"notepad" poems
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems like *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
she put my heart in a jar.
wait here until i return, she said.
i waited two forevers for her to open it, my heart was suffocating.
i was drowning in her memories, her eyes danced like fireflies in the moonlight. timeless passion. she is my flower child.
flawless. my heart is in a cage, solitude sedates me. i recall memories we never had or maybe it was visions of a future we will have?
i sit down with a notepad and admire your movement. i pen down my studies, and try to understand your complexity. your face glows, your waist flows. like the beautiful Victoria Falls, African queen.
i digress, you still have my heart in a jar. open a few holes, my heart is suffocating.
hair like Rapunzel, fine spun gold, only love knows our connection. time is but a teardrop in our moments.
on my notepad, is stories of what i think you could be, yet my imagination is far from your real being.
your shadow is unique. i can see it dancing under the stars, it tells its own stories. faded, i am.
im loving, your heart. keep moving, beauty. i love you. stop arguing with your mind, you’re beautiful. every man knows.
o, to be young and feel love’s keen sting.
beauty.
je t’aime. belle âme, mon coeur appartient à vous.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
Contentment is for people who are satisfied to stop thinking.
To turn off all those parts of your head
That constantly generate questions
And continuously probe the accepted.
To hush the cells jumping up and down
To show you a new way to approach a topic,
Begging you to acknowledge the incredible plans
That could be birthed from the impossible way
You see the ordinary.
But I have an obligation to my mind.
Yes, sometimes it feels more like shackles than duty,
And yes, sometimes I want to abandon my notepad and paper
On the bedside table to have a "me day"-
Whatever that's supposed to mean -
Or halt the carousel of whirling thoughts for a nap,
But I can't.
I will always be curious, at my roots.
I grow from the dedication to my thoughts, upward.
A tree straining towards the light of innovation.
Why would I forsake the places my thoughts can take me,
Or the adventures my pen can take in translating them.
For the gifts this head gives me,
I must always be on call, on edge, on fire.
Contentment: unattainable.
Even if it weren't it would interfere with the very process
That would allow me to derive what meaning lies in contentment.
So that's my secret.
The Hulk was always angry, which is how he controlled and dominated.
I'm always searching, which is how I find and thrive.
I can't drown out my thoughts just to soak up the sun.
That's not contentment: that's complacency.
And complacency is not in my vocabulary.
How funny-
I am content with losing that one word
For the chance to be brilliant.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
I think Poetry found me very early,
From somewhere in mama's womb.
Hooked to her umbilical cord firmly.
I heard something like a tiny bomb.
It was the sound of the talking drum,
Heralding the arrival of another grio.
So with gratitude, I said thanks mom,
And to the world, I said a very big hello.
Of course, I used the language of babies,
I cried and breathed in my very first air.
This was my first sight of the ladies
They smiled as they washed my hair.
My very first poem was a sad prayer.
It was written when I was very hungry
I was hopeless, I had only one dollar,
And no real prospect of ever making it.
So I took out my old used notepad,
UnfortunateIy, I had no pen to write with.
I wrote with a charcoal found in the yard,
And I wrote many long lines on my wall.
I wrote everything I had to tell God
Sadly, I couldn't write them all.
I cried in anguish to the Lord,
Asking If He had forgotten me.
Of Course, I got no immediate answer,
But years later my answer came.
It came in the form of a letter.
Addressed to me, ten years later
It came later but it felt better,
Instantly my struggle was all over!
The first love letter I wrote was poetry,
It was childish, unstructured and ugly.
It was written to a girl, she was pretty,
She read it and smiled, I wasn't so lucky.
Crushed, yet I pretended to be strong
I walked away but ran all the way home.
I cried in anguish and wrote a love song.
The lines were very sad, I felt all alone.
But I knew it was my first real rejection.
So I tried writing again, this time to me.
I was very focused, I was on a mission.
Finally, it finished and I wrote my name.
Unfortunately, the answer was the same,
There and then I knew I had no game,
So I reconciled and just took the blame.
Fast forward,and many years later,
I found the subject of my love letter.
I wrote a note to her on messenger.
I was optimistic because I wrote better.
I was emboldened by my poetic power.
Once again,the reply came to me later,
This time it was a resounding yes!
It felt so wonderful, thanks to poetry
And the universe I didn't make a mess.
#IvanBrooksPoetry©
7/22/2018
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Yo soy *****
**** immigration and the racist white tèjanõs, please tell me how the hell would they ever know what I know, shout out to my Mexicans Hondurans and black Cubanos shut the border down call it the no fly zone. Adios Americanos me and my amigos are stealing ya women and playin em like pianos, vocal terrorist this lyrical revolt should be your primary interest. Public enemy number one the domestic hectic terrorist I'm influencing your white son, right to bear these nuts I'm taking the tea parties guns stealing your freedom from right up under you, all your jobs, and way of life, your point of view. I'm the original black power ranger hide your right winged minds if not I swear they'll be in danger. I am the broken brick the stone left unturned the rhythm of the wind the willingness to learn and the desire to fight and get what you earn. I am the individual placed on the no fly list with my hand balled into a fist cause my turbin is too tight and my beards to thick. I am the man choked to death by nypd for selling cigarettes now I'm rioting with my words doing lyrical pirouettes. Yo soy ***** spitting jive like lingo I want a Pam Grier keep your Marilyn Monroe, from the 6th borough buckin like bronco they said finish em I'm educated and black had to hit em with the combo. I'm non fictions Huey Freeman battling congress and their demons catch me flexing on the law lookin like the black He-Man Standing up for what I believe in writing in my notepad I stay steady schemin with my head up in the clouds I stay steady dreamin. Yo soy ***** freeze em like sub zero not concerned with dolores or the dinero yen or bills yo, I'm still waiting for marvel to make a Mexican superhero.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
The saying is "Always live your life in the fast lane."
But how can I do that if my life has faded like smoke through a keyhole?
It is blank like a notepad on a little girl's desk.
The girl who is constantly bullied for the Bell's Palsy that consumes her face.
The notepad that sits on her desk that she has ripped pages upon pages upon pages out of.
Pages that read words that are thrown at her everyday.
**** ***** ***** loser.
Pages that have drawings of her and that one guy she longs for, but that one guy longs for her disappearance.
My life is like that blank note pad.
The only thing it retains is it's last message telling the world "Goodbye."
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Is there a place that one can go
to truly be alone
to escape the hustle of our lives
and traffics monotone
Is there a place where I can sit
notepad and pen in hand
And capture the true nature
of this majestic land.
My needs are very simple
just somewhere to rest my head
with a simple little woodstove
and a comfortable bed
I have no need of music
for nature plays my song
I will fall asleep to crickets
and awake to sparrows throng
I will read alone by candlelight
the poems of the day
And think of friends I left behind
who would love to live this way
But for now all this is just a dream
that one day may come true
And it seems a little closer
no that its been shared with you
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 7:31 AM UTC
The girl on the bridge looks so sad
Then suddenly her expression tells that she's mad
She takes her red ballpen and a small notepad
And starts to write everything, good or bad
The sky is cloudy like it's going to rain
Like tears in her eyes that shows her pain
If life is always unfair, what could be her gain
In those crystal clear eyes, she's nothing but a stain
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 7:36 AM UTC
It’s
a quarter past four
In the middle of
nowhere
With a
full moon on the
horizon
I just couldn’t help
Thinking it’s the
Perfect time For the
Wolves to roam wild
With that in mind
I
Tossed and turned
No matter what I did
I just couldn’t fall asleep
It’s
one of those nights when
You have too much on
Your mind it just wouldn’t
Let you rest
Until you put it
To rest
With no other option around
I felt like I needed to write
Just
to let some steam out
I
looked up to the stars
Above like a wishing Well
And with
Pen and notepad in hand
Poured
me some moonshine
In
the task of rising up to the
Stars above
And Sit back
Watched the moon
Merged with my shine
You
know it’s a great
Night when you’re aiming
for the stars
Mind racing
Excitement beginning
To build
Heart pumping
Pen in hand
Ready to write
Just
to realized
I had nothing in mind
To write
At all
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems too *******
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
He had every item
on the checklist
but yet there was
no spark.
When I met you,
you left every box blank,
but burned that notepad
to simple ashes.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
My blue virtual notepad
My ever willing companion
It's comforting and loyal
Ready to serve at a gentle touch!
Yellow notes are for grocery lists
Red notes are Domino's alarm codes
Purple is my WiFi codes
And orange is for Bible verses
But Blue!
Blue is my old leather sofa
Comfortable, familiar,
Available
Blue is the warm orange log fire
That brings comfort and gives life.
My Blue notepad, like the fire,
Devours what I feed it.
My raw emotion
Unspoken hurt
Anguish, disappointment
Love, Joy, hopes and dreams.
Blue understands that Mondays are red,
Wednesdays are green and Fridays are black.
Blue doesn't mind that number 5 its blue too
Nor that the colour yellow
Is for number two.
Blue knows Enya sounds brown
Vivaldi sounds red
And Vanessa Mae white.
Blue is my blank canvas
My faithful companion
My listening ear
Blue is no mere colour
Blue is Me
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Write me ******
Converse with in my notebook
Write me in verses
Use lust a word to trace my lips,
kisses in forms of sonnets,
Touch my hair in feather inked pens,
pencil my buttocks with curvy nouns
Endearments in & out like syllables,
while spelling out sensual adjectives
poetically ****** me,
calling out my name
as you rhyme again in and out out and in
****** deeply within me your hard penetrating
Philosophy.
Wrap your hand in mines as you
once more trace your tongue down my notepad
become master *********** within pages of my dairy.
Converse with in my notebook
as we fill up my pages.
Please Please Please
Write me in verses
Write me ******
Write me harder& harder
Faster Please
Write good long as you Write me
Sweet Poets!
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 7:55 PM UTC
For the girl who used the umbrella as a walking stick,
this is for you.
No limp and leg slide followed your wake
just the upright roar of footsteps on pale shale-
Cambridge cotton stones that reflect and reverberate
the sound from around into the ears of the passerby.
I cannot wait, nor hold it in,
the urge to scribble 11 numbers
onto parchment paper, old receipts or
or that wilted vapour notepad paper,
that nestles in the jeans.
If I had, then we’d be at a meal now- a dining experience
just for two.
22 numbers and one letter was written,
illegible and wrong.
I forgot which phone number worked
and forgot which one you could reach me on.
**A poem from the upcoming poetry pamphlet, published by http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com, entitled "Leather Clad Warriors", available soon for £3. That's only 300 pence.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
1
Snip! Snip!
says the scissors
Ouch! Ouch!
says the paper
Snip! Snip!
says the scissors
Ouch! Ouch!
says the paper
2
Be quiet and still!
says the scissors
It's for your own good
Yeah? says the paper
*Have you ever had
anyone cut you up like that?*
3
Snip! Snip!
says the scissors
Ouch! Ouch!
says the paper
Snip! Snip!
says the scissors
Ouch! Ouch!
says the paper
4
There, says the scissors
*I'm done
Cut you up square and neat
You're a homemade notepad now
ready to be used many times over
than when you were one!*
And says the paper:
*Oh, you stubborn dumbo!
I'm not for writing -
I'm koi paper
meant for origami!*
POSTSCRIPT
Why didn't you tell me?
*I thought you knew
what you were doing
you ****** fool!*
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
When I said you could think of me as your therapist,
I meant, could you leave the room and I’ll make notes?
Allow me to turn
Watching you leave
Into a profession.
Mind you, I’m pretty good at this job.
There’s the creaking of the floor panels
Under your converse,
The jingle jangle of car keys
In your back pocket,
And the death-like glow of light bulbs
Seeping through the door hinges
Of when you exit.
But you didn’t notice any of this.
You hardly broke a sweat.
Meanwhile,
On the other side of the room,
My tears are stars
And the sound of your departure
Has me painting
Galaxies
On my cheeks,
Turning my chest into steel
Until you’ve convinced yourself
That God locked this heart in a cage.
Don’t worry (I know you don’t),
I am built for this,
For your soapy self
Slipping in and out of my life.
And it will happen again.
See?
I have my notepad with lists of
Heartbreaking theories and
Scientifically correct ways
Of sending you off.
And when I will,
Know that it’s just
What every good therapist does.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Age: 1
There's really not much to remember from a year of being born.
Age: 2
Still nothing.
Age: 3
Nope
Age: 4
Now we're getting somewhere. Dad left. He left us with a an angry hole in the wall from where I saw him kick.
Age: 5
My cousin burned my hand severely with an iron this year. I remember watching all of the other kids got to ride their bike and play around. And me? Holding my bandaged hand from the side of the street.
Age: 6
There's a faint memory of a pink and yellow skirt that I wore all of the time. I was in love from the first time my mom brought it home. This was the year I received the infamous Care Bear that all of my family soon learned to love like they did me.
Age: 7
I went trick-or-treating as a princess this year. It was the best of them all. Mom found someone else to "love".
Age: 8
I lost my Care Bear. This was enough to ruin the rest of the year. I entered the third grade at a new school that mom said was closer to our real house. I realized that my dads side of the family didn't like me. I wonder why.
Age: 9
The cousin who burned my hand? I burned her with a firework stick in the **** It was an accident of course. The nurse pulled me out of class and had a very personal talk with me about my growing *****
Age: 10
In the fifth grade, I experienced my first gain and loss of friendship. It prepared me for the years to come.
Age: 11
The sixth grade; the year that I met all of the important people in my life. This is the only explanation needed. Most importantly, I met you.
Age: 12
She ran away from home and when I finally found her, we cried together in her room. I soon left her.
Age: 13
Finally a teenager and still trying to escape my growing feelings for you. Ah the eighth grade.
Age: 14
Ashly became the closest thing I had to a best friend. And then there was you...
Age: 15
We drifted and Ashly became so much more closer. It's still a little hard to talk to you when I know that you have new friends and that you might not miss me. We still talk and every once in a while, I sense hope...
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Bodies are strewn, one by one, round the room.
All that remains of the casualties here.
All of the victims, perverts and vixens,
Which fell to their instincts, desires and beer.
Recently music had filled air with rhythm,
Masking the retching and ******* the same,
Though rising with sun was the silence, begun
As horizons were setting to flame.
Wading through bodies to go make a drink,
A 6am ***** to freshen the mind.
You scramble and struggle, ignoring the couple
You caught in the kitchen, enjoying a grind.
A smile and a wave, with such sweetness, they gave
And, kindly, they offered some cider.
Approaching the man, you take a warm can
Whilst hoping its not been inside her.
Back to the sofa, a girl has rolled over,
Aeons from sober, you try nudge below her,
Quickly, then slower, with hopes no one knows her,
The types to come over assuming you'll ***** her.
But everything's fine, the coast is all clear.
You soon commandeer, till she falls among beer.
***** turns to smears, but too ****** to hear
Or try interfere, the room sleeps, cohered.
The wait is now on. The coke in your nose
Beginning to burn as you drool on your clothes.
You smoke and you smoke while you cough and you choke,
But it seems with each minute, the time passing slows.
You wack out a notepad, scribble some words,
Draw a few ***** with wings like a bird,
But mostly you sit. Sitting in quiet.
The last one alive in the midst of the riot.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Scribbles on a yellow notepad, this ink won't last
Letting sweat dry from a long walk, half way there
I didn't notice it on my first passing, or my second
Third time is the charm they say, don't they?
Now I sit in this scummy drainage ditch, writing
A tree, growing from a pile of waste concrete
Dumped carelessly by rough, tired, hands
Green leaves adorn it, this oddity, only a sapling
Like a flower on the peak of Mount Everest
Or an ice cube in the middle of the Gobi
This is not so grand, this urban contradiction
Some day it will be as tall as me, maybe taller
Stretching its limbs, eroding its base
Praising sun rays through photosynthesis
Pushing down roots through man made constructions
Reclaiming the soil from which all life springs & returns
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
i went to the park at dusk with a notepad
and tried to write poetry
i felt everything
like the changing colours in the sky
the people running by
and the shadows under the trees that slowly spread out to tint the whole world
but i couldn't get anything good down.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 6:22 AM UTC
We are hands,
and eyes,
and feet, and ears,
lumps of skin,
and bone.
We are puddles of blood
filling the cracks
on the side of the road.
We are mush,
and porcelain teeth
knocked out and embedded
where the steering wheel used to be.
We are hearts, and veins,
arteries clogged up
with a midnight treat.
We are alcohol in the blood stream.
We are 60 miles per hour,
on a residential street.
We are a corpse,
Limbs thrown out like a compass,
Guts spilled out like a teenage poet.
But what we are not,
Is a soul.
We are objects,
We are play things.
For higher species,
Godly beings.
To smile like kids crashing toy cars.
We are empty,
We are just vessels in a blood stream,
Giving life .
We are white noise, screaming for our mothers.
We are a name in a notepad.
A statistic in a book,
Passed out at clever Christian fundraisers,
For old ladies who like sugar cookies.
We are a pop punk song
With memorable lyrics
And a catchy hook .
-Kevin T. 6/16/10
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
Cassie walked up the stairs and into her new room, her new roomate sitting on the bed and writing in her journal. her long black hair in a side braid, wearing a purple flannel jacket and ripped jeans. "guess who i just met? you're not gonna believe it." cassie said, almost singing. "who?" Emily rolled her eyes. "madison montgomery, she gave me her autography and everything." cassie joyfuly explained. "madison montgomery? isn't she like some grade d lifetime movie actress or something? what is she doing here?" Emily shook her head and rolled her eyes as she doodled a picture on the notepad. "that cuts me deeply that you would say that about madison, she's my friend you know." Cassie touched her cheast, as if she had been cut by this very deeply. "okay?" Emily shook her head "she is a witch like us and is most certainly NOT a grade d actress." cassie explained. "i really like it here, you know? i never really had friends at my old highschool.. everyone thought i was weird or annoying." Cassie sighed. "did they?" emily replied sarcasticly. "well yea, thats why i had to get rid of all of them. " cassie sighed once again, shaking her head and staring into space. " sometimes i lay awake and i can still hear them." Emilys eyes and mouth widened as she looked up from her notebook very slowly. "what do you mean, you got rid of them?" Emily asked. "ohhh nevermind..! it's a really long story and i come out looking pretty bad in it" Cassie giggled, making emilys stomache turn. her eyes still wide and filled with fear.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC