers when you forget.
You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is.
When you make her feel that she is replaceable.
She wants to feel cherished.
When you make her feel that you are fleeting.
She wants you to stay.
When you make her feel inadequate.
She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.
You must learn her.
You must know the reason why she is silent.
You must trace her weakest spots.
You must write to her.
You must remind her that you are there.
You must know how long it takes for her to give up.
You must be there to hold her when she is about to.
You must love her because many have tried and failed.
And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.
And, this is how you keep her.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
We all have different handwriting.
There are people, graphologists, who dedicate their entire lives, to understanding handwriting. A singular letter formed, can let them see into a persons mind. It can bring to light a persons inner thoughts, emotions, views on the world && themselves. Despite the fact that several charts are created, identically, of the proper formation of each letter, no two people write the same way. We all see the same chart, && create something else entirely.
If that alone, does not show you how individual we all are, how each of us distinctively perceive the exact same thing, than I don't know what will.
Stop trying to be like everyone else,
when you were born to be you,
because you,
are something special.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
she asked for
a birthday calendar
simplistic in design
quite endearing
nonetheless
to collate
each and every
important date
mark them down
in her neatest
clearest handwriting
she thought that
if she hung it
in pride of place
on the wall
by the kitchen door
her eye would
be drawn to it
each time
she left the room
she would not
forget to send
the appropriate message
of congratulations
and many happy returns
when needed
or expected;
yet although
the calendar may
coincidentally
be showing
the correct month
it has remained
on that page
untouched
ignored or
unheeded
for the past
eleven months
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
Notes on your window
So subtly appear
As though they came from thin air
No rhyme, but reason
A familiar flick of the e's in everything
Glimpse of hope
A handwriting technique you know well
Smeared ink against the fibers
Calling out for one last message
They seem to procreate every few weeks
A simple one
Minimalistic hopes of something
Nothing more to lose
Just a note on your window
Signed by a smeared "O"
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
the museum of my heart
has a blurry picture of his green eyes
the boy whose I name I never knew
there's a special exhibit
of all the bathrooms I had a breakdown in
there's polaroid pictures hanging
of all the friends I lost through the years
and all the friends who lost me
there's the poetry I wrote about them
words written in red ink and messy handwriting
there's statues of copper and tin
of all the lovers who couldn't love me
there's a constant humming of white noise and lo-fi
echoes of unspoken words I kept and ones I never heard
there's a selection of wingless butterflies
and a collection of blunt pencil sharpener blades
there's a basket of fortune cookies
and every single piece of paper carries the same aphorism:
"amidst the loneliness, the things you loved will forever haunt you."
there's old tv sets and a stack of DVD's
of all the films I wish I'd seen
there's all the skeletons I've hidden
secrets written on napkins and snuck between the wall cracks
there's a brand new guillotine and a golden noose
carefully kept for anyone who tries to hurt me
there's blackberry trees, an open ceiling
and dark splatters covering the ground beneath it
there's a chapel with empty seats and burned bible verses
rose petals and pink, lilac and blue candles
where an altar waits for a future love's mementos
there's a fountain of sweat, blood & tears
there's me standing in the corner
waiting to hand you your ticket and lure you in
there's angels and devils praying that you make it to the end of the tour
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 8:19 PM UTC