"scrible" poems - Hello Poetry

Pen to paper has a sound and the people have named it: scribble scrible scrilbbe, lift, scrvbl. The sounds keys made have been named too: Click back click click click back click. (also by the people). Hoopla says it's all too purposeful and certain. Borrar. Borrar. Bukowski says the computer made him efficient at the keys. He has thousands of post-80's poems to prove it. **** him (says the people). For us (you and me), keyboards are less frantic and poetic, less thoughtful. Chuck wrote something called 16-bit Intel 8088 chip, we call it new-English.

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May 26, 2015

May 26, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC

weinburglar

scrvbl

Pen to paper has a sound and the people have named it: scribble scrible scrilbbe, lift, scrvbl. The sounds keys made have been named too: Click back click click click back click. (also by the people). Hoopla says it's all too purposeful and certain. Borrar. Borrar. Bukowski says the computer made him efficient at the keys. He has thousands of post-80's poems to prove it. **** him (says the people). For us (you and me), keyboards are less frantic and poetic, less thoughtful. Chuck wrote something called 16-bit Intel 8088 chip, we call it new-English.

18

*Blink fast Blink fast Blink fast* Don't cry. Look straight ahead Pretend you don't notice The trembling of your hands And the clog in your throat While the pressure Inside your chest Rises With every single breath As you try to gulp for air. Why'd you have to bring up your dad? **** Your quiet. Thinking, Eyes slowly watering She notices. Scrible scrible There goes my progress I give up Let the tears roll in And the words tumble from my mouth Clumsily Wanting to get Everything of my chest For the first And last time

0

Mar 28, 2013

Mar 28, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC

anai-munoz

Untitled

*Blink fast Blink fast Blink fast* Don't cry. Look straight ahead Pretend you don't notice The trembling of your hands And the clog in your throat While the pressure Inside your chest Rises With every single breath As you try to gulp for air. Why'd you have to bring up your dad? **** Your quiet. Thinking, Eyes slowly watering She notices. Scrible scrible There goes my progress I give up Let the tears roll in And the words tumble from my mouth Clumsily Wanting to get Everything of my chest For the first And last time

30

I've written these same lines about six hundred times all of them all of them seeming to rhyme but not rhyme in the sense of phonetics or in a repeating pattern of syllables rhyme in the sense of a pattern of misfortune i suppose rhyme in the sense that every line is smudged from smeared ink and tear drops falling on the page in the exact same place rhyme in the sense that every word of every line is hard to decipher because it has been written in what I like to call anxiety's beautiful autograph each letter written like a scrible and all unconnected because it's kind of hard to piece words together when you can't even remeber how to breathe right rhyme in the sense that these cursed lines all stem from every line I have made on my skin carved out like the words to a beautiful poem and the blood still stains the paper rhyme in the sense that even when the pen hits the paper and starts a new I still cling to the lie that everything's not dying and we're all still alive.

0

Jan 26, 2018

Jan 26, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC

frankierowl

rhyme in the sense

I've written these same lines about six hundred times all of them all of them seeming to rhyme but not rhyme in the sense of phonetics or in a repeating pattern of syllables rhyme in the sense of a pattern of misfortune i suppose rhyme in the sense that every line is smudged from smeared ink and tear drops falling on the page in the exact same place rhyme in the sense that every word of every line is hard to decipher because it has been written in what I like to call anxiety's beautiful autograph each letter written like a scrible and all unconnected because it's kind of hard to piece words together when you can't even remeber how to breathe right rhyme in the sense that these cursed lines all stem from every line I have made on my skin carved out like the words to a beautiful poem and the blood still stains the paper rhyme in the sense that even when the pen hits the paper and starts a new I still cling to the lie that everything's not dying and we're all still alive.

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