"inboxes" poems
We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.
Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.
Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.
We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.
But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-
are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.
Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...
...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?
Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
We worship the net
We understand the reason why google starts with 'go..'
We give the 'd' while praying in our inboxes,
The only place we think under, these boxes.
I was blinded by the Jozi city lights,
Chasing false fortunes,
Got lost in people's comments and complements.
Last time I closed my eyes I was somewhere in South Africa.
Today am somewhere on google map,
Planting trigo-station every time I get high.
If you find me standing before the burning bridges,
Show me a path leading to the South Africa Mandela was talking about.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC
Notes passed in class:
Circle yes no or maybe.
Pages torn from diaries and journals:
Tonight I think I might love...
Haikus carved into the metal floor of the hole where your books are hidden during a quiz:
"School's a chore learning
2B a bore 4eva
while even ugly ducks soar"
Texts sent flickerfast explain why we're still fighting.
ME: And then you said...
YOU: I don't wanna read this ****
ME: OMFG this **** is what you said!
Emails from spambots clot inboxes with poems that are better than those from most flapping quills and tapping claws,
because they have no reason:
"Earstwhile Hardly asked an clocks raging spleeded
Pills pull grimy stovepots into a curdle stoop.
Click Here. Click Here. Click Here."
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
God **** it!
I misunderstood everything
Your touch
The way you look at me
Your calls at night
Your e-mails
I'm a fool to think
That you love me
Then one day you're gone
You stopped caring about me
I can't feel your presence
Like crazy, every minute
I'm checking my accounts inboxes
God I love you so much
That even though it hurts
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop caring for you
I can't stop thinking about you
Where are you now?
Just one message and all my worries will be gone
I'm crazy, maybe you don’t want me because I'm crazy about you
And I hate my self for being a fool
And I also love my self for being crazy
If being crazy means loving you.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
I can be a waste of time,
electrons dripping into my veins
through my eye socket
assaulting my ear canal
directly into my brains.
When my purpose is stretched
between too many ambitions
it is easily punctured
by the buzz of inboxes,
and mindless online exhibitions.
I gorge on useless tips and viral videos
positioning my open mouth
below the gaping search box
as I pull the lever again and again
and my willpower goes south.
Each stray thought, each nagging question
is an excuse to trade concentration
for an immediate rush,
a canonical ******
of electronic validation.
I pull as hard as I can,
interrupting the current
feeding these diversions.
The network inside my brain lights up,
completing my inner circuit.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
i am a woman made
of countless triggers never warned
(**i don’t need a ******* trigger warning, I pull them every day**)
of unnoticed scars
(i heal too fast and am too clever at hiding them)
and uncounted skipped meals
(because i’m too good at lying and too fat to have a eating disorder)
of empty pill bottles and whiskey bottles and ****** wrappers and inboxes
of unspoken dependence
and too much *****
(because i used to like to drink too much so that i could flirt with death
& if I survived I could feel thinner in the morning)
but all that is changing in the morning
but right now it feels good to feel drunk
and that’s okay
because I’d rather feel drunk and alone under flannel sheets
than ever
you lot again
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
in a dimly lit computer shop.
Hacker?
*no. ****** of infidel inboxes*.
Wow. Computer genius
lucid dreamer, green-horn.
Mystic?
poet.
A lover then?
*no. just a hacker of heart,
a forsaken grass*.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Thank you hello poetry
for making me feel worthy.
Here I can write
And can freely create.
I need no validation
and self-promotion.
It's a unique platform
or a stage to perform
On my own ,to rewind
Time or say what's on my mind.
Here I always feel fine
Once I have the available time
Here I shake no hands
Match to no bands
But when I make a mistake
Somebody wide awake
Inboxes me and respectfully says
You might want to take a look at this
I seriously like this
So I honestly pray
each and every day
to stay
And be very active
And have another perspective
I feel connected
Here ,I feel respected
the emotion, the hype
Just my place and my type
For completion of this process
to other platforms, no disrespect
from poets here, I get more respect!
© IvanBrooksPoetry
29/8/2018
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 4:11 AM UTC
YOU saw him in a Facebook group:
•U check his Profile picture.
•He Drives A Range Rover Sport 2016.
.He is handsome.
•He inboxes you.
•You reply, all excited.
•You'll want 2 hook up.
•You set a date.
•You dress up that Legging With No underwear.
•Smelling good.
•You put on a makeup - fresh breath and new weave.
•He takes you 4 lunch @ Serena Hotel.
•He Takes you for - Drinks At Java.
•You two have a good time.
•He rubs your hand,
•Makes you laugh,
•Gives you looks and smiles.
•You stupidly fall in love.
•It's like you've known him Forever.
•He takes you to his apartment.
•He makes you feel comfortable and lays u on his bed.
•Kiss you passionately.
•You love his aggression, strength, power and you give in.
•It feels good.
•You know it's wrong, but it feels good.
•You ask for protection, he says it's too late.
•You obey and don't disturb.
•He says he loves you and you don't hesitate to say you love him too. He hits it nice and slow
•After, he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
•He helps you drink it, ooohh man.
•You feel special.
•"He must be the one" you think to yourself.
•You get dressed.
•He takes you to the taxi park.
•He kisses you on the cheeks and says
•"I had a great time,"
•Gives You cash.
•U smile and say.
•"See you tomorrow babe."
• He stays silent.
•Your taxi drives away,
•In the taxi u can't stop smiling.
•You get home and inbox him that you got home safe.
•He is online, but doesn't reply.
•It's unlike him, so you inbox him again.
•He doesn't respond.
•Minutes later you can't find him on ur friend list.
•HE BLOCKED YOU.
•Days, weeks, months passes by.
•You start feeling sick, weak, loose weight, act strange with sores in your mouth.
•You go to the clinic.
•Get tested.
•Minutes later,
•Nurse walks in."I'm sorry. You're *** Positive and Pregnant!"
•".HOW ?"
•You don't understand.
•Reality hits you.
•You walk home.
•Scared.
•Confused.
•You go to the bus stop.
•You lay, hopeless, emotionless.
•You see death coming nearer.
•You look into the sky & mumble a prayer.
That's the end of you.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
-----
A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough
propositioned to the Ladybug
one carton of American Spirits from Montreal.
the first time I saw a warning label scuttle.
"PERTE DE LA VUE"
you can always trust matches to light the neglected beetle,
clinging his chest.
we stumble, to entangle.
White birch wood weaving baskets from branches
caskets from canvas
red/black marble sloppy, from rose goggles.
I blot Rorschach ink from
my eyes, a blind linguist, lost
in messenger inboxes.
"Malakh"
"Maraszatal"
blind luck
killing Lady Bugs.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
Somewhere between
Our stolen glimpses,
Our avoided phone calls,
Our empty inboxes,
Our overflowing diaries,
Our false excuses,
Our truthful lies,
Our passionless conversations,
Our emotional poems,
Our unkept promises,
Our treasured secrets,
Somewhere between us,
We lost each other,
And found ourselves.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
It’s good, but not what we’re looking for right now.
Oh, but it stings. And how!
The position’s closed, better luck next time
Your lips are bruised purple from that smile.
We loved it, but it doesn’t fit with our current line-up
You take a bitter sip of the salty tea-cup.
It’s good, dear, just not for me
You nod, you understand, ‘cause it ever is.
Your throat stings from not screaming loud enough,
Frustration the itch of a swallowed cough.
You’ve heard it a hundred times, and yet the hundred-and-first
Burns like every regret thrice reimbursed.
But while they wound, they aren’t nearly as bad,
As the radio silence of indifference ironclad.
Refreshed inboxes and double-checked call logs tell
The sordid tale of a dream drowning in the wishing well.
Vacancies disappear and resumes languish
Receptionists pout in parodied anguish.
It’s never you, it’s always them,
It’s never you’re-not-good-enough, it’s always not-the-right-fit.
It’s all the same, yet unique every time
Nobody’s got a minute, but asking’s not a crime.
It’s self-flagellation with a calling card
We don’t give a **** best regards.
Your name’s not on this list, or the next one
And yet you walk, ‘cause you can’t outrun
The ghost of a dream, of a hope long gone
Of finding the happily-ever-after in life’s lexicon.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
Hi guys I see I have lots of inboxes just give me a little bit to respond to you guys I’ve been super busy lately xo ps you guys are lovely
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
there are 2 gigabytes on my phone of voicemails and 99% are from you and i wonder if our inboxes mirror each other or if you deleted the ones i used to send you
i thought i would have a lifetime of "goodnight and i love you"s
now all i am left with is a slow phone and the inability to call anyone
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
craigslist posting said
"ill eat your ***
and i passed over
thirty years old
lonely as ****
society of social media
filled of disinterested persons of interest
not gay but looking
desperation fills each page
***** pics of distant rage
and empty inboxes declare
**** me, i"m worth it"
woman are no better
more seductive, entirely more pleasant
yet from my perspective
each picture cries a natural hunger
for someone to hold the chains
for someone to pass the blame
for someone to entertain her games
and my hard on falls past Niagara.
because she dies inside
because she seems to have no hope
because we've been secluded to the dark corners
of the ******* internet
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
this is getting too toxic
in my hopes of getting the likes, the reactions, the followers i want from people
this isn’t healthy
for everyday checking my social media to check my inboxes just to see I received nothing from the person i wish would message me
this is not by the influence of our society
it is simply just me
with the idea that being famous
that by being loved by everyone
is the key
to get out of being lonely
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC