"padlocks" poems
The girl whose hair
Hung strung from
The crooked inner workings
Of her geared mind
Dusty, rusted, and unkempt
Against her most eager desires,
Bathed in the waves
Of the oblivion that surrounds us
During this night she absorbed
Into the fibers that nestle
Into the strings of her shirt,
Singing against the gentle flow
Of an evening breeze
Much cooler than that
Of one plagued by the day's sun,
And while the fire
Has been extinguished
And its flames dancing in licks
Have laid to sleep,
The moon has kissed her,
And she portrays the wisdom
She locks away behind a steel box,
Chained and covered with padlocks,
A glow never dim seeping
From beneath the lid.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.
it was spring when I left.
the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.
and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.
the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to
new lowlands. eager with seeds.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
*Some of my best friends are
The tiny grey cells in my head
For, without these tireless givers
I should sorely want*.....
For I've had.....
The power to recognise the nurturer
Who saved me countless times
Who sewed my confidence at valedictory
Gratitude to Mother...granting me first wings.
The help of a few friends with proffered lifts
Not many, but enough to light the way
Takes but one spark to lead the lost
Cannot discount the value of true goodwill.
The sweet taste of that first, deep love
Who showed the path to discovered delights
Easy mem'ries...looking back, but ****** ahead
Sighs painted on the ceiling in dreamy webs.
The awkward trip down that rabbit hole
Blue lady hanging pretty in the corner
Flies trapped flimsy, on some terylene
Many padlocks loom....to get gasping to you!
The chance to slough off onerous habits
Dive wholehearted into the universe's sea
Gaps to kickstart joy and spearhead cheer
Mentors pass the torch and believe in me!
Yes, some of my best friends are NOT seen
Most reliably spun inside this osseous shell
They answer things and help me find my truth
Thank heavens....selfless amity equals mercy.
S T, 29 June
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
She calls Him her boyfriend
But to Him, She is nothing but a Body to ****
Good girls go to heaven but
Bad girls with big ****
are everywhere looking for ***** to ****
Looking for loaded ****** to ****
l have been [Patient] for too long,
l think lm [sick]
Sick of these ****** Pretending to love when all
they after is *****
Sick of these ******* Pretending to love when
all they after
is taste of Pipi
Sick of ******* who cant see they is play
ground
and ****** is rolling ***** like is ball
They tell you is Hot even when you is not
you open ***** Hole,
Sperms and STDs float inside the Vigeegee
now you is sick, if only you had been patient
if only you was Patience
Im sick of ****** pretending that girls *******
are padlocks
and them ***** keys going around unlocking
as if they are good looking
****** dont make love they are UNLOCKING
*******
Bitchesfancy that his Tongue licks the
Vigeegee
chill, that's just LUBRICANT to make it slippery
when He operates you
Fingers you to make sure you ready for it
Figures you want it, makes you **** it like lolly
pop. then He makes your ***** swallow it
Unlocks the *****
Kisses you, making you drink the alcoholic
poison from His lips
then you get drunk in love
then your blood gets drunk in ***
then your **** gets drunk in *****
then you skip your periods you call Him he
picks up drunk telling you to **** off then you
realise late that you were a Padlock and He
was to unlock you
and you realise late that You Were just a BODY
TO ****
He lost nothing, but your
Innocence, dignity and virginity
perished.
But then you smile coz you played with His
**** too......
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
The well-oiled clunk of padlocks
slotting smoothly home
for dark to close off
rooms to outside days
and droned opprobrium.
The morning shine that
carries breezes brimmed
with birdsong must await
the sliding click and clack
of opened blackout blinds.
Open to a bundled clump of
tumbled, crumpled, crass,
incessant, prickling,
self-reflective musings
binding me to doubt.
It is this lair wherein I
rest and find the peace of
reign; 'Tis here I manifest as
Father Time to forge a faulty
rise and set with blackout blinds.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
You watched me as I trace your veins
like they were train tracks to Neverland.
You watched me as I interlock our hands
like they were padlocks to our bodies.
You watched me as I cling onto your body
like they were electrons and protons.
You watched me as I smile with my crooked teeth
like they were the cutest sets of teeth you've ever seen.
You watched me as I talk about my worries in life
like they were the crucial news on TV.
You watched me as I cry my burdens out
like they were poison in my veins.
And as you watch me..
You held every piece of me in your arms
like they were the most fragile home décor.
You kissed and filled me with words of love
like they were the antidote to my poisoned wounds.
You cupped my face and locked your eyes on mine
like they were bright streetlamps glistening a dark alley.
You stroked the strands of my hair and tucked them behind
like they were delicate silks given from the Gods.
You breathe through my ear the promises of forever
like they were my religion I worship every now and then.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
There must be a hidden room
Somewhere in my house
thats full of all the stuff I've lost
(I think twas stolen by a mouse)
I bet he goes to sleep at night
on a bed made of odd socks
and wakes up to a wind charm
made from keys and old padlocks
In the corner nickels and dimes
are all neatly arranged
and that Canadian Tire money
I never got to exchange
The charger for my cellphone
prob'ly makes a decent chair
and my old shaving mirror
gets used when he does his hair
Scraps of paper line his walls
with shopping lists and names
and numbers now forgotten
yet its me who gets the blame
So all this stuff that I once had
but can no longer find
will no doubt become mine again
when he's gone and its left behind
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
Single years roll down my face,
I send smoke signals to teenagers
Lost in the sound of their personal midnight,
Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’
and remain unquantifiable
in the loose streets of halogen New York,
or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,
Some places you don’t imagine, only experience,
Some places you don’t visit but get sent,
Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have,
Some places are just prayers and graffiti,
And here, here
The railway bridge adorned,
with tags and padlocks
and ****** fluids with different stories,
I see all the streets and city embodied,
She has a face like blunt force trauma,
Her legs are seductive and her hands
are covered in blood,
Her lover’s smile is an open wound.
In these places there is a fire in every tower,
In these places there is something sharp in every pocket,
In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook,
In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.
A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man
hanging from a traffic light;
Incidents unrelated,
Become dead words in piles of boxes,
That don’t realise they tell us how
this city or satellite town
is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
I always told myself to not do something that ****** one’s conscience.
Don’t tear the leaves or flowers from their roots. Do you not hear their screams of white noise and agony? Do you not see their blood drip onto the forest floor as you cared not for them but for your own selfish pleasures, to have their beauty in your hand?
Don’t listen to the voices that resonate off the walls. Do you not understand how that will satiate the undying hunger in the voids of your mind? Do you not know how it will churn your insides and burn the base of your soul?
Don’t look for the things you have lost. Do you not wonder why they would go missing in the first place? Do you not know that the wolves in the base of your spine have been unleashed?
Don’t stare at the beings in the universe around you. Do you not realize the trouble that would put you in? Do you not know that a single misadventure of the eyes will often lead to shiny blades with long handles in your torso?
Don’t overthink at night. Do you not know that the spirits in your atmosphere will steal your thoughts and add nightmares to them so you’ll have bad dreams? Do you not keep your thoughts in golden cages under massive padlocks and curvy keys?
(lunarlullubies)
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
The other night I was walking down the street
In a sweatshirt and blue jeans
And to the left of the street I heard
“Hey baby, get in the car with me”
And I knew this couldn’t be a nice gesture
And I should be afraid
I should rely on the pepper spray in my purse
Over the compassion in a man’s heart
Because after all I’m just an itty pretty bitty
In this big ol’ city
And I need help
I need a white knight to protect me from dragons
That used to be men but forgot the meaning of the word no
And twisted it so
It meant try harder
Look at how short her skirt is
And I thought since when did the length
Of my skirt become the measure
Of a man’s self-control
When did the visibility of my thighs
Warrant unwanted invites
I don’t remember sending out mini-skirts
To request people come to my birthday party
The length of my dress does not mean yes
And the cut of my shirt is not a man’s control test
And when I say no that isn’t just a request
Why do I have to be afraid to be a woman?
Why can’t men be taught not to ****
So I won’t have to be taught ways to avoid it
Don’t walk alone
Don’t talk to strangers
Don’t walk at night
Don’t leave home without pepper spray
Don’t walk in that neighborhood
Why can’t being a woman mean don’t
Be afraid you never have to wish
You were born with padlocks instead of knees.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
.
A bloodthirsty old woman you see,
a cockroach from Satan’s
“Crisis Committee”,
For long she pillaged,
children she snatched and slayed
their blood she drank and ate,
to rejuvenate.
She flayed their skin,
affixed in place on her own face,
Corona was her name,
The old hag was insane.
When her evil deeds were told,
the airplanes soared,
in aim to **** us all.
On Earth they made the poisons fall.
They had us all locked down,
with muzzles restrained,
padlocks and chains,
ankle bracelets for home detention,
false tests on prescription,
deceived and plundered,
blamed for infection,
medications proscribed,
fresh air they denied,
On our freedom they put boundaries,
halfwits, scoundrels.
And when they “eased up” on their “measures”,
the camps were full over the rim,
large - scale butchering,
looted livers and kidneys,
burning the living victims,
“to prevent the spread of infection”
evidence concealed for our own protection.
She had working hours,
sleeping before noon,
was contagious only in the afternoon.
Half the world she vaccinated,
with poisons injected,
what is going on,
you are going to see,
billions of dead bodies are yet to be!
Forget we must not,
Lest not forgive,
Let’s arrest and sentence them to death,
they should not be left to live!
.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Copyright © by Saša Milivojev, 2020 - 2022 - All Rights Reserved
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 6:40 PM UTC
Incommunicado?
I can't tell of what
I know.
Padlocks on my tongue
to stop it running loose,
a noose around my neck
just in case.
Silence is tarnished by
oxidisation.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
Took youth
Set it to sail
On sinking ships
Our frantic
Greedy hands
Never close enough
But grasping still
Had our nimble fingers outstretched
Adulthood a locked door
Keys round our necks
Unlocked the door
To become
Swallowed
Devoured whole
Captured by the dark
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least
two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to
warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.
When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're
not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears
but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.
Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk
before she was fat.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
The rusty lock on each heart-petal swung unusually, as if everyone now carried several keys, digital padlocks, with them on purpose, because they can never give the vile current of unpredictable fate what it deserves. They prove unable to swallow and spit out compromising, redeemable dreams and desires. Life only passes by, almost endlessly, because perhaps we all lived and existed a little with cowardice. A discarded, neglected fragment of memory drifts by in vain, the spoken "I love you!" that led to the fatal breakup before the wedding.
No one can figure it out, perhaps they haven't wanted to for a long time, what could have gone wrong in a sacred relationship that was nicknamed lasting, spiced with everything, promising immortality?! There have always been and will always be answers, the simple excess weight of forced steps keeps pulling back its leaden limbs.
After all, it is impossible to stoop to the point of questioning the now happy wife, who gave birth to three children at once, with an open judge-prosecutor confession, as if she could have discharged her social obligation at the same time. There is no need to wait for mousetrap confessions; the stoic indifference builds a mandatory defensive wall out of compromises, with which everyone tries to keep everyone away from themselves first and foremost, so that no one can be treated with dignity even by chance. to question.
There is nothing to take back from the sluggish yield of compromises that seek to belittle, nor to repent with sincerity. Because everyone is now a coward and doubly unfaithful in one person. Even the one who once truly loved takes on the yoke of vulnerability!
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 12:26 AM UTC
There are these sections in Gen's brain. Partitioned off by veined red walls, white wooden walls, and metal walls covered in padlocks. Behind each wall is another Gen, essentially. Every room supporting some variation of Genevieve. It's very busy, very cramped.
The Quiet Room
This room is quiet.
Happy?
Sad?
Is there even a Gen in here?
Gen?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!
GEN!!?
The Blue Room
This room is filled with hazy blue mist.
The Gen blends in.
Nobody seeing the Gen in the blue room.
Like the quiet room, we don't even know if she's in there.
But we can hear her.
Faintly breathing.
Sort of.
The Yellow Room
This room has walls made of music.
The walls sing!
The Gen in the middle of the room smiles!
And sings!
This Gen is heard!
It smells like paper in this room.
Paper, and laundry detergent.
And a little like ink, too.
The Maze
We think this is where the REAL GEN,
The Big Gen,
Got trapped.
There are doors in these maze walls,
Leading to more walls and doors
And rooms.
We haven't found her yet.
She's in here somewhere.
She's probably scared.
Lost,
A little confused.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
The electricity of your smile covered
In Golden seeds,
I'll be sure that everything will be alright,
Wind blowing in grass fields,
5 dollar pizza deals,
We sure had a great night,
But if i sacrifice my heart in your ritual
Of being true to me,
It will be groovy , it'd be out of sight,
Drive me crazy , my skin I'll peel,
Its your heart I wanna steal,
This drawing of you looks pretty right?!!
For all of my soul prospers,
Trying to avoid the coppers,
Wars, dying , people screaming,
In the smoke with all the choppers,
You were right there waiting for me to save you,
The discontinuation will not ever prosper,
All of our memories are out today,
Blasting in the face creativity,
Pretty shallow but I'd say it's actually quite,
The sunset shining in the grass fields,
In my bed , I always liked the way you feel,
Will I go to bed again? I might,
Beautiful blessings in the ways we move
And creep,
For the cause , wouldn't put up a fight,
Kissing your lips , we love to seal,
The padlocks that are made of fine steel,
As long as I see you in sight,
love is old
love is new
love is old
me and you
We're gonna live a happy life,
And If I have to be a heart-strucked immigrant,
I swear I'll put it right.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
You're safe
Locked up in your safe
No one knowing the combination but you
Feelings in safe deposit boxes
Padlocked just to make sure
I tried to sneak in the dead of night
Hoping to find a crack
But I never was good with subtleties
I attempted to hold you hostage
But you never even bothered to ask about a ransom
I even tried to blow you up with dynamite
But only lost pieces of myself
You're safe now
Locked up in your safe
Safe from burglars in the dead of night
Safe from being held at gunpoint
Safe from being in a war zone
No one knows your combination
Or has the keys to your padlocks
I hope that she has a wrecking ball
Smashing open your steel door before you even see it coming
I hope that she has a stethoscope
Pressing her ear against your chest as you hold her close
Each beat of heart is a click closer to cracking the code without you even knowing
I hope that she frees you from yourself because I sure as hell couldn't
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
Council coin counter padlocks the door,
**** here no more they pronounce.
The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.
Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.
Brexit ******** means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.
“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.
The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC
Water the lawn so it won’t die
Passed out in the dandelions
Compose yourself and blaze a trail
Splatter it on the easel
Crack of lightning
False doors lead to nowhere
Can I pull this off?
No sense in not trying
Take what you need
And keep it forever
For it's all you have
All you need for a life time
Throw it and run
A tearful good bye
Trash and compost falling from the skies
I leave a note to explain
Re writes
Re write
I can’t bring myself to
Scribble regretful ink onto
An unforgiving paper
Smoke fills the room
Screaming, blind fear
Say goodbye hide run and hide
-Tommy Johnson
It’s almost never too late
We’ll be safe here
Lick it shut
Blend in with the padlocks
It has stopped
For now
Brick layered
Vent away
It will never be the same
Security abandoned
Unfathomable evolution
Genetic paint job
Stuck
Waiting frantically
For our savior
The key to a fire
Is a relentless urge to burn
It’s happening
My imperfections
Clocked In at high speed
Surfacing my conscious mind
Swerve through the wreckage
The waste piled high
The wheels spin
I’ve got it I’m here
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Five fourteen p.m., my coffee bubbles in the ***
Absent minded typing keeps the flood of thoughts away.
Drips pass through the filter, like a cut that cannot clot.
The radio hums static and I bend my knees to pray.
Eight o' nine p.m., I cry, "Oh, please Lord, stay with me."
Pacing footsteps creak and sigh, echoing my plea.
Clanking chains and padlocks keep my arms from flailing free
but still I scream out, "Should I climb atop a sycamore tree?!"
Two o' three a.m., no thoughts my dreamcatcher has caught.
I'm blinking, staring into space, to keep the tears at bay.
Somber, grave, inside my sheets my bones begin to rot.
God, fight off these demons, they are begging me to stray.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
the bed feels like an ocean
your body writhes upon it
giant squid tentacles
winding up from the inky depths
locking around your ankle
rendering the limb useless
an anchor in your dreams
dreams of masked figures
with nets bottling your hopes
and dreams
for their own sick pleasures
put on shelves and made
into a roadside freak show
words like venom
and jeering laughter
nigh time dreamers chained in reality
differences scorned upon
physical or mental
cries of upheaval and revolution
from those that are followed by the
black dog
those that are like rag dolls
trapped in the shell that is
their body
unable to lift their heads
the smothering and stifling cloak
of panic worn by those who suffer anxiety
the grey storm cloud of acid rain
and icy bullets
hovering over the depressed
they are not broken
only flawed
in this world
today
no one is without flaws
insecurities and fear
keep our mouths shut
locked with heavy iron padlocks
weighing the wearer down
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
I cough—and crimson flowers bloom on my palms
faster than the atom bomb can fall
As roots grew out from cells—you were yelling at trees—you couldn't move—you were just yelling at trees—yelling at trees
"Because that's all we really are! Just a different combination of the same thing. Like padlocks"
and it's not oak trees, but it's sapplings—and that's a start to a something we don't have a name to. You plant the seed of insanity into my mind,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC