"keystroke" poems
Like an old piano
Scratches along every keystroke
You played her,
Played her until she broke
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
When Spirit scrolls down to my line
on Life's finite spreadsheet,
may I've done much to bring a smile
before keystroke Delete.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
ivory keys
seek the touch
of long-dead
fingertips
fluttering
flittering
elegant keystrokes
gracefully enchanted
bittersweet tunes
staccato lilts
incandescent harmonies
melancholy melodies
every heartbreaking keystroke
drips
with mournful,
dismal sadness
each life is a
unique song;
each has their own,
single chorus
some are a great crescendo;
some a lullaby;
some are a lonely tune;
some barely even brush the keys
each journey,
though,
has white keys of joy
and black keys of sorrow
*but
even the
black keys
make music*
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
VOICES IN THE NIGHT
Seeking safety while others are sleeping,the rest in a dispute with a familiar game of whether the mind or body will win
When losing traction will another soul comprehend even a fraction ,meaningless to many but a few keep hope in scope
Planning and practicality save souls in print but real people have understanding and offer their own spin
Wondering from the middle travels outward, east or west north to south even an Aussie or from across the pond can give hope
Giving is receiving simple samples offer light, taken in can block blight,going out producing an unknown grin
Faceless names a soul behind each keystroke, varying opinions offer a new vote
Hidden bond often easy to find ,meshed together once lonely issues have now found a twin
Conversing in space some silent while other seems lost in a race,never really knowing when they will find that meaningful antidote
Suddenly interaction can become a tempting attraction ,exposing hidden emotions a new devotion,silent song into a joyous hymn
Far apart minds now riding a mutual rift, easier to make light if others have the same plight
Randomness can rule when minds are often short, Once a great thought soon will abort
hopefully not lost forever if we tug to hard on that string
Absent minds left meandering once locked down now offering possibilities ,growing with knowledge now developing with each insight. R.C.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 7:10 AM UTC
It is almost five a.m.
With each thump of the echoing bass,
of the synthetic revenge and heartbreak,
angry percussion wraps me closer than your arms ever could--
tremulous and heavy,
more absolute than the sunset fictions
you contentedly let me cling to.
A venomous chorus drips from my lips,
once-swollen eyes now itchy and dry.
This is the still serenity of the predawn slumber,
the yearning of the yetsummer,
the quiet before the birds begin scavenging
through grass, trash, and recycling.
I protest--
tongue, fingers heels teeth and lungs
restless in spite of themselves.
You have chased me out of bed,
across dew-dampened grass,
over uneven pavement as treacherous as your voice.
You follow me.
Sleep is merely a forlorn memory
peering sadly from a forgotten heap of warm cotton thread,
whimpering futilely against the anxious pulsing
of overworked headphones
and overthought peculiarities.
You introduced me to this time of day.
You summoned it once with impatient chords
and a staccato keystroke melody,
casually ignoring the plaintive honesty
I willingly accompanied you with.
But the sunrise casts a strange glow, I guess--
rosy and well-intentioned,
fickle and fleeting, like your grin
or the capricious depth of the summer sky.
No one remembers that wandering blue
the same color as her eyes;
but it seeps through your pores,
curls into the caverns of your chest,
an aching in azure only because you let it.
You have bathed too long in the sun.
As the scarlet sunrise erupts across your shoulders
the sky settles into your lungs.
But don’t trust that sky,
that constant companion.
That sky is a cannibal
and it will eat you alive.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.
I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.
I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 10:31 PM UTC
I sat down today and began to type,
But nothing I said seemed to come out right.
The meter was all wrong,
The rhyme scheme was a mess,
The words were too simple,
The stanzas too plain,
So I decided to erase it
And start all over again.
A few backspaces later,
I started anew,
And with each keystroke,
My frustration grew.
My thoughts were garbled
And looked clumsy in print;
My words were childish
And seemed cliche.
So I tried one last time
To write something that made sense,
But instead of eloquent rhymes and articulate thoughts
I got ill-expressed musings and awkward phrasings.
Instead of a work of beauty and awe,
I had created a trite piece of junk.
And yet, I found attraction in its ungainly expression
And was fascinated by its candor.
Nothing was hidden in dreamy language,
Or couched in metaphors and vague allusions.
I was filled with a strange satisfaction
At having created such an unorthodox piece,
That evoked in me the simultaneous feelings
Of looking on a lovely, unappealing work.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC
It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.
I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.
“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.
I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.
Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.
Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”
OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could **** he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.
By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.
In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”
I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 4:00 PM UTC
I don't see how u can talk to someone off and on for over2 yrs and follow their every keystroke and see what and who they talk to and listen to them thru the speakers on the computer and if I didn't cover the camera would be able to see us also.....and then see theyre on a dating site and either u had a profile already or made one up to meet me. That is a lot of following and listening and reading their online happenings...only to meet them from the dating site. Which how u even knew that id date you is odd unless u were just hoping. I realized that when my brother died last year.....that was you I was talking to wasn't it??? Do you know how special that is to me and my heart? I didn't have anyone to help ,me thru that and you were there. I wanted to thank you so very much. I don't see how u can do all these tracings of my actions and talk to me at the most horrific time of my life thus far and then not tell me that its you..... I will never under stand why u didn't tell me.... I so wished you would have *** the things would have turned out so much different. I just thought u were some dude who was a cheating pig....and wasn't thinking too serious about anythg *** I knew u wont leave "her". that's why I never asked u too and or even brought it up *** ive seen the shows where they say they'll leave but never do so why ask? but if id had known u were frozen heart and soule shawn I would have looked at things differently. I would have taken things and rearranged them to fit into my life better. I owe the person or man who talked to me and helped me get thru each day when john died a lot..... *** If it wasn't for u I don't think id been ok. Also If id known you were the holder of my heart and would have told me things instead of not saying much....it would have ended up in the way u wanted it to be. Not this way where I will be sad and ****** yet upset for not knowing u were the one who makes me happy *** to me you are perfect and perfect for me as well... God I miss u more then u will ever know,,, I wish I could hug and kiss u.... and sit and talk ....but its not gonna happen and it just makes me want to cry but I keep getting headaches when I cry....so I don't like to.... Im so grateful that I was with u for the year and a half we spent together.....wish it would have lasted for ever though instead...cus I wont ever stop wanting u....ILY!!!
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
A piano was softly playing in the background of their minds
It's fullness delicately hearable in every keystroke
A beautiful autumn day with the windows slightly open
The music slowly drifting across to the playground
Two children lie in the leaves looking at the always moving sky
Make shapes in the clouds with their wonderful imaginations
A beautiful melody connecting him and her much more than their young minds could think
The music so lovely yet so underliningly disdainful
Her hand enveloped his as she rolled over to look in his hazel eyes
He looks out the window now a man of twenty five
To the playground where he met a girl very many years ago
He remembers this house from so long ago
The piano now moved to the window
He sits down to play but only one melody comes to mind
A haunting but beautiful melody with slight disdain
He cannot remember where he has heard it before but his hazel eyes start to cry
A beautiful autumn day with the windows slightly open
As he wipes the tears away he smiles for his daughter now lies with a boy in the leaves
Her eyes so dark and brown remind him of his wife he lost but only a few years ago
She asked him one wish to move where they fell in love
He remembered a melody where they fell in love
This melody forever haunting him
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
Falling asleep at my keyboard
Writing another message to you
Wondering if I'm wasting my words with every keystroke
By trying to explain how I feel
Hope for mutuality
I fell asleep at the keyboard
Writing another message to you
My head hit the keys when I fell
It typed out a better explanation of my feelings for you
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
I want to make you real
I want to write you into being,
teach you how to feel.
Can I be the song you sing;
can my every keystroke heal?
Let my touch reach beyond fiber and cord,
to reach you where you cry alone
so you know that you're adored.
Discounting the distance we'll both be home;
though apart we have found a sweet accord.
This is my conspiracy
to speak to you so sweetly
that you forget life's maddening pain
and in your heart let self-love reign.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
These airwaves keep speaking, enveloping my consciousness, stripping all fears and uncertainties. These are the days I strive for. The calming rhythm of life exposing itself without a care. The castaways all run to find freedom, and I run to find truth. Each and every ticking of the clock brings me closer to realization that there really is no clock. The clock is just an object, the ticking is just a sound, and time only exists because I think about it. I give the clock this amazing power to control what I do. But the clock doesn’t know that I’m conspiring against him. He watches and ticks away his seconds expecting me to act cordially towards his numerical speeches about the future. 3:45 PM and soon to change. We face this monster everyday. We watch and watch and watch, just expecting him to slow down or speed up or even stop. He has no feeling for human integrity, he just ticks and ticks until the batteries run down. Or I take the batteries out, he no longer ticks. His hands are stuck in the grime of my human intellect. And he just watches. Keystroke after keystroke, not saying a word. Good, I smile. I’ve stopped you.
"We sit and ponder on future events, not knowing, just theorizing everything. Hoping we get it right. Universal ideas become stretched into a cup of string. And lights undo themselves backwards into eternity."
-W.M. Mills
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Some things I should stop doing include
reading about your zodiac sign
checking if you're online
wondering about your scent.
The infamous "something-missing" won't shake
from my spine ever, it ran back quickly
when I let what was mine slip.
I should stop writing you poems although a wise boy once said
if you keep writing, maybe he'll leave your head.
And you'll get sick of his name in every word, every keystroke
I agreed with more poems but asked, what if I won't?
What if you bloom like cherry blossoms in the cracks of my bones,
like the watermelon seeds I'd spit outside my grandparents' home
that turned into a garden of green rounded fruit.
Asked, what if it isn't
that easy to shake you?
Some things I should stop doing
but I know that I won't
include
thinking of me as a sailor
and you as a boat.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 3:29 AM UTC
I dare not put his name to print for fear that the magic would dissolve with each pen or keystroke.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
spirits are very well
known for being
intoxicating;
but not the type of spirits
that have alcohol,
no,
the type of spirits
that haunt the minds
of so many,
keeping them awake at night,
searching through the darkness
of their pitch black bedroom,
while simultaneously
searching through the darkness
of their pitch black mind;
they try to convince themselves
that the voices
are all in their head
that they're nothing more
than the darkness parts
of the imagination
but eventually,
even the most hushed voices
are heard by some
and these ghosts are released
quick, effortlessly flowing
into the land of the living
through a ball-point pen
or through anxious fingers
typing away at a screen,
creating a colorless
type of canvas;
however, having it in black and white,
and plainly stating facts
gets dull and listless
even for a life as repetitive
as the spirits
who are enjoying their escape
into the world of the free spirits,
the unshackled thoughts
let out to roam wild with one another
intermingling with others
as they gradually coagulate themselves
to form beautiful words
and stunning phrases,
washing over their individual mediums
with an ocean-like grace,
slowly but steadily
moving down the page
like the most synchronized tide,
gradually creating something bigger
and more spectacular
than any of them could do alone;
and once their prison guard
releases every last drop
of ink onto the page,
and every last keystroke into the document
on the dimly lit screen,
they can finally rest easily,
with the ghosts doing the same,
both holding a lot more love
in their hearts
and in their spirits
for, that constant tide
created a body with more depth
than any sea of blue
we have created the beauty
that's only described by you
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
Trolls are
Faceless behind a screen
Preaching words of places they've never been
And feeding the flame to those who wish to perish,
"Just get another one" to those who had a recent miscarriage
It's all rather barbaric.
To have a tongue of barbed wires
With poison filled salivas
It's all very toxic.
Trolls have destroyed lives
behind words of a keyboard
Each keystroke a string of disasters
Each sentence a blood spilt on unspoilt grounds
And when death occurs they are no where to be found.
Trolls are underground gremlins
Who believe that building a bridge out of the corpses they make
is the only way they will ride to heaven.
Judge not lest ye be judged
But I believe the contrary,
I have not known your pain
I have not known what you suffer
But I will not wait for the words to buffer
For the videos to buffer
Just to hear and read your words
About how I don't belong on this world.
Build your bridges of corpses
Ride your keyboard horses
You won't be able to destroy
What has already been destroyed.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
billows abound,
cloud, caress her figure.
i kissed the top of her head,
hit the lights,
slowly shut the door,
turned on some music,
and left my mind to wander.
did she hear her favorite sonata?
did she hear me fumbling my keys?
did she hear me step outside?
sirens exalted the moon,
christmas decorations fell,
there were only two lit apartments,
i came back inside after retrieving my studies,
i poured another cup, lit my pipe and
let the smoke lull over the bulb.
has she fallen asleep?
does she wait for me?
can she hear each keystroke?
the night moves glacially,
beautifully,
and with just enough ache
to keep me awake and entirely in love.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
dare I?
be your *****
whatever you like
director drives me to town
asked if things slowed down
when the other car hit
(nope)
most likely probing crises response capacity
intellectual curiosity or genuine concern
wager the former at 10:1
if they'd take bet
I'm just like him
I'm going to be him
groomed
flatly delivered jokes about a ***** test
better received by coworkers
"funny guy"
who is this man at the keystroke?
beached and bleached
disco ****
same old heady glazed blue-grey stormy
reminiscent of bucolic childhood splendor
when was good and town was endless
that never really existed on a barren rock
"many of you look changed, somehow older..."
pause for suspense
"and some look exactly the same"
cue laughter and my irritation,
salt rimmed with rage
am I now jailer?
(whispered)
*****
indeed here now the gatekeeper
open locked doors knowing
will purge again
no matter how movement restricted
treadmill only, calorie burn
gym restricted
not equipped
(won't talk)
transfer to children's hospital
before heart fails
do it make a difference?
displaced despair
wash not over me
instead cut through me
starve binge
sniff and smoke
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
I wonder if we could swallow the universe with the cosmos of our internal struggle. I’d rather not delay in chewing a few morsels while the galaxy devours us. Still my stomach gnawed chicken bones against my advice. My woeful digestion salted my compromise in the bliss of juicy delicacy. Complacent and alone a full stomach consumed my flesh in the unlimited dimensions of matter. In this darkness my name is a mist noted on the prequel of my death. In your gaze I revived on the bridge of your frayed lashes. You dropped me a line on your tacit glances and I remembered who I was. Soaked in emotion the earth was faded in the lines of my palm. With each internal keystroke I feasted on the victory of my invisible eternity.
Thank you Jesus
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Sometimes, writing a poem seems fairly easy
Everything just clicks together
You can see something worthwhile reading
With each, little keystroke
Or jot of the pen
So you write away feverishly and freely
And as if your hands were possessed
By Shakespeare himself
You have little desire to stop a good thing
Sometimes, writing a poem is fantastically frustrating
You work at it and work at it
Go over it and over it and over it - again and again
The lumps and the kinks and the lack of quality
Searching hard for that Wow factor
But it is just pretty much off center no matter what you do
And you feel so inadequate to fix it up right
So you either settle for it being less than hoped for
Or trash it in absolute surrender
Obliterating the work for good
Sometimes, I write
And I sit back with a sense of accomplishment and pride
Other times, I write
And I want to bang my head
On the most convenient, hard surface I can find
Preferably one with jarring pain
For the inspiration for good writing is rather weak and blah
Highly disappointing and distressing
As my literary brain feels out of order
The struggle to scribble out an idea in my head
Just won't quite translate well onto paper
For, I guess, such is the life of a writer
I fear my glory days of writing poems are over
That the best of my abilities are far behind me
And my story writing will soon grow redundant
Like yesterday's newspaper
But if I have surprised myself before
And the winding road of life and the ticking away of time
Manage to provide me food for thought
I may eventually encounter fresh, new inspiration
My talent not used up after all
Can I allow myself that hope?
For such a life is a writer
P.S.
For such is life.........period
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC