"keystrokes" poems
Anonymous camaraderie,
New friends pour from cyberspace.
Tweets flutter rampantly,
In this most ambiguous place.
Strangers in passing,
Or is it kismet?
Can’t you tell what I am saying?
Innuendo among keystrokes.
And you thought I was playing.
LOL
My world is all digital,
Evocatively simple,
Demanding your principle,
Ingrained as symbol,
All in code.
1/6/2016
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
There are conversations in which my mental frame leaves the
parameters of my body.
No longer can I fathom the concept of ‘being in love’
I witness dates
and
feel as an apprentice of such a trade might
an inadequacy to replicate the models of those before me
Gone are my indefinite moments of sanity
Childhood is laced in linens of silk
Soft-spoken words
and
Finely crafted spontaneity lacking responsibility
Ceaseless are the times in which I must conceal the thoughts I abhor
Depravity seems to chain my soul
which leads to
a Resolution in pixelation
due to
a visual handicap which has left my eye blind to choosing right
My friends make me happy
but as a glass transforms back-&-forth between half-empty &
half-full
one glance across our wooden dinner is all it takes
for
My thoughts to liquidate into bars of gold
Telling myself I must exchange their conversation for my motivation
heavy on the mind
light keystrokes
Once i reawaken at 1 A.M. from my conscious-coma
i ask myself
What good is it?
To be thoughtful
Yet have no action
What good is it?
To fantasize
Yet refuse your own inclination for renovation
What good is it?
To be dramatic
Yet have no one at your performance
I do understand what it means to ‘be’
Watching Tuesday suns burn in loops of ongoing weeks
- lacking peaks -
As I continue to lay under clothes line
Wrapped in a melody of melancholy
But I do not understand what it means to be ‘me’
My mind feels as a lemon candy might,
sour at first bite -
hollow on the inside, then gone
Without ever truly knowing what it tastes like.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:03 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
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
I self-indulged—
For me a rare
Lapse, an unexpected
Slide to materialism.
Repenting already,
My selfishness.
I bought myself
Internet Radio.
How could I resist?
E-Tail has made it so easy.
GOTO Amazon Electronics.
•Amazon.com: Electronicswww.amazon.com/electronics-store/b?ie=UTF8... Amazon.com, Inc. Online shopping from a great selection at Electronics Store. ... Electronics. Shop for TV & Video, ... Featured Offers in Electronics ... Electronics Categories • ($“Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!$ Ads in the middle of the freaking poem!”)
The omnipresent marketplace:
Shop at home in your pajamas,
Pay for it with keystrokes,
Go back to sleep.
FOR SALE: Hail to thee,
Oh bittersweet Credo of Capitalism!
I finally broke down,
Accepting the fact that
RADIO: once a wireless marvel;
Now, a fading media option,
Its broadcast range
Not only shrunk, but
Signal reception, downright poor.
So, I finally broke down
Bought a radio that actually works.
So what I want to know
Is NPR so full of itself that
They go so far to find some
British-accent guy to read
Sports summaries?
I am listening to some
Pompous Pommy poofter,
At KBOS, Boston, Massachusetts,
Nigel Longshanks, himself,
Recapping “The Run for the Roses,”
Kentucky Derby homestretch,
Missed NBA semi-final foul shot &
The freakish mojo comeback of
Yankee Baseball Bad Boy: A-ROD.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
The Two-sided mirror
Reeling from your loss, realization sets in like rigor mortis
You're gone
You never could have loved me
I know I will carry the scars till the end of time
Ashamed, I turned my face away from the world
I should've seen this coming. I should've read the signs
I never dreamed I could find love on a cliff so high
To soar with birds. To drink of wispy clouds as they do
It was all a lie
I did not take flight with wings made of your warm embrace, as I had thought
No
It was cruel intent that lifted me up, only to drop me hard
My bones and heart break as I land on the sky
I couldn't understand. Couldn't understand what makes your blood so cold
I still can't
Grasping for reason like air under water
Only to breath lies to myself
So desperate for reason. My heart would not accept what I already knew
Without words you told me everything: “Run away from me. I will hurt you”
I was starving for answers and you fed me lies. Taking you back again. Deja Vu
Like watching someone else, disconnected my actions do not become me
I've grown weak
I've succumbed to the poisonous exposure of your smile.
Of your laugh
of your tears
of your past
of your pain
A sickness from which there is no cure. I will recover, not
Are you afflicted as well? Is it my lips you taste when he kisses you?
Listening to our songs, I can't hear them over the keystrokes of this eulogy of our forgotten love.
Like the loud deafening and sharp song of a smithy's hammer on an anvil made of my flesh, hate and strength are forged like cold steel, quenched in an empty bucket of dried tears
Just another faceless voice reaching out with hands made of electronic ink
Quietly searching in vein to be heard by the only eyes that can hear them in the vast digital vacuum of the internet.....
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Tiptoe timidly,
oh my tongue.
Speak not the words
That toe on your tip.
Swallow the surplus,
you swift little thing,
And mind that these slivers
Are given to slip.
Forget your fidgeting,
Fingers of mine.
Flee from the keystrokes
You’re fighting to flip.
Quiet your queries,
Your qualms, and questions.
Kith care not for clinging,
Nor for your quips.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
If you should go before me,
I’ll re-read every line you ever wrote to me,
every thought we shared so late at night,
the daily noise of our existence,
condensed into keystrokes by weary fingers
I’ll see, in every moonlit glade,
and every time
there are no shadows in the trees,
that special light that always made you shine,
like bright little stars suspended in a globe filled with oil,
shimmering with delight and forgiveness,
waiting patiently to climb the wick
and burn my fingers when I strike the match
And I’ll hear your music,
which you never knew I listened to,
not with my ears, but with my heart,
and it will soothe me to dreamless slumber
when tears soak my pillow in endless twilight
I’ll remember every hungered kiss and every time
you found me hiding under our oak and scolded me
for putting off the work I should have been doing
I won’t put it off any longer
There’ll be nothing left for me but work
All the world gone grey, the mists
of my memories
like a blanket
smothering my tomorrows
But I won’t leave when you have gone
I will pay the tab for the time you gave,
finish everything we planned that autumn morn,
before I lock the gate behind me,
and follow breadcrumbs scattered on the loam
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew
and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls
This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;
beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding
Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song
Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles
A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.
And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring
Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
~
Waves of Love.
I will rise above the sea of myst
Glistening clouds I’ll kiss
Joyfully singing as Krishan I visit
O holy spirit
I fumble my words but I love you so
The one for whom we are given loving glow
My structure more or less rigid I know
Time to just go ahead and let it flow
Making sweet usic with keystrokes
Enduring nothing, loving for show
The light of a universe creating illusion
The confusion, always eluding
It is to known I will say it cldarly
The universe is made of love
So come on, get near me!
Not me, physical, though you may if you wish
But me the consciousness
For it is awareness
The giver of all that is
And I am so grateful
That I could give you all a kiss
Hi neighbors
Hi family
Hi friends
Hi lovers
We all need to begin
By loving each other.
@
Location
Troubling always
When you believe in location
As if there are some
And they are more valuable.
The world is not made of locations
It is always here
It is always here.
Location is mental
It is narrative of instrument
Be
Free
Live
#
123 numbers
One is Unity
Two is Separation
Three is Creativity
Four is Rationality
Five is the World
Six is Man
Seven is Heaven
8 is Infinity
9 is the End
10 begins again
Eleven is Unity
$
Money
Imaginary wealth
To distract us
From what truly is
%
100 of it is Love
^
As above
So below
&
And then…
Light
*
Stars that twinkle stars that shine
Hint at something, more divine
If you stay you’ll hear a message
“Don’t forget
You are a blessing!”
(
I think a lot of thoughts
But they are not me)
_
Floors don’t exist
And never
Is imaginary
+
Adding and subtracting is futile
The nature of the game
Is always 0
!
How could I forget
To exclaim
My name
K
Emanuel!
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Call me stricken
by her
my favorite color.
I want to fill my ears with static
to give my thoughts some room to move
and my eyes monochromatic
with an artistic side to prove
She writes
like shes giving
Noah Webster a *******
her labyrinthine constructions
of consonants and vowels,
leading in circles
obliterating disbelief,
and I
AM
the words.
She tastes like ***
and nostalgia
nauseating my pages,
wearing thin over keystrokes,
repetition,
the mother of decrepitude
so my muse
decimates my thoughts
one in ten
one in ten
one in ten
CRACK
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
i wish i could purge my heart
letter by letter
bleed my love out
through leeching keystrokes
find some kind of therapy to
release these good bad humours
or reach even further back into history
for truly archaic remedies
love is no great sin
so there’s no bread and salt
to feed the lepers, no coin to pay for the service
if only ridding myself
of this disease of devotion
to an unknowing you
were as simple as sleeping
with salted tomatoes
(love apples, as they were once known)
and pennies to press
into the palms of the loveless
who slip through the night
soaking up discarded emotion
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:48 AM UTC
All the while, all the ****** while,
she stood there, waiting for me
to unlock the gate in the wall
But I was the fool, you see,
to think I held the key
For all the while,
the prisoner
was me,
not she
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.
It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.
It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
I imagine the Egyptians felt about deaths of loved ones a lot like we think about autumn
It isn’t a passing
It isn’t a loss
They are just waiting for them to bloom again.
Plants are a fragile thing but maybe they aren’t as fragile as we think they are
Just as we are often not as strong as we think we are
It is easy to break a person
Especially one who does not want to be broken
Because they are the ones who will fight the hardest and tire quickly
It is much harder to shatter apathy than passion
Then there are the people who want to be broken
People who drink their own pain like water
Or maybe something more toxic like bad wine or good coffee
The people who look at their bruised arms and see lace
Instead of burst blood vessels
Some people need the pain to know they can still feel
They would rather feel agony than feel nothing at all
Some people need pain to create
Pain can be the paint in an artist’s brush, the keystrokes of a writer’s fingers
Some people feel pain because they are afraid to feel anything else
Happiness fades, contentment stagnates, but sorrow is a constant companion
Sometimes I worry
That I am one of these people
I spend my time reading, writing, inhabiting the minds of others
The stories of others
Because I am afraid to look my own story in the face
And see if I like the direction it has taken
Sometimes I live vicariously through the stories of others
Because I am afraid of what will happen in my own
I am trying to be passionate without being breakable
And I am trying to enjoy my water as well as my coffee
And I am slowly learning that I cannot write my story, it must write itself
Inevitably pain is part of every story
Including mine
There will be heartbreak and there will be bruises and there will be hairline fractures, cracks, fissures, schisms
People will leave, be it by death or by simply walking away
But every moment of pain is simply an autumn
A winter
And in time everything will bloom again
Stronger and more resplendent than ever before
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
*I ne'er half thought of you as best
Painted, frozen on canvas, still, set?
Static & unmoving... but I do rest
In my bet you feign'd it. The man Thus, he is as a criminal! If hold he Must you as possession -Beauty's Pageant.
A sun proving to ne'er grow Stagnant.
Go'th then, swept in wind, smooth &
Seminole, with no frame to so seal In
YOUth within his lines -rather reel In
Lines of my rhymes to sustain YOU Ever
Both A's & Q's. No pause, Sure Forever.
Inks & links rather than oils soon Cracked &
Dried out, faded with careless Neglect
And old Time, proving Spell checked
Words, ripen'd on a vine, (freely repro-
Duced,) is better than stretchers 2 show
In one place, wired/hooked on a dim wall
Of your captor. His penchant 2 refuse call,
Or to face, why your smile wert so small.
Unbeknownst to the brushed up painter,
Who with gobbledygook stained your
Heart, but took you as his Sitter bitterly.
So if your Silence art your bitter Mystery,
Then book Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall
As my pen chants only 4u -a wonderwall.*
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
with the dawn of
four a.m.
the pen bleeds
keystrokes weep
for the heart pours
when the soul can't sleep
at half past
four a.m.
the seconds trickle
moments crawl
thoughts begin to race
as a fog consumes them all
upon the dusk of
four a.m
the silence flows
the mind reseals
the soul feels safe
as the peaceful quiet heals
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
my, my
what a world we live in
where plastic's worth more than food.
because it makes entertainment,
and we thrive from it.
where screens dictate our lives
absorbing us, our deepest secrets
then displaying them to the world
limiting our emotions
to keystrokes.
and it doesn't matter how big that screen is.
we like em smaller and sleeker
so that not even a second is spent in real conversation.
they say they're sparking creativity?
i say they're sparking narcissm.
they're creating conformity
as if we havent had enough.
my, my
what a revolution
where we witness de-evolution
from ape, to human, to...
selfabsorbed, stressful, sub-human species?
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Welcome to corporate America
Take your seat
First of all,
We want to let you know
We appreciate you
You will be an asset
To our growing team of industry
Pay no mind to the construction
We are building ca.. Cubicles
For you are now a part of a team.. Our team
So settle into your seat
We want you to feel empowered
To grow beyond these walls
But stay in your seat
Remain focused
Please don’t put up any pictures on your cubicles
We don’t want you to be distracted
We don’t want you to remember freedom
Stop watching the clock
For your time is our time
We expect you to be an ambassador for our products
On and off the clock
The best advertising is free advertising
And we expect you to give up everything
So we can plaster our company logo across your chest
Have you thought about your brand?
How do you plan to sell yourself.. Back to us
To prove you are worth something
You see we own you now
Stay in your seat
We are building these cages for your own good
Your own good
Is to keep on task
Don’t ask questions
Just accept these walls
We read somewhere the latest work environment is a tomb
We empower you to do exactly what we say
Us corporations are individuals
And we want to let you know
We appreciate you
Enough to strip away your identity
Pluck away the vowels of your name
And make you a number
What is your brand?
You need to keep us interested in you
Don’t rattle your cages
Stay seated, keep focused
Let us break your back
Break you down
To keystrokes and metrics
Us corporations are individuals
And you are company assets now
We want to empower you
By taking away your choices
Your job will be what we say it is
So just do it
I know we told you the job would be one thing
But our needs and desires are always evolving
And we want to consume you
Devour every bit of your talent
What is your brand?
Have you thought about just tattooing our company motto
Across your chest?
Stay in your seat and stop rattling your cages
And whatever you do
Don’t climb up and over the walls
For you are a company asset now
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 2:14 AM UTC
I could type this in all caps
to show you I'm screaming
I could live my life behind a fist or switch blade
to show you I'm desperately close to falling off the edge
I could treat you like a piece of ****
to show you I'm only talking to you for one thing
I could cut tic tac toe into my wrists
to show you my own spilled blood is just a game to me
I could be the person they want me to be
I could be the person I should be
But I'm not
I don't
I won't
I live behind a mask made of keystrokes
and one too many silences
waiting for the ropes binding me to fray enough
where my getaway isn't front page news
but a part of a much bigger legend
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
the abuser tried to contact me
through his coward device online
the place where he sits to work
twisting and turning his words into easy prey
the place where i saw him work
light keystrokes of heavy rage
set out to destroy the happiness around him
he tried to contact me
as if i were an old friend
as if months of beautiful silence had not gone by
i don't know what he wants to say
because i have shut out the old version of myself
that would willfully go running back to him
i am disgusted by the girl i was
so warped
that every ounce of pain inflicted
every compromised moment of "love"
was meaningful
i can never go back
i won't
there isn't anything in the world
that could make me venture
to the chaotic territory of a
self-loathing
compulsive, lying
unstable
psychotic
manipulative man
who tore apart everything i had built for myself
and called it love
so here's my message to you:
go **** yourself
with your petty mind games
because i am strong
and everything that i rebuilt is equipped
to destroy anyone like you
who tries to come near
i am finished, i am happy, i am me
finally
i can be me
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
I could sit my *** down
and write a hundred ******* poems
and not even touch on the subject of *******
or I could write an ode to the obscene
and here it praised as beauty
call me cocky
but you haven't seen it yet
humility tastes like vegetables
and I've never had time for 'em
give me a felt tip
and I'll make you smile, laugh, cry, and come
within four minutes
and I'll write those cutsie ******* poems
that make your older sisters say
awwwwww
like a text from a girl
saying hey
with about a million y's and ten emoticons
you like me
I don't know why
maybe it's maybeline
or maybe it's the keystrokes
stroking your ego
while I throw mine in the laundry
I wasn't raised to be bragger
but I wasn't raised not to be
wasn't raised to stop and see
the people smelling roses
or striking different poses
my smile is like similes
my method is a metaphor
my ***** soon is spilling on the bathroom floor
take this braggadocio
and put it in your back pocket
I don't need it anymore
and I don't want it
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
In early morning birds are yet to wake,
Their wings flutter in noises from trees.
Crows in some trees blurt out from
The disturbed sleep of a few of them.
It is now the ambient dark of morning.
One hears a motor sound that comes
Piercing from sleep-weary basement
For the water to flow in our bathrooms.
This sort of darkness touches heart
In a tender expectant way of rising sun.
Sleep feels restless on creaking beds
Of people for whom morning is night.
Steeped in poetry, it is just that day’s death
And dreams of finely bound poetry volumes
That defined morning over soft keystrokes.
One tries to explore poetry and death together.
In the end death is poetry, when it is not real
In the hospitals and lonely parks in left cities.
Death is fine poetry as after-fact and bellyache.
Later, in morning walk there will be spring in the air
With the leaves flying on a breeze on the dusty road.
That is when I seek the poetry of thought words .
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
A god of the skies—you're lightning!
words pour—they're rain— as you're writing.
Every line, like a thunder,
fills your readers with wonder.
Keystrokes—flashing light
You were born to write.
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 7:22 AM UTC
i look for you
everywhere i go
bread crumb trails
marked trees
i just want to find the path
leading back to you
everything lay broken
a shattered specimen
civilization now in ruins
when whole becomes hyperbole
it started so clean
pure love
keystrokes
digital foreplay
separated by a decade
rebooted without hesitation
soiled with time
mistakes and lies
yet we couldn't let go
something so real
only comes once
even though it may circle back around
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC