"paperboy" poems
Oh, how I always wanted to live in an 8-bit world
Side-scrolling action
Duck hunts galore
As much currency as a first-world country
It’s hard not to love it
From Pokémon to Kid Icarus
The nostalgia nearly takes my breath away
I won’t let problems stack up like Tetris
I’m not being chased by ghosts crying,
“Wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka”
This isn’t a video game, it’s real life
When you die you don’t respawn like nothing ever happened
No, this is it. One life.
I’m placing blocks in Minecraft
Pwning n00bz in Call of Duty
Gaining headshots on Grunts like Master Chief
Gathering rings in Sonic the Hedgehog
Sneaking around like Ezio Auditore da Firenze
And delivering newspapers like Paperboy
While escaping the mysterious Slenderman
I’m living in this virtual world without danger
I don’t want to make it on these streets like Frogger
I don’t have big shoes to fill like the plumber or the blue blur
This ain’t no sandbox or first-person shooter, it’s reality
So, live it to the fullest, don’t rage quit
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
I never really wanted to have an agent
Just one day I met this lady and she starting arranging my gigs and stuff
She gave me this kelly green handkerchief and told me to wear it in my left back pocket at all times
I have followed her orders religiously and now own more laser discs than all my friends combined
Do you know where the Trinidadian bakery is?
I'm supposed to meet the paperboy there and give him this pencil case
May the black cats of January be afraid to cross your path
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:11 AM UTC
this just in:
a needless road rage killing
a senseless movie theater killing
a pointless middle school shooting
a meaningless ****** suicide
an irrational child homicide
an illogical workplace massacre
a specious robbery shooting
a mistaken identity ******
an inane ****** for hire plot
a random killing of a farm family
a worthless gang related ******
a futile car jacking slaughter
a crazy serial killing
an groundless paperboy shooting
an unnecessary police shooting
an unfounded revenge ******
a juvenile crime gone wrong
a harebrained scheme ending in blood
a mad shooting spree
more at eleven
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Under water colored lilacs
The water colors the world
Running along her driveway
The rain comes along and runs down
Through the mist she runs out
To see if the paperboy missed
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
hi
I don't know what 2 say
Im marty and I am a man
I live in plymouth
and I drive a mini van
my fav things are
pizza friends music and my dog tracy
I play games online alone
and I am a paperboy
and my family lives overseas
dating is not my thing
so I am on this site.
and I want to fall in love.
and my fav movies are
**** bill jaws jurasic park and **** bill 2
I don't know what 2 say
maybe you liked my profile
so send me a msg or
cyber-roses or a digital chocolate box
or click the flirt button
I like to talk sometimes
when I get lonesome.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Morning newspaper
Greets you with a smile
“Thank you paperboy”
Swallowing tablets
At the sunny ball
Watching the faces
Shape shift into rabbits
Morphing
Into who knows what
Feel like Alice
Explosions of color
And grandeur
Overwhelming voices
Lead the game
“I am God” shouted
They laugh eternally
Though it’s only
Temporally
And clouds devour
The yellow sun
Raindrop suicide
With their mile high jump
Tambourine and guitar
And the dancing
So much dancing
That summer is lost
Among the headbands
And shirtless kids
A blur
A blur
But what a swell time!
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
as the mornings darken, I imagine the paperboy’s mother will soon be joining him. if my wife can stand her, she doesn’t say. what she cannot stand is living here. the paperboy’s ******* mother- what a dilemma. I’ve seen that boy with his fingers in his mouth as if something is there to explain the purple chore of his being. I’ve seen his black teeth. I’ve seen dogs bite his elbow once then leave him alone. I’ve watched his elbow heal a day at a time not once adorned with bandage. seen him crack a dive bird to ground with the rolled up paper of my neighbor. who prayed over the bird and raked it to gutter. whose cat brought the bird to my step, yawned, and dropped it. seen that boy look dumbly at a mosquito on his arm and I’ve seen him let it finish and remain fixed on the spot minutes after. hours even.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Unpleasant fingers that make a noise that I'm not comfortable with,
Not on my watch will you slander the name of her Boar.
Under the dandruff wigs of fellow coachmen,
I stand and say: Follow the path of preferred map-tracks,
Disregarding the glass of subtle milk,
Disregarding the shattered plastic, all, over, my, head,
Believing in a higher power, is, what, I, said,
Kevin, you need to leave me alone now,
I hate the paperboy.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
The searing pain inside my brain
makes me want to right out a poem.
She moved in so close I could
feel the electricity there within .
The words would fail me
like a lovers lament will do .
The kisses were as crispy
as the laptop from which they flew .
And everyone knew you were
looking through the bay window
of your time .
The paperboy delivered
much more than my morning news .
And Cathy moved to New Orleans
with Danny as it was
her will to choose .
And the nighthawks few in the lights
it was a sight to see .
Ken kept slinging beers
while he dreamed of dreams
that would never be .
Still I see it all in the window of my pane .
I sometimes dream of Judy
and the reasons we could never be .
There's a Red Mountain resting underneath
the apartment holding me .
It was up hill , downhill ,
and it was unreasonable
so it seemed .
Anytime you had complaints
they would surely scream .
I see it all now through
the windowpain
of my mind .
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
He buried the arm.
Black dirt, cracked under a blazing sun.
His bones slid stiffly into one another; shovel slipped from sweat.
He’d covered the face already. A pale mask of serenity with burnt black sockets.
Dead leaves blew past his legs. The house shook. Boards rattled against the wind.
A paperboy passed by.
What a stupid waste of flesh.
He waved.
******* stupid.*
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
At first, I caught a delusion...
Of what simply needed to fade away
The paperboy comes here with his pay
And seems to stay here all day
He signs all my documents with a rubber stamp
And brings back my drugs like a champ
Temporary placements...
Deciding not to burn out
I went outside to hear my neighbourhood's point on doubt
All of them had varying opinions
And each one of them had to shout
I smiled and said "Don't shout, don't pout!"
I was determined that it would never happen again
And now the same person comes here with a blood drop on his lense
He said he slipped and fell and cut himself on the sharp edges of the fence
I told him to use soap, rinse and cleanse
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
The wind whispered softly along
As if not to bother the sleeping child in its cradle,
The angry trees about to lose their beauty,
And the neighborhood paperboy on his bicycle with his scarf wrapped tightly around his face.
The wind caressed the crystal flakes that fell from the heavens
As if to console the father whose son was sacrificed in distant war,
The daughter who was destined to walk the aisle without a father,
And the excited mother-to-be whose child was stillborn after months of tender love and care.
The wind calmly strolled down 8th Street
Where the early workers stood in line for a bagel and brew,
Where children gathered near the corner filled with vigor and youth,
Where tall giants of steel and stone shone with haughty pride and modern couth.
The wind whispered softly along
The curves and wrinkles of my face
As my life forever changed,
But it was just another day
To the wind.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
To avenge the little worlds in which we live
How far off our dreams are from coming true.
-
Your sound logic breaks the sonnet's symphonic sophistication
Turns the lilies and lilacs back into stone.
-
To see you walking down the lane causes us to cringe
What bad news you always bring.
-
When, for a moment, we're elated
Reason and logic and reality crash down with each of your footsteps.
-
Each stride you take toward us, as you advance, we fall deeper into despair
-
You're the bringer of bad news
You're the screaming paperboy of our lives
Beating your war drum and sounding your bell
Making our lives the true definition of hell
-
When we tell you our hopes
You tell us our flaws.
-
This fire burning deep in your throat
Brims at your lips and pours out
And duly it breaks into our unguarded hearts.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Who were you?
You were once a girl with glasses, who hated dolls and any shade of pink on your clothes.
You were once a girl who hated that phrase, no matter how many times you were told.
You were once an individual scared of breaking out of your shell and showing the world your beautiful blue wings.
You were once a young 12-year-old boy; learning the meaning of love and how to apply it to yourself, without finding it in other things…
You were once a troubled 14-year-old who hated his naked reflection and drowned his sorrows in pill bottles and toxic love you knew was enough to ****
You were once a friend with a heart made of sweets and chocolate; enough to give you cavities or make you ill.
But now, who are you?
When you look in the mirror, what do you see?
Do you see a beautiful blue butterfly, with wings spread wide?
Or do you see that troubled youth, ready to choke on some pills and die?
Do you picture a future? Any future for yourself 10 years down the road?
Or is your mind bombarded by the past and your perspective of the future blurred with the words echoed
In the back of your neck, stopping you from thinking clearly;
Stopping you from sleeping those nights you’re awake and looking at the ceiling?
When I see you, I don’t know who I see anymore.
I don’t know if I see the boy you used to be or a stranger with eyes drained of joy.
Are you just a copy of what you’ve dreaded to become, or are you a paperboy?
Are you a paperboy ready to hurt me with your paper cuts? Please be careful because I am oh so delicate.
You probably know this though; too afraid I’ll break so you don’t even keep in touch.
My apologies if I’m fragile. My apologies if I’m beaten and torn.
I’m just terrified of being left alone, or finding someone plagued with thorns.
I found comfort in a friend like you.
But now, who are you?
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Francie Lynch gets it! (The Thin Red Line)
https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/
“A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful
giggles, you'll read that poem again.
A poem is exactly like
a damaged heart in
need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that
leaves a
scar along your heart.”
F. L.
<~>
I,
now in possess
of said thin red line,
where they cut me
just so, opened
stem to stern
for a rethreading repair, a repaving
of the highways & byways of
my little blue engine that
almost but couldn’t quite could but thought…
b e l i e v i n g
it could eke by for a little longer
new observable routine,
first item of my daily rising
now includes a pre-diurnal poetic
extraction~erection~ejection,
an intro~introspection
of an
introductory, petite reflexive
contemplative
reflection
of life’s mysteries,
like enjoying that
first bang of eye~opening conscious breath and a
disruptive need to spill
a few verbal beans before the
daily dead~lines of to do’s
strangle me into oblivion
a morning dispatched
by the poet paperboy
on his cardio bicycle
with
tearful eyes,
and many mirthful
gaggles of
giggles
yep,
a tickle
too,
no
extra
charge✅
Feb 23, 2024
Feb 23, 2024 at 2:39 PM UTC
A barn owl flies past my window,
With something on his mind.
Is it a work or family issue?
Or a twig he cannot find?
The paperboy lingers at my door,
No older than five.
Does he wish he was playing with friends?
Or that his parents were still alive?
A weeping girl leans against my fence,
Contemplating deceit and lies?
Has she run away from home?
Or is his violence the reason for her cries?
I wait, confused, alone,
Letting every person be.
I can try and see right through them,
But will they see through me?
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC