"typecast" poems
gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.
civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.
the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.
volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.
volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.
volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.
volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
They were the knotted extensions of her soul.
They showed how she twisted the truth
right out the lies she had been told.
Since birth people tried to typecast her role.
Marry a man
Have some babies
Grow old
Her family would say someone mucked up the recipe;
sugar, spice and everything nice. She was
dissimilar to the 3. Her sugar was solitude.
Her spice? Tattoos. Everything nice in her
had been stripped and ******* So the only
thing left of that were the bits of metal in her lips,
nose and ears. "Brush your hair 100 times a day, dear",
Her mother had said for years. And she did
until the day she told her parents she was
a different kind of queer. Then,the tears.
Somewhere between her mother's damnations,
her father's belligerence and her usual
rebuttal of indifference, she began to take interest
in her hair. Those long, straight strands were
nothing like her. The red reflected
her parents rejection. In that moment.
There was clarity in the contorted
version of love she had to incur.
She decided the only expectations
to accept were hers. And just like that
the barrier between her and the world cracked.
She decided to dread her hair and dye it black.
As the years went by, her parents learned
to accept their daughter. And in return
each year she would send them a photo
showing how her hair had gotten longer.
She also added trinkets to the locks and let
the strawberry color grow back.
Yet she kept the tips black to remind herself
no matter what the world wants her to be
the most important thing in life was her self-esteem.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
Typecast within a role,
an empty actor w/o a soul,
to force a smile and flash a wink,
are just effects to make you think,
and camera tricks to let you know,
that I'm o.k. to let you go
Magnanimous loser, once again,
to hide my loss I wear a grin.
I'll kiss your cheek, and hug you brief,
a smile and wink, to hide my grief
and don my costume, once again,
magnanimous loser, my old friend.
I'll deny this one confession,
the latest in a long procession,
of broken hearted bedtime tales,
of hope that dies and love that fails
I'll play the role I know so well
the roll I've played and played to hell.
one more time won't hurt, I guess,
magnanimous loser, I confess.
You'll see me laugh, and socialize,
you'll think I'm strong, you'll think I'm wise,
for I won't cry, or wail and moan,
(at least 'till I get home alone).
sitting at my dressing table,
I wonder if I'll soon be able,
to paint a grin, and choke back tears,
and ignore the pounding in my ears.
Magnanimous loser, can't you see?
doomed to live in misery,
The bad boys win another round
the good guy's gone without a sound.
It's all become an old refrain,
another year, the same old pain
another one gone, another dream ends
another regret, what might have been.
I'll wear the mask, for all to see
that I'm just fine, as fine can be
magnanimous loser, once again,
just for once, I'd like to win.
So pass me up, for I don't mind
just give me time, and I'll be fine.
I'm sure that he's much better than I,
You’ll be so happy, and I’ll get by…
Dan Bryce
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?
As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.
You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.
I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.
This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.
I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.
You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.
I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?
And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
Teenagers write poems about sadness
And I diagnose
Drain false narcissistic depth
I choose to diagnose
Girls that moan about darkness
I can try emphasize
At a therapeutic distance
Walls rather a leather settee
Cry me your conjured problems
The attention that you desperately need
Hug into my
False intellectual façade
You want your name in lights
Rose-colored perception
Of a overused typecast
Your sadness poetic and bottomless
Caught in the flight
Spotlight
That you cannot bear
Insipid perpetuity
Whining and moaning and whining
Life in hard and it is not fair
I’ve seen it all before
But should I sit
Put myself high on a pedestal
Satisfied with my own scholarly ruse
What I lack in qualifications
I make up in apathy
You wear a different coat
You messy attention grabbing
Poetically distraught
Attracted to the next sparkly thing
That will make you more interesting
You magpie, you lemming, you
I will hold your hand if you hold mine
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
The only role I ever land is "outcast tortured by the cruelty and pain of his past" I sure didn't choose this path, feels more as though I've been typecast, or maybe I am a ********* holding out for every last ounce of pain before I blast this trader living in my head for the last 30 years off my shoulders, through a window pane, then, just as fast, turn to the vast hole in my chest that once held my heart and press the cold steel to it with the mass of my dread firmly in my grasp, gun fire drowned out by echoing laughs, fulfilling a prophecy of my future while neglecting lessons from my past, the game of life feels less like a game of chance and more like a test that's harder to advance than all the rest and wouldn't you know it, I fell asleep in class and didn't pass, apparently I even tuned out the emergency broadcast. Went and amassed a losing record that'd be impressive if not for the direct contrast the win column presents and the enormous shadow my downfall casts. Harassed by the devil on each shoulder, I thought that maybe once I got older, if I could just stay on task and remain steadfast, I would be able to open a can of whoop a$$ and trespass the evil within this house of glass but alas I must telegraph my every move or they've seen a future telecast because they lambast each strike and I'm not sure I'll outlast these issues, I'm gassed, plus, problems have started showing up in mass from a much higher weight class, they must have bypassed the weigh in process but I've always known who the deck was stacked against, hence why I never win, I only survive and my methods would flabbergast most, the truth finds it's way to the surface and I find myself aghast, crying like I've been teargassed with no gas mask but I've surpassed the point where waterworks will bring forth empathy, gotta own my involvement in the crash, volunteer to take out my own trash and this time I'll throw my pain out with the bath water and be free at last...free at last, free at last, no thanks to god almighty I'll be free at last
©2021
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 5:10 AM UTC
This is western society,
How much is distorted realism?
Talk in sinister sexism,
Casually call criticism,
Typecast fashion femmes,
What about men?
High heels or no,
They'll call you a **
You can't blame women,
For control mechanisms!
Emotional blackmail,
A world run by males,
We should empower the young,
For their lives in the sun,
When was misogyny begun?
Any real chance of equality,
in our western society?
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
I love the ignorance
That so many can live in
How we can easily
Without even realizing we’ve done it
Categorize or stereotype
And make assumptions in mere seconds
Oh yes please
Preach your words of recognition
Then go on to label and typecast
Every single one of us without a second thought
True acceptance
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:46 PM UTC
Hunched spines slouched with an air of indifference against backs of rigid chairs
Anxious toes tapping on linoleum floors
A generation of Attention-Deficit-addled youth, subdued with medication because they think our eyes dart too quickly
Minds fluttering more rapid-fire than individual thought can account for
What is “unique” when everything stems from mimicry?
We think ourselves philosophers (only because we’re naïve enough to make assumptions like that)
All that our naked minds can bear is a sliver of the reality we suffocate in
We reject conformity by conforming
We discard typecast by creating stereotypes
We critique and self-doubt and are relentless in our own auto-denigration
Yet still, we see ourselves as infinitely superior
Because we’re the sum of earth’s 3 billion year journey
We’re the product of every galaxy and star-birth
We’re a shred of every molecule of humanity
We’re the chosen ones, we’re evolution.
We’re ragged, fraying edges
The living definition of a walking contradiction; hypocrisy in motion
Our pens are still doodling in the margins of our notebooks
We march to a syncopated beat with heads held high but eyes cast low as we count our steps and avoid stepping on cracks
Our heels drag with the showmanship of nonchalance but the eagerness in our fingertips betrays us
We’re all just kids caught in the purgatorial limbo of high school
We’re all just trying to pretend that we’re more than we are
We’re mostly hoping that someday we’ll prove our parents right
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
So, Mr Nimoy,
Your time has finally come,
Your long and prosperous life is done,
And now your being typecast in a better place.
Nomore will you voyage through space,
Or sing those silly songs on youtube.
It was always your tube, Nimoy,
When you paced the bridge of the Enterprise.
Now you've been beamed up for good,
And your first officer's log is closed.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
Leeds United on the attack
No sign of holding back
No matter what the score
We keep knocking on that door
Slicing through opposing lines
Creating chances many times
We really should score many more
That would bring us to the fore
Bamford bangs them in of course
Making us a formidable force
Get those shooting boots on, one and all
Let’s get past that defensive wall
Raphinha brings Brazilian magic
His silky skills are so fantastic
Kalvin runs the midfield show
Gives our team a rapid flow
Bielsa’s brain and dedication
Provides us with a firm foundation
He has us marking man for man
Keeping to the pressing plan
People hated us in the past
Now they love us, no more typecast
Strange to be so often praised
Enjoying having our profile raised
So here’s to Leeds, our beloved team
Hoping soon to be the cream
Keep going you men in white
Aiming for a future bright
Paul Butters
© PB 10\3\2021.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 9:01 AM UTC
(Release Me!)
***
I'm the illa Killa Vanilla Consilla
Know That
I be the dope deala and deli meat Grrrrilla
like a Mystical street Thrilla
The Miracle Manzilla
A Mothra villian Chilla
If you rashin like pencil scratchin
for tongue tappin I cure like
penicillin the Wolf and Ben Stiller
I'm a hot steel on flesh wound heala!
(sssiizzzzle)
(Bang Bang)
Wake up to phone ringing
I'm head slinging
cloth stacking on a body
I'm sleep lacking
stay on track AND
(click clack)
My engine blows steam to
organize the regime
*** when I'm working
and writing
I am typing
and crying
*** this Job is dying me colors
like slashing my back and
(click clack)
They beast master and calls stack
I get my slack
between breaks and phone clack
and back track
to where the last ink slapped paper
and draw back from vapors
that ventilate out my ears
like kids caper through streets
with Halloween treats
I'm riding rails
like open sails
like blowing gales
it's raining hail
I'm screaming Hell
In this cube E Cell
(Toot Toooot)
My grey matter is burning
My soul coal is churning
like a witch on stick burning
(Crackle Pop Snap)
Release
(To get Back)
I Master peace
cause my mind's eyes flying
the call cue is dying my fingers fly
no longer trying
to typecast
I drive fast
then Breakfast
for den her
Then
(sshhhhhhh)
The universal remote
is on mute
transcending this dome
my transcendental home
It's my cue
To slip into
the zone
I sip a bit of foam
my cup of coco from
thus releasing my thoughts with YuuHmm
(slurp slurp)
I think for others Daily
Rarely given space or time or Air We
All must trust the Wind gust of
dust and skin gone so scaly
Yet I slither as slow as snails to my home
for me in my dome
to slip into the zone
I sip a bit of foam
from my cup of coco
thus releasing me with an
(Ohm)
of work for others Daily
Rarely given time or space or air WE
all must trust the Wind gusts of dust
and skin gone scaly
So we slither as slow as snails
to a home
for me
deep in my dome
sipping on the zone
bit off coco cup foam
slow snails slip
(Ohm....)
I master peace
Wind
(Release!)
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
If I were to ask you
Why are you doing this?
What would your answer be?
What exactly would you say to me?
I'm curious
Would it mirror other hard questions
That I have been forced to ask
Forcing me to watch you get furious
Leaving me reeling, feeling like the fool
Because I took this serious
©2024
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 6:01 PM UTC
tattooing,casting desires deeper than your itch
my ink spelling words every where you stink
you seem more responsive when they call you *****
I just want YOU to deliver after YOU think
we will cast lines into the now,living the new
angling or casting nets in different schools
you whistle one of my tunes,thoughts carry our points of view
with me battering your shields,you sharpening my tools
I'm casting lots,chancing,I swear you might call me sinful
knowing no boundaries,spanning bridges,jumping fences
your prize ***** is perfumed wine by the divine skinful
I do dare to share in your gifts of senses
I dare to cast an eye over your image within your frame
and hold them both when you are hot and cold
listening to your songs when you play your name
you will cause me to search for treasures of old
cast down your burdens speak to me in confidence free from fears
downcast looks have never been emblematic of your worth
I toil with dirt and sweat in exchange for your loving and tears
to buy tonight with you and tomorrow with the earth
broadcast the forecast sell me what you believe
tell me what you think let me feel what you throw
do you bleed from the heart tattooed on your sleeve
are you typecast do you ink what you think do you show what you know
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
You can’t hear my screams through this house’s thin walls
I can’t reach the shore in your paper lifeboat
You can’t pull me up as I drown while afloat
I can’t help but by this spiralling stairwell be enthralled
I leap over, hurtling towards the water beneath
Blood splatters on the walls, crimson swirls in the sea
You scrub the water coarse, trying to strain the impurity
But my wounds are still open; they continue to bleed
The cycle keeps repeating, as history tends to
You’re tired of all this melodrama that keeps unfolding anew
You think it’s all rehearsed, that it is not impromptu
So I perform behind closed doors, waiting for your cue
During the entr’acte, I wait in the dark
The spotlight’s gone out, the character has not
I have been typecast in this role for too long
It’s become second nature so I play along
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
I feel
Like retiring to my bed
And lying there
Until spiders come
And cobweb me securely
To the wall I stare at
I feel
Like I’m typecast
As Pagliacci,
Recitar! Vesti la Giubba
Sung ad nauseam
Until a shepherd’s crook tugs me
Through the curtain
And it seems
I haven’t grown tired of losing
My footing while I reach for the summit
And I feel
Like there are only so many times
Someone can tourniquet their limbs
Before hesitantly clutching
To the handle of another departing car’s door
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:49 PM UTC
When I close my eyes
I've an IMAX silver screen;
My projection room is stacked
With reels of a re-run dream.
I'm typecast as leading man,
You're the starlet, so it seems.
Today I'm screening tragedy,
That I played like comedy.
Two reels have played,
I'll need three,
To disuade me playing a parody.
I'll need to re-write,
And a location set;
I haven't run
The credits yet.
You protested the direction;
The hero fades out with rejection.
It's a cliff-hanger.
Will the girl return
A fallen damsel?
A chastised angel?
A spiteful devil?
I'm lying waiting
To dream the sequel.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
a t-shirt loose framing my hips
i am typecast the antithesis
of your tight *** and your
grenadine lips
tight too for your own back but open
so open
for everyone else's business.
four years you've been together (he's so sweet)
you ignore his hard red hand and his tattoo--
he's all you've got
and you **** it up and smile and you drink till you're interesting
because they wouldn't like you if they knew you weren't
interesting and you'll never be more
than what you are, Small Town.
your eyes are surface-only and the brown that no one notices
except on you because you're better (you tell yourself)
you give hell to yourself
baby you could tell yourself the truth (but don't tell him)
and you look at me like i am nothing.
but i'm buoyant, you know, the antithesis of
your solid sinking rock heart
i look back like i am everything.
grenadine smiles only sick-sweet and those
surface eyes make sad effort to hide infernos
i'm on fire, though
and to put it bluntly
it is brighter than yours.
the t-shirt's loose around my hips,
but they are there, underneath (where are yours?)
and my lips are tight only when you're here.
you look at me like i am nothing. i am everything, and
no words will break you (more than you are already broken).
my eyes are blue and my smile is real, and
no words will break me either.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
Not content to be master of his destiny
the young man re-wrote his past.
Convinced his bejewelled version of events
would avoid him of being typecast.
How little a young man knows compared
to how knowledgeable he thinks he is.
Few could have predicted with any ease
that he was destined to become a Ms.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
Raggedy Mules
Ghosts of the past
on their raggedy mules,
Clichéd and typecast
as infidels and fools,
Travelling nearby
in their caravans of woe
And in the blink of an eye
know what we know.
All that we fear
and all that we yearn,
They see and hear
as they twist and turn,
Through love and hate,
beyond life or death,
The journey of fate
lies on laboured breath.
On a wing and a prayer
we wallow in doubt,
Grasping at thin air
trying to get out,
But how pitiful we are
with our ifs and buts,
Never getting very far
as each door shuts.
Stranded in the void
between Heaven and Earth
We seek out the paranoid
to confirm our birth,
And they stand in line
pretending to be friends,
And on our souls they dine
when our journey ends.
Foolishly, we follow
with all emotion spent,
In perpetual sorrow,
waiting to be sent
To the archives of insanity
dressed as ghouls,
Where we escape humanity
on raggedy mules.
© RJVHorton2015
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
~
*Un-lonely nights
Romantic moments
The love, the love
What about them?
Throw it all away
The perfect dates
The sweetest kisses
The love, the love
What about them?
Throw it all away
song by Typecast..*
~
I heard that song from the radio
I wrote down the lyrics, and sent to you
You just laughed at me
You threw away the letter,
Just like how you threw away our forever
Nights are now lonely
Romantic moments into daily fights
Dates, conversation, all coldly
No more random kisses at night
I asked you what and where did I lacked
You told me none, instead
You told me I was too much
I always knew that too much of everything
is not good, but what can I do?
That's how much I loved you
Will you throw it all away,
Will you throw it all away??
All we've been through
All my love for you,
All my love for you??
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 7:14 AM UTC
Please hear
My dear
Why sit
Down with
Men's hearts
In parts
That stand
The land
Of snakes
And flakes
That hiss
And ****
Pour your
Front door
Stepstone
Your bone
Less worth
Less mirth
Listen
Glisten
My dear
That tear
Drops bare
On cheek
So meek
Less high
To sky
Wander
Yonder
You play
The prey
Dither
Wither
On songs
So wrong
To sit
Misfit
On fence
So dense
Those eyes
Do lie
Down fast
Typecast
My dear
One cheer
Do clear
Headgear
Logan Robertson
8/06/2018
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
typecast hero looking for a way out
tired of rushing to the aid of others
so they can once again foolishly find themselves
in need of assistance and realignment
and so on and so on
the story drags
only the ******** fan stays behind
knowing, sweating with anticipation
carrying the understanding within
that patience pays off in the majority
and majorly in the winter months –
lackluster wedding bands
attempt to gleam bright
only to flatly express devotion
marred and grimy, old mechanic fingers twist
reality –
estranged housewives
estimate child care costs
lost in the embossed glow of ceramic vases
chastising lying children for learning to deceive
from the adulterous ***** in charge
angry red hair flying, free of bobby pins
and regular trips to the stylist
sends pointy fingers stabbing into the thick air
accusatory –
her guilt blinding the common folk
trying desperately to sew enough crop fodder
to survive another dire winter
and worst
the oncoming season of misinterpretation
Spring… once signifying rebirth and new life
representing now only more cleverly hidden
deceit
for it is only through the summer
that we may find ourselves again freezing
looking at the despair and desolation
winter always finds its way back –
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
TRAPPED IN A TEASPOON
I was trying to
avoid
my self, but:
there I was
haunting a hubcap
looming out of a mirror
trapped in a teaspoon
caught in a photograph.
There was no
escaping me.
Everywhere I went
- there I was!
Change the backdrop
Paris...Munich....London
I still ended up
beside my self
playing the same old
same old "me."
Typecast.
Only in sleep could I
jump ship( so to speak )
and become something
other than who I am.
Becoming a stone
I met in 1963
when I was seven
or so...
"Ahhh...this is the life!"
I thought to myself
gazing at the sky
watching clouds go by
becoming one
with the rain.
Not having to
think no more.
Just be!
Anything
anything
other than
me!
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
one day i want to be happy
that day is today
that day is every day
but i cry just as much as if i had a reason to
and no matter how many "right directions"
i seem to follow
there is still warm water coming from my eyes
as soon as they dry
it rains again
they typecast me as insert stereotype here
fighting against everyone is difficult
when they all make so many rules
and you cant see because your eyes still havent dried again
i guess paper will know that i will never be happy
but they will never hear those words in my voice
because they are not worthy
i still want to be happy one day
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC