"keychain" poems
saw a new woman tonight
not like that
i dont even know her name
barely had the nerve to look at her
her body so good
hair was different
face that looks cute
and left me feeling dipped ****
i couldnt help but stare
western keychain the only remembrance
why do i want her so bad
our eyes did the shmoney dance
spastic but seeming to enhance
my thirst of the if
the how did we both get here
am i the only one feeling this
or is this just a girl
not a blur
i was on pre workout and was probably just creeping
after all
who out of any of us can saw they can sing like the weeknd
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
i was told i could be anything,
so i chose to be a feminist
because
when i suggested my father help with the laundry,
my mother told me i was crazy.
because
meghan tranior's "all about that bass"
is telling bigger girls to be comfortable in their own skin
because skinny girls already do, right?
because
i'd like to make as much as my male coworkers.
because
i was laughed at for wanting to be a doctor instead of a housewife.
because
people look at me strange when i say i don't want kids.
because
when i gave a speech about feminism in my english class,
i was called a man-hater.
because
"my shoulders distract the boy's education".
because
my mom shouldn't have to worry
about what goes in my drink at concerts.
i will be a feminist until
i can tell my boyfriend
"no babe, i'd rather watch the movie"
and i am not told
"you're depriving him of his needs".
until
my body is my body.
until
i no longer have to carry pepper spray on a keychain.
until
women in foreign countries can vote and drive.
until
woman means human.
until
we understand **** culture
and feminism isn't just about women,
it's about humans.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
2003, where did you go?
My Scene dolls and All Time Low
Red Jeeps and glitter cheeks
Thirteen and hip hop beats
Tube tops, pop n lock
Don't forget your frosted lipgloss
Butterflies and Blink's First Date
"Forever Yours" on a silver keychain
Belly rings, snorting pills stings
Tiered skirts and ankle bling
TLR, Summerland
South of Nowhere, Degrassi: The Next Gen
Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton
Travis Barker and Ashlee Simpson
Fall Out Boy and Timbaland
Pete Wentz almost ended it
Promiscuous, Grand Theft Autumn
Jeans hung low, and girl you got em
I wanna live there over again
Everything was better then
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 3:57 AM UTC
Have you ever done something
and then could not believe
it could possibly have been you?
Have you ever said something
and then cringed when you heard it
exiting your mouth?
That would be me, sometimes . . .
Or, while mentally calculating
your accumulating grocery bill,
have you run into a friend
only to completely lose count?
I have stood in front of the door to my home
trying to lock or unlock the door
using the keyless entry fob from my car.
I have done this --- more than once.
I have, months after getting rid of that car,
searched for its keyless entry fob
on my keychain.
I have spent hours and days
searching for glasses on my head,
for keys that I was holding,
for the purse on my shoulder,
and have managed to miss them completely.
I have called information for a number,
written it down,
and then had to call them back
because I misplaced the number before I could redial the phone.
I have neglected friends and family,
duties and responsibilities,
not from lack of love
or sound intention,
but merely by allowing myself to be distracted.
If I had followed up
on what I knew at seventeen
whales, sharks, mankind ---
might already be saved.
Who knows what my focused mind might have accomplished?
But instead
I put myself to sleep
because the real world
was far too much to bear,
and living in books and dreams
so very much safer
than all the dysfunction awaiting outside.
I met my soulmate at twenty
and then left him behind
marrying one man,
and then another,
who never got me -
instead of the one and only man who truly did.
There's a reason that God protects children and Fools.
There's a purity of heart,
an innocence of spirit,
and . . . occasional lapses in intellect.
So, for all of the lessons I've learned and I've lost,
There are worse things than being a Fool.
Which I remind myself again
as I accidentally call my own cell phone
and then hang up my land line to answer the call.
In parting, I offer what I finally learned, which is
This above all:
To thine own Fool be true.
Cori MacNaughton
6Apr2005
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
My percussion teacher, fresh out of surgery:
Going down the line of kids at attention -
Checking the attention - my percussion teacher
In a wheelchair gliding down the line -
Fresh out of surgery - sliding down the line
Of kids at attention with heads bowed.
My percussion teacher with the aching back;
My percussion teacher, fresh out of surgery
(With the pill keeper on her keychain)
Wheeling down the line of insecure children -
Checking the attention - my percussion teacher
Calling "Chin up, chest out, back straight,"
(Fresh out of back surgery) going down the line,
"Don't lock your knees, be proud."
My percussion teacher weeks after surgery
With the back pain and the brave face,
At a Christmas parade
My percussion teacher gliding beside the drums
Chair whirring between beats, my teacher
Whispering, "roll step, back straight, chin up,
Be proud."
My teacher in her home at New Year's,
Recovered and childish, months after surgery
"Look, I'm taller now? Wanna see my scar?"
Yes I want to see it, yes of course - that scar,
That pride twisting pink across your chest, yes.
Yes, because your chin is up,
And your back is straight.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
I'm a gambling man
all or nothing
over and over again
I've lost all I had
only to start over
and pray i get it back
So just know
Im a gambling man
all or nothing
I'm putting my whole life at risk
so spin the wheel
show your hand
flip that 16 as i call for a monkey
holding on to my lucky Keychain necklace
Im taking everything I have
and I'm putting it on you
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
Forget everything you've heard about ************
It is not pathetic. It is not ***** It does exist for women.
It is not replacing an absence of ****** fulfillment.
Concept: we all posses the power to be our own ****** fulfillment.
Yes, you posses magic that can send lighting across your trembling skin. Your hand needs no navigational assistance; it moves with the wholesome earth of your body, the rolls and valleys of flesh, all while following networks of crackling nerves and goosebumps.
Feel your heart beating in your chest!
Feel your ***** thrum with life and vitality,
Your digits are like brushes, learning the canvas they paint. The wet paint dripping down your leg is a sure sign of a masterpiece on the horizon.
The spread of the sky, like the spread of your legs, is vast, and not completely known. Your fingers are long skeleton keys, keen to unlocking your own passionate ****** and sweeping pleasure.
That majesty and mystery of what dwells in the valley of your thighs, the mouth of your womb, will draw many to the mountain silhouettes of your bent legs.
Of course, the keys that best fit will always swing from your keychain.
There is no shame in knowing the bounty of your own body,
the same way that no one blames volcanologists for
the study of hot, flowing earth.
We are privileged to explore our own unique topography, memorizing maps of our rises and falls, creating a seismic shift beneath our skin, and letting loose pent up pleasure and pressure and sensation.
It is our own divine action. We are gods of our own earthly bodies.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
COLD, HARD flesh - a very lonely girl in a room filled with fluttering moths and fully-functional nooses
- Makes a game plan, in an effort to:
- penetrate your wavering, wandering, yet wholly conscious mind
(The fate - the fear - lurks in the futility, the fragility, of your unsuspecting ears)
- Equipped with: an anchor (the rock-climbing kind, in order to avoid a metaphor), followed by some paper (and a pen - the use of my blood as script seems overly dramatic), and - a concoction of incredible (and edible!!) proportions
THE GOAL:
- To become the smallest presence possible, to take up the tiniest amount of space in the real and imagined world, and to in turn envelope your very existence - like a Sunday driver in rush hour
- with emphasis on:
The slope of your neck - I could mount my anchor into it and climb for days; I could nest in your ****** Youth cut when I reach the top, I could build the world's smallest fire with the world's saddest hands
STEP ONE:
When secured in predesignated cocoon, I will unleash the first sheaf - a perforated edge - and enclose a minuscule fragment of my still-breathing soul (for your keychain, perhaps, but preferably your pocket)
STEP TWO:
I will mail you a fraction (incidentally, a subject I still can't grasp) every week until:
- I have decreased in size with each turn, I get smaller and smaller until my tangibility disappears entirely and the only presence left of me is a slip that reads:
- apply to areas affected (only as directed)
Wait! No, not only that- my very own subconscious now rests inside your "thinking cap"
- INTRODUCING: Your every day monotony, now littered with:
- 17 scratched mix CDs you didn't want to listen to
- 4 dogs I secretly liked (and only you knew)
- a bright pink dumpster, largely livable
- a rusted mailbox with an ocean in full
- soundless Skype calls in stolen sweaters
- alphabet soup with undiscernable letters
- the unfaltering presence of a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness - confused with the very small and haunted town I couldn't leave to see you - and last but not least -
The ceaseless, repeated chorus of "you belong to me", like an immortal fly in an endless August dream
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
If you ask me if I am fluent in Spanish
I will tell you my Spanish is a mix of english
and spanish rubbing against each other
in my mouth like spitting fire
My spanish is my whole life from my youth
to my death
My Spanish is on my resume as a skill
And not something that can sit still
You see There is no telling my spanish
to be quiet
My spanish don’t know “quiet”
My spanish is spicy sounds that some people
Have a hard time to understand
My spanish sits in the corner of a classroom
Chews on a pencils, does not raise its hand
My spanish is chaotic, broken, and slightly misspoken
something that I have to choose
to remember correctly
My spanish is true story
My spanish is my grandparents
Giving me presents
that they brought back from Mexico
At least I hope they would have
My spanish is a broken clock radio that never
gets fixed but still works
And yes there are perks
My spanish is people asking me if my parents
are american if I am white
My spanish is having to prove that
I am mexican, because saying it was never enough
My spanish is my abuelita leaving a country
that she loves to give her family an entry to opportunities
And english sat in her mouth
remixed so strawberry became “ e streberry ”
And Kitchen, keychain and chicken all sound the same.
My spanish is my accent that
reminds me where i come from
And That we are still
bomba, plena, salsa, and guepa
Something that is too
stubborn for your whitewash
Not something that you can erase
Rather something that I embrace
My spanish is my dad working his whole life
so i can live in security
And not have to worry about disparity
My spanish is the first question that my
grandmother asked about me
“what color is she”
My spanish is my sister,
A blond blue eyed beauty
That always took priority
My spanish is people thinking that
My dad was my gardener
My spanish is people being petrified
when I spoke to my father
My spanish knowns that there are letters
that will always be silent
There are words that will always escape me
My spanish is my whole body
A sound that rumbles in my
chest and rolls off my tongue
My spanish is something that is shut off
when I am surrounded by white walls
But my spanish does not believe in
boundaries or borders
My spanish believes in building bridges
and not taking orders
From an orange man with tiny hands
that is an assaulter
My spanish, my spanish is a sword
that allows my words
To fly like the birds and be freed
My Spanish is my drive to succeed
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
in response to matthew zapruder's "come on all you ghosts," section ii
I.
I see what you mean about fathers; lately
my father has been the only ghost I know. He
mostly stands in doorways, mostly to say goodnight.
II.
Please tell me more about what it’s like to listen
to your father cough. Mine never has; I wasn’t even born yet
when someone stole his lungs, hid them away in a graveyard.
III.
I think I want a keychain like yours. No not
a keychain, but something just as much a corpse. Mostly
just a portrait of my father, maybe I’ll take your keychain
and onto it I’ll paint the portraits of everybody’s fathers.
IV.
I know I’m being called, but I don’t
feel quite like my father yet. There is
still so much pavement left for me to see,
and one day I want to be able to list all
of the names of places that I’ve lived in.
V.
I’ve lived mostly in wombs. Also
there was the taxi, and then the apartment skewed
with a crib and rats and some gunshots
from down the street. Later there was the house
by the river, and there was upstate, where
they sat in beach chairs in the parking lots
of gas stations and watched the cars drive by.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
he calls you
paperclip
not because you hold everyone together
when the wind tries so hard
to scatter souls
or because your eyes flash hints of silver
when you talk about your favorite song
or because your lip ring taints your kisses
metallic.
paperclip
because he can downsize you in an instant
replacing you with a version of yourself
that doesn’t weigh his pockets down
your body now too small to hold your essence
and a mouth that will only open wide enough
to swallow.
you are easily forgotten
but somehow always end up
attached to his keychain.
paperclip
because he can bend you to his will
and you don’t even notice
until everything else
begins falling out of your grasp.
every time he snaps you back into place
the world has only changed
but a fraction of a centimeter
and you’re used to measuring your life in kilometers.
paperclip
because he is a staple
leaving puncture wounds in everything he touches
a few drops of blood in every corner of your mind
and when you learn how to extract him from your heart
no goodbye is successful enough to patch
permanent holes you fold yourself in upon
and pretend not to notice.
to this day,
that chapter of your life remains dog-eared
and you wonder
why you still have trouble
picking locks.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
let me touch our souls together once more:
comforting insecure heart breaker pocket lover,
be mine - i show up to class but i'm
still in your bed there's
no time for sleep
only dreams of
pink hands and red tea
unconditional
keychain
of
me.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Maybe if my therapist was a Tyrannosaurus Rex
I would feel more comfortable speaking out loud,
Knowing that he wouldn't understand a word I'm saying, anyway
"I wish someone had given me an instruction manual for myself... When I was 5 my mom was concerned because I had no friends and it didn't bother me at all...
It would have been nice to know about my self-destruct button...
One day, when I was 16, I forgot to put on my bullet-proof vest and a beautiful boy (who had my heart on a keychain) shot me straight through the skull. No mercy... Is there a mirror around so I can see if there's still a hole there?
(I'd point to a picture) ... He hit me once.
... When I was 12, two girls who were supposed to be my friends held my head underwater in the swimming pool. And the adults just sat there and watched from the sidewalk as I struggled for air...
You know, it would have been nice if someone could've explained the functions I was designed to perform...
Because at this point
It's all guesswork-- am I mentally unstable?"
And the T-Rex would look up from his book, glasses shoved against his nose
And he would say,
"You've just spent the last 45 minutes talking to a dinosaur."
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
I wish I was like a key chain
A thin metallic tie to keep
The plastic shell of my mind
A series of silver links
That would jingle whispers
Of my entirety and body
Without really revealing
Anything about me
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 5:53 PM UTC
No keys have turned these locks too far
The clocks, we seized and burned
Erased? Replaced? No…
We’ve just misplaced the time
(not a waste)
Together
To get her
For the fair weather
Lesions learned
Not lessons
And not life
Scars. Burned.
Not bridges
Increase or lessen?
I’m unconcerned
The dreams did matter
It’s the wine glass, shattered on the wall
Ashes, ashes, and in the end we do not fall
Crash and clatter
Hopes and dreams?
The places once redeemed?
Now crooked like these leaves
Deceive, seethe,
Grief and release?
Please to pleasure
But mother **** the fair weather
Fine. I’ll release these ties that bind my
throat and wrist.
And I’ll give you the gist of it all
Ashes, ashes, in the end we fall
Smashed and battered
Hopes and dreams?
What the **** do they matter?
Tattered and torn
Like the wine glass, scattered on the floor
But the door shut when you walked away
But I still miss it all
I’d take the chance, the fall again
Only if I knew
Sundays may be the hardest
But for me it’s every
The envy of the other’s kiss
The other’s fu— I’m sorry… ***
The nights and weekends I reminisce
While you over(?)analyze
Unconditional, yes
As it always will
So long as it’s still free
So long as I can still breathe
And so long as I have these skeleton keys
Your keychain may be empty, but not mine
And your love… life… it may all be lost
but not mine
For I am longing, and I AM with trust
And I do care for the dust
I’ve been burned
I have the scars
But I am no different
I breathe
But not so easily anymore
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
Question marks
tucked safely in their beds
this dancing in my eardrums
is disconcerting
collapsed into a light socket
smallness becomes smaller
vitality shrunk to a keychain pendant
time leaves track marks on my body
doors crack open,
watching me think
(please, turn off the light)
laborious trains of thought
off their tracks
shrink wrap over my nose and mouth
if I knew why
I would tell you
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
That’s how it would be
I’d forever be the one
telling your doorman
“I won’t be staying”
his accusing looks
knowing I’m only around
when the Mrs. to your Mr.
isn’t
That copy of your apartment key
that won’t be returned
because you only needed two before,
rests on my keychain.
As the doorman winks, I realize
why I’m the one worth leaving
why I’m the one with bare fingers
while her’s are adorned-
she wouldn’t do this
For I love you enough
to keep coming to you
but not enough
to leave you.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
My brother told me
that if I keep dressing the way I do
and cutting my hair short
I'm going to look like a man.
I hope so.
Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
no one will tell me I can't
listen to Van Halen because
"it's guy music".
Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
they won't think I'm the antichrist
when I kiss my girlfriend.
Maybe if people think I'm a man,
they won't expect me to shave my legs
and arms
and every other area with
"unsightly hair".
Maybe if people think I'm a man,
my teacher will not tell me
to make sure I marry someone
who can support my family
and will start telling me
how to ******* support my family.
Maybe if people think I'm a man
they won't get angry at me
when I refuse to send
pornographic photos of
my body.
Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will be able to walk home
at night without pepper spray
on my keychain in case
I look too "provocative".
Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will finally get treated
with some *******
respect.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Every time
I look inward
I only see the little keychain
that dangled off the radiator when
the vacuum was on.
Whenever I
look forward
All I see is a swirling pond
and I don't know which wave
to follow
Every time I look at you
I feel remorse
for the promises I wish I could keep
Ad I feel myself drifting
I feel myself sliding.
Falling.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
That’s my old chair
The one I used to doze in
While Mr Parker droned on ‘bout maths & that
I was gonna sit down front near Kerry Keener
But in the end I thought, nah, better not, so here I sat
You see, just here, my keychain scraped the plastic
As I ragged around to try & find a comfy spot
& that bit there got scuffed
The more my trainers rubbed it
I never could sit sensible
So they said
That armrest there snapped clean off when Matty Parker
Went arsefirst backward over it, farting on,
We laughed our backs off that time, Matty too like
It’s a few years now that Matt’s been dead & gone
& round the back there
Do you clock the “I heart Lisa”
Jason compass-scrawled once before class, the cheeky ****
He knew I had a soft spot for that Lisa
I made ****** sure that Jase was out of luck
I haven’t seen that Lisa in a fair while
Jason neither like, funny how life goes
Still, you close one door, another waits ajar like
Sit still too long you won’t go far like, I suppose
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 8:03 PM UTC
I might as well be yelling, shouting, screaming at the rate this is going
Cursing the very ground you walk on
I could hand you my heart in a velvet box
and you would look at it as you would a keychain from Las Vegas
I might as well be laughing
Is there any more to do in such a situation?
Shoving your head against a wall will make you feel something, but the wall isn't going to budge
I might as well be sleeping, or trying
It would be so much more productive than lying here,
surrounded by all these bags of unanswered questions and imaginary conversations
In fact
I might as well be silent
Because no matter how heavy my restrained love may get to carry, or how paper thin my walls become around you,
no matter how desperately I hold your gaze or how genuinely you caress me in my dreams
You still refuse to take a fair risk
or give a fair chance
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
I didn't remember the cement stairs
being so widely spaced
apart.
I guess it's been a
month since I've
been back.
The top step that
used to wobble
has been
nailed back
down and
the peeling paint
continues
peeling
My key still fits
in the heavy door
and the lock still takes
a wiggling
and everything looks
like it must have before...
Love never
existed in a room like
this, in this building where
the fresh white paint
smelled lonely
Your belt looks like it
did before
and you put your bag
in the same place
you had asked me to leave you
some of my work- my art-
but empty walls suggest
you threw it
away
everything has changed, and
I hand you my key
and my keychain still
looks the
same.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
You caressed
my *******
sneakily slipping fingers beneath
my sternum
to stroke the thumping valves
of my most important *****
Suddenly
your grip tightened
heart
ripped
through my ribs
to stick in your pocket
hanging halfway out
like some sort of sick
*******
keychain
Arteries attach us to each other ever since
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC