"keying" poems
i don't want to
have these
bipolar
conversations
where i threaten,
and apologize,
and demand,
and apologize
again
i don't mean to take you
through the ringer
to make you see violence
and mood swings
i don't mean to scare you
when i don't take
my medicine
i don't mean to scare you
when i cry
for hours
i don't mean to scare you
when i scream
and punch things
i never meant to
do those things
like keying your car
i never meant to
drop everything
and go across multiple state lines
with no plans
at all
i never meant to hurt myself
until my arms
were coated in scars
for all of the times
i self-medicated
poked myself with needles
and drank away my pain,
i'm sorry
i shouldn't have taken so many xanax
you're right
i was wrong
again
i never meant for you to be
my caretaker
i hate those words
caretaker
i should be able
to take care
of myself
i'm sorry i am not managing this illness
i am very
very
ill
i'm sorry for the times
i couldn't get out of bed
couldn't eat,
couldn't move
couldn't go to work
i'm sorry for the times
i made tons of post-it notes
filled journals with ideas
bought calendars
and organization tools
i'm sorry for getting your hopes up
i really thought i could do it this time
i'm sorry for my diagnosis
i'm sorry i didn't understand how serious this is
i didn't ask to be bipolar
i didn't ask to be born
i make cases for myself
in my head
but they're all filed as
crazy
i'm sorry i was delusional
paranoid
and afraid
i'm sorry for the drug binges
i'm sorry for melting
fading
burning
and still coming back
alive
these low lows
and high highs
you've been through the ringer
when you're only supposed to be
support, a resource of compassion...
you had to be a caretaker
you didn't ask for this
and neither did i
i sometimes questioned if it was harder on you
to live with someone with bipolar disorder
than it was for me
to live with bipolar disorder
you wanted to save me
but you realized
that i can only save myself
now i'm drowning
and my lifeline is gone
i'm trying to learn to swim
i just hope i do it
before i sink
i'm sorry for all of the ****** poetry
i made you read
i'm sorry
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
you are a past mistress in this;
keying in ****** messages
with your finger tips,
in to my erogenous zones.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC
**Chillin like a villian
listenin to dylan
writin and thrillin,
as long as the good lord's willin**
*Sweatpants & a ponytail,
chillin with no make up on.
Cos' it's like my hobby now*
**Camo sleep pants
led zep tee
drinkin cold ones
and groovin to youtube**
*Watching scream queens
on netflix.
Texting & trying to figure out
what's next*
**Keying thoughts
onto my notebook
thinking hard about
a late night snack**
*Chillin like a penguin
cos' its freezing cold.
Wishing I had some hot coco.
Trying stay up late.*
**Toasty warm
inside my room
to step out for a smoke
would seal my chill**
*Chillin' is amazing.
I got the chills,
feeling like a cold hell
Wolf Spirit Poet is amazing*
**Chillin, blazin
mind **** amazin
oh these nights
dreamin and lazin**
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Fingers and thumbs tapping out messages
so many texts written, so many read, smiles apart
faces, eyes, feelings, never shared
music videos; lips and music separate
empty sounds, never tugging the heart strings.
Thumbs and fingers keying in distance
so much data, so little experience shared, time apart
laptops, smart phones, processing emptiness
unfeeling, sampling blandness, subtleties lost
empty words, crowding our lives.
Curves, flowing lines and spaces, passion
compressed
squashed out are the senses
sweat and smells, laughter lost.
All in the empty kingdom of bits and bytes
reigned by the gods of technology
the mantra being faster, faster
but still
all fingers and thumbs in the affairs of the heart.
As surely as we are propelled forward
into tomorrow
we hurtle
back to the dark ages
the dark castles of aloneness
Empty words, lost in the cells of our separation
all fingers and thumbs.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
At the mid noon hour
above the cell tower
over two frolicking kite
swoops a plane on flight.
It has grazed the sky
spotless and dry
smelling ground cavorts
nigh is airport.
Amid wind's flutter
diurnal moon quarter
eyes droop to a rest
weighed with dreams' harvest.
The plane port bound
is circling on a round
waiting landing call
slowing to a crawl.
Love this time alone
up from dirt and grime
fiddling my cellphone
keying nonsense rhyme.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke
We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant
Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion
I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back
Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
I see the sun climb the white cushions and blue oceans
I hear the mesmerizing melody of the doves stringing and keying.
I smell the aroma of roses and tangerines racing through the air and crashing into my nostrils…ecstasy.
I feel the delicate, delicious, delightful caressing massage of silky roses.
I taste the sweet sugar of life.
It is you.
Do you not see?
No. I was
Mistaken.
You leave me with…
Reality.
Innocence exiled, as a child is stabbed until Breath is livered out of him.
The pulsating bombs of Life against Hope-the genocide of the Eardrums.
The ****** sweat stench of truth lingers over the vulnerable flowers like a gaseous cloud.
The piercing needle of truth injects into every pore. Reality in. Dreams out.
Faith disintegrates in the acid, cavity stricken world with masticated Hope regurgitated at will.
It is my fault. Did i not see?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Key figure
Lock frame
Smooth curve, lower lip aligning
Jump click nose
Glide and wrinkle
Slide those teeth into me
Mouth filling with metal
Twist off, open up
Eyes slit,
Scour deep places
Creeping into nightmares
Keying gashes through
The décolleté of my brains rational
Glean wicked wonders
Slinking out
Found what you desired
Trash the place and ghost out
Cleaning off internal graffiti
Better lock up
Next time.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Maybe it's the obsidian spirit within that wishes to be in her axis spin
A topsy-turvy tango on the turnpike
My heart tries keeping pace
Embarrassment of riches, her smile never saves face
I'm spoiled to witness a heavenly Rorschach test walking
Olympic views sparkling on high
A natural one
Holy smokes
I've seen the evergreens blush red
When she brushstrokes
Her paintbrush-lush hair amidst the background of the Puget Sound
So refreshing
Trapped in her net
Outside the network of jerks
Fishing for lust
Refresh the pages
Reload the look of ages
My type of hype
She's keying in on my keen instincts
Putting wings on my desires
So heights can be admired
So fright can be delayed
In flight, I've fallen.
- Ifeanyi Okoro II
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 11:45 AM UTC
Dear little wood pecker pecking at my brain,
Please stop if you care at all about me staying sane.
You are small in shape but huge in sound and your beak is pecking and the most fragile part of the ground.
I wish you would go away, or peck at something else.
Because you see if what you were pecking was to be taken, I am not sure how I could respond.
There isn't a back up plan if that rope were to break, and i'm not sure exactly how far I would fall and to where it would take.
It is the only thing in the present I see to focus on and the only thing I see worth keying in on. If I had a back up plan, sure, you could peck away, let your beak not wander or stray. But right now your pecking at the only reality I see, so please please wood pecker would you hasten you beak.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
I want a man
who has a big
Soul
I can care less about the size of his
Bankroll
I want you to cook,
And clean,
And do the laundry,
And do the food shopping
With me.
You must play an instrument
I dont care if you ****
As long as you never quit.
Quitting is sooo
Unattractive.
I can spend the whole week inside,
I love nature, but trees don't pay the bills,
these skills keep my PayPal filled.
I want you to put the coffee on, before I wake up,
Because I forgot to set the timer,
And Put the grounds and filter in,
Even though it was my turn,
And hand me a cup as I walk into the room,
And never mention my forgetfulness.
Starched collars and dress shoes
Don't do it for me,
I need to be able to strip you down in seconds,
Not get lost in your coat and sweater vest,
On the way to your flesh.
Catch me off guard,
Make me laugh,
And I'll be yours,
Even if you grow stale,
And make me cry
I know how love works,
Because I have broken enough,
And saw the tiny cogs and gears inside.
All I want
Is someone,
Who will give me the key to their
Heart.
Let me move in, and make it my own.
And even after I wreck the place up,
In an irrational fit, and storm out,
keying your car on the way,
You'll never change the locks,
Or take my key away.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
I am not your favourite person
it is not right, you know nothing about me
I am a closed book,
don't open me to read,
the empty pages are not yours to fill,
I am normal, don't make me feel bad
It is exceptional, the part you expect me to fill still,
But I am my own person,
Keying my destiny to be apart.
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 4:12 PM UTC
I forgot the present.
I went back,
And watched a flower open yesterday.
Imagination turned real.
There was banter and banging;
Strumming and keying.
I witnessed a chick, hatching,
Breaking through.
After the picking and pecking,
Their scratching and scolding,
I paused in need of help:
*Get Out.
No one is that good*.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 11:18 AM UTC
The same rose, still red hot,
the ****** from the other world,
wide open on the ancient Earth—
mind the thorn, though;
this way, the door is closed!
Every morn, the nightingale
hops onto singing before the sun pops.
In the shadow of the visited moon,
keying in the door must be someone's boon!
Apr 23, 2024
Apr 23, 2024 at 9:42 PM UTC
I wake up to the first note of my alarm
Ringing loudly into my dreams
Pulling me from the depths of sleep
Out thru the ocean of slumber and awake
Never anytime for the snooze button
I have no extra time to spare
I set my alarm for the last possible minute
I stumble into the bathroom
Rough my hair around a little bit
And peel the sleep out of my eyes
I turn the shower on and step in
Standing still for just a few minutes
I think that maybe I may fall back asleep
A lighthearted prayer escapes my lips
Hoping the hot water will be enough
To wake me from this grogginess
But of course it never is
I’d really rather not get ready
And just crawl back into bed
Ten minutes have passed
Now it’s time to get out of the shower
And get dressed
I blindly let the dog out of her cage
Walk her outside to do her business
In the thick early morning fog
She plays around for a few minutes
It’s all the time that I can allow
We rush back up the stairs
And back into the warmth of our home
I hurriedly pack my lunch
From a limited number of choices
And empty cabinets
The dog accepts her treat
And trots back to her cage
She is trained well
The thought occurs to me
That if only people were so well behaved
Maybe I’d enjoy their company more
But I’m running late by now as usual
So I don’t have time to dwell on this thought
As I close the bedroom door
She watches me and I hear her whimper
A soft goodbye with her eyes
I grab my lunch bucket and head out the door
Muttering a poem of early morning under my breath
Which seems to hang frozen in the air
I unlock my car door and slide in
Keying the car on in one smooth practiced process
The radio booms to life because I always forget how loud
I had the music playing the previous day
And my right hand quickly reaches
For the volume **** to turn it down
But only a little
At least until I get out onto the road
Every second of my drive to work
I sit talking myself into not turning back around
To go back home and go back to sleep
Most days I’m successful and I end up at work
Punching the time clock for an eight hour or more shift
Of busting knuckles and periodic book reading
Most days though I really should just turn back around
And go back home and go back to sleep
Most days though I really should never
Have gotten out of bed in the first place
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
i live to watch the words spill from you,
hot and sticky as your fingers work
their magic. slick from sweat,
frantically flicking, thrumming
out another string
of syllables,
eclipsing me with ellipses
blinking in the bottom
left corner of the screen
keying me in:
you’re still typing.
i am a ******
afforded
a first-class seat
addicted to the way
you tease me
with your words:
gently.
slowly.
and also all at once.
i could hang
myself from the precipice
of your fingertips—
plying secret messages,
peep shows
for my eyes only.
you’re showing off,
and i can’t get enough.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 11:57 PM UTC
I want to say you've left me all broken into jagged pieces,
that luckily everyone seems to want to pick up,
but they're sharp, dude.
I'm nervous.
I've been cut so far,
before the glass was broken.
I can only wonder-
I can be soft-spoken.
I'll try for moments,
in which I'm grateful I'm not alone.
But I flip through your new pictures,
with the girl you said not to worry about,
I scurry about
memes in hand, I don't need a man,
I've buried the doubt.
I'm edgy.
I try my best to keep myself from writing my own elegy
But I know I want you to read this,
it isn't the best poetry.
It's just what I wish I could impart to you,
after keying your car and using your tooth brush
to clean my dogs *******
deuces
**** you, you abusive piece of crap.
I've contemplated messaging your new lady,
Out of the fear that just maybe
you'd grab her by the neck too,
and assume she liked being treated like ****
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Be listening to the Adagio in G,
When you go for a walk, any walk, or walk all alone, lonely
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor,
When you look South, where your life has gone, without you,
The clouds are moving bringing rain and storms, to spite you,
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and *****
When careless words leave scars, like someone keying your car,
When thoughtless people talk like you are not there or anywhere
How soon, you wonder when things will change, if, for the better?
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and ***** composed by
Remo Giazotto.
And, snap out of it!
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
i lost 5 pounds, am i skinny enough yet?
i used that lipstick you told me to use, does it look good?
i bought those new clothes everyone wears, do i look cool enough?
i join the cheer team to fit in more, do they like me yet?
i had *** with that popular guy, am i breaching my adolescence
i started smoking *** am i a cool enough stoner yet?
i started wear a full-face of makeup, am i attractive enough yet?
i shrunk my waist 5 inches, am i more desired now?
i started skipping school, am i fitting in with the status quo?
i started sneaking out, am i risky enough?
i got my nose pierced , is it edgy enough?
i dyed my hair to the blonde white you have it. so we can match?
i keyed that girls car who's such a freak, is that more acceptable
i bullied that girl and she killed herself, wasn't she such a freak?
_____________________________________________________________
im in the hospital now i lost too much weight
i ended up failing school for so much
im in debt for all the clothes i bought
the popular guy ended up getting me pregnant
i got arrested for keying her car and threatening her
my hair ended up falling out from all the bleach
my organs are shutting down from all the weight loss
i ended up addicted to drugs
my face now breakouts from all the products i used
i ruined my parents marriage by sneaking out and lying
i joined the cheer team and ended up trying to fit in
im currently dying , do i fit in enough yet?
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 5:09 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
It's time to change the record,
to spin another disc,
time to forge ahead and
make that leap, to
take a risk.
I used to **** on rusks for breakfast,
I knew that couldn't last,
how to grow up in a careless world,
to leave what passed
back in the past.
Pay one more bill that's due in,
watch my billfold get thin while the
cats are getting fatter,
something's definitely the matter.
And the matter is material
so vital to well being,
keying in the pin code
finding cash flow on the overload.
Going red,
reached the top,
cannot stop,
on a camber to
amber, green
back to where I've been before, to what I've seen before,
if this is life what am I living for?
I've been depressed
can't be bothered getting dressed, impressed by lack of
motivation,
tranquillised by the situation,
reduced to this, a stinking wreck,
hand me the rope
where's my neck?
It gets better
always,
not many signposts to show which ways,
I go anyways down the least obvious route.
An escapism to fantasy or just the long road to reach reality?
It still looks like Oz
to me.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
The doom of the marsh,
Of conversations,
consonants keying the walls
The trickling, like stroked water
Delicately balancing history
Atop The Dream of Money
Enough to not feel
Not to reel
From the chokers, the faucet
The bloodlet
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
The cross that's carved deep
because
we have to keep a memento.
but I know without seeing
that someone is keying
the code in
forever
sticking the nails in.
Have you been to the place beyond
the place where you think
you can't face it?
it's somewhere behind me,
waiting to catch up and grind
me down doing a
left, right
left, right
marching off into the,
is that daylight?
Words fail me as the scales fall away
and the Dragon breathes fire across,
what was the name of that bay?
watching Morecambe on the
web cam
an old man on a trolleybus
going to the fayre.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
January thirteenth two thousand
and nineteen will complete
mine third score orbitz round the sun,
who as a youth evinced
demure and effete
traits, and now weathered, Ongepatshket,
and plenty seasoned,
I feel ready to greet
a garrulous, humorous, and indecorous
Shikse for an indiscreet
liaison, where she will
get reddit to shutterfly,
and twitter like an uber keet
oozing with NON GMO
gluten and monosodium
glutimate saccharine dripping
with au naturale oversweet
ample ***** shapely waist,
and derriere replete
with plenty of junk in the trunk
cavorting, flirting, and issuing manumission
to fraternize, friskily frolic
fruitfully mixing bedlam with bunk
sundering politesse as a "FAKE",
gentlemanly, and honorable hunk,
when in truth,...this lapsed (Lou Zoo Lee)
christened nebish lunk
bookish, loutish, and wonkish teasing
seminarian formerly seclusive monk
keying into my inner philanderer,
yeah...yeah...yeah overdrunk
with prurient fantasies donning an imitation
of (guess who), one
narcissistic trumpeting punk
at heart my idol, no matter the teetering
ship of state he nearly countersunk,
which purportedly mirrors
his Wharton curriculum vitae,
which...well showed he nearly did flunk
apprenticed as POTUS with
FLOTUS attractive trophy
wife (number three) female chunk
and,...oh yes aesthetically
pleasing female real estate
from appearances marriage
barren and devoid of great
je nais sais quois,
though Melania rarely irate,
and partial government shutdown of late
reverberating with fallout, that does oscillate
furloughed federal employees to perspire
principally at increased amortization rate.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC