"typist" poems
Log in and lose all sense of what and who you truly are.
I see the ******** numbers and even more egotistical statements from people I would consider more typist than writers.
A child with the understanding how to play the game and cheat the system .
I see your trending yet again because your fake ID reposted your newest crap fest while others seem to avoid your work like ***** on the floor of a frat house party.
Ego you have my friend.
Talent for bullshitting well in check.
But as for the page your a child who stares at the ocean scared shitless from the shore .
It must be fantastic being the greatest swimmer never to set foot in the pool.
This write is dedicated to a certain poet who if I mentioned .
Well his ego would just tell him hey at least someone's paying attention.
Your trending yet again and at the end of the day .
When you step away from the comp your just a ******* with a overinflated ego and some fake *** numbers .
And if are paths ever cross you may ask.
Hey aren't you?
And my only reply will be .
Yes I will take fries with that.
Fin
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
Marcy Shultz was a typist.
She typed and typed the day through
but never wrote a single thing.
Each morning she would drink her coffee
with a sunken ring at the base of the mug.
It was her good luck charm,
an assurance that at one point in one moment
someone had truly, honestly cared.
At noon she would salsa with the air,
knowing **** well that she would later devour it.
But the air knew nothing,
Thought nothing, just stood there.
Air is naïve, and she was alone.
At night she would shower with the blinds open
figuring if someone looked, someone cared.
But nobody ever looked, and Marcy never blushed.
She'd type little tales on her little laptop.
Typed little stories of little couples
walking dogs
kissing in park benches
laughing at rude jokes
eating tiramisu in little cafés
weaving stories of passers-by
carving initials in wood
waking up in the dead of night
to hear the rhythm of the other's breathing
before
holding each other's hands
and whispering softly in the light of the full moon
flooding in like spilt milk from the cracked window
saying,
"We are together now
and if a moment like this is happening,
then a moment apart is only imaginary."
Then,
always,
always,
always,
The little couples would make love.
Their moans bled through the window
like timeless cries over the milky moon.
The cats in the alley would circle about the songs
echoing loud from the little couple's little love.
Then always, always, always with frustration
Marcy Schultz would toss the tales and go to bed
and the couples would live on in crumpled paper.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
I am the who hides like a hermit at the shell of my typewriter
With the sound of bells and rings to each of my lines
I am well aware I was born at the wrong era of time
I know that my soul is much older than my mind
I make mistakes,
some worse, some better,
than we all make in life
It’s a crumble, a throw-away
Another paper to replace
As I start fresh with my chin
and shoulders held high
Unplugged to the noise
that comes from outside
Fingers placed delicately in line
As they wait for the command
of my thoughts arranging in order
Composing the keys that pound
against the ink ribbon
Chick-chick-chaw-chick-chick-bing
An orchestration of the typewriter as my mind begins to sing
I am moved by the utterance
of my own typing
Fingers dancing to every beat
And for that reason I will always be writing
In a room
with grey walls
sitting on a wooden seat.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Irene being a woman I worked with long time ago
She is my spotlight and the content of my show
However this is what you don’t know
Irene was a woman who had Cancer
When I think of her, it is as if it was yesterday
But I worked with Irene 32 years ago
Irene was my Boss as the Assistant Manager at Raven Press, a major publishing house
A company that got its name from “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
Irene was the one that gave me opportunity
Her strength being my inspiration
Irene’s Cancer opened my eyes in valuing life
For me that is good advice
I will never forget Irene
A woman who was truly serene
I never ever saw Irene to ever be mean
I use the word opportunity strongly
Once when I applied for a job in the publishing house within the Promotion/Advertising Department
The Department needed a Clerk Typist and I took a typing test
Well I must confess
I was quite nervous when I took the keyboard test and anxiety set in
But Irene felt and believed in me and hired me on the spot
It was not a plot, but an opportunity in giving me a shot
Irene really left an impression on me
It’s a conversation about Irene for 32 years, but her spirit still lives within me
Irene I will never forget and I have no regrets.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
An average guy,
Twenty-two years old,
Whose life is just a picture show.
Cliché acting
And Predictable drama,
This boy’s life
Is a rewound product.
Slave by trade;
Free Spirit by desire.
He holds his head high,
In search of his destiny.
Yet, deep down,
He’s just a common typist
Who spills his emotions
On the page of Sadness.
Good God!
Won’t somebody save him!
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
playing clue and sorry on the same board
singing into a fan
with a semi-blue tan.
looking at a broken poster board.
with broken tile in your hair
you think the moon has hair.
like james blubierre
making a wicker basket to hold scented pinecones
using guitar strings
with a bad marker scarf.
looking at elenor rigby's doctor
having no sense of direction
you sung a wrong turn
buddah says die
while ghandi says hi
while typing nonsense letters
with the hopes of a secret
though there's only a secret for you
The Typist
he makes a pie that's flavored like pie
and looks up to the sky
to take a cloud and ride it
looking upset
and in the rain he's wet
he walks solemly to his apartment
to type more nonsense
though the crazy get it
and the sane don't
he types for a secret
he doesn't know
he scans the words, jumps the letters
makes them dance in his mind
he wants to know more
out of less
he makes it all up
right on the spot
to sing in a song
for singing the sung
the sung are singing though the sun is hung
looking for their lovers
though the don't love back
they look at the sky for the cloud they will ride
to take them to their lover's side
though his life was in peril
he knew right away
that in the end
it would all go away
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
She's my type and I am the typist
She's the type that can raise my kids
I am trying to make my name ring
A bell like the Chinese
I have nothing else to do besides this
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
the parents
have each
a flyswatter.
they are very worried
about their angel, about their boy
with flu-like symptoms.
in two locations
my son
is unknown
is achieving
a boredom
his disease
can’t reach.
my father is speechless
after
he is left. I write
about my mother
who is not pain
held
to the candle
of its possibility.
the timeline is rhetorical, is a deposit
of sleep
disguised as longing
in the heads
of single minded
repeat
abusers.
my son floats for the first time lame,
it is uplifting, a kind of sloganeering
to keep
hate
local.
I want to weigh it, what is used
by the typist
to see
loneliness
from above.
I want it to be the star
your sister needs
when her eyes
claim her hearing
and hear
for example
chicken scratches
medications
disown.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Not a poem. Repost please.
First I'd like to thank all the poets
who are so faithful to follow me.
You are wonderful!
I'm afraid I have been lax in doing
the same. There are many reasons for this. Some of which you already know. My mom is quite ill and my
father just had two operations on his
eyes. They are both disabled. As I am. I have stage four arthritis in both knees. So I'm helpful, but slow.
The reason why I am not able to comment on some poetry/repost/add to sites is due to my perfectionist nature. I feel like I'm not giving each poem the attention it is due. So I read and reread the poetry you write. I truly enjoy reading your work. But this also makes me SLOW. Plus I am a hunt n peck typist.
I am also behind the scene on the site message system. I truly want to respond to and help all who message me and request such. I'm not a minister or pastor. But I believe in God. And I want to truly emulate the Lord Jesus Christ. When people came to Him for help He didn't send them AWAY. I want to apologize to all I have NOT responded to. I pray for you and sincerely wish you all the best! I hope that this is of
some comfort....
I know that these are a lot of excuses. But I'm leading up to a point. From now on all I have time to do is like and repost. I know that this has not been my practice in the past. But I want you to know that you are READ. And appreciated!
If you have any ideas about how I can make the most of my time on site please contact me via the site message system or comment. I'm relatively new to these sites and want suggestions.
Thank you! I love you ALL! ♡♥♡♥
Catherine
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I forgot what BTW stands for . . .
. . . between the wines ?
Oh yeah ! . . . by the way !
Yes !
Too much of yesterdays
and hangover today
Oh yes enough to **** a teenager
Once you start questioning your poetry
you'll be listening to teenagers ,
"You are not using rhyme !"
"Your muse is a dummy ."
You don't write poetry . . . your muse does
Your just the leaky pen
Or in my case the timid typist
First mistake :
Listening to other people
tell you how to write
Second mistake :
Self doubt
Who in the world cares if your poetry
is good or bad . . . that is not
the point anyway
You don't write to please the Queen
You write to no one out there
who might be listening
You write to the shadows
You write to the physical ghosts
that never existed
It is not your purpose to write
anything that pleases anyone else
Yes is best
Just write and write to your hearts delight
Poetry is measured by years
not by the poem . . . bye now
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like, we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig Caesar up, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 10:58 AM UTC
-------- tea and Sisyphus
Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,
he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."
I thought it, of first importance.
The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,
goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.
Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,
like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,
bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the middle finger
of a scribes writer hand.
Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,
But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 5:43 PM UTC
looking down
its a zoo of keys
my computer spits out
another ****** poem
quizzical brain
racing fingers
on a keyboard
with the letters rubbed off
**** in the mouth
from lukewarm
bitter black coffee
thick as stew
like turgid dog ****
nitrous fumes sifting upwards
through broken floors
from the TV screen shrapnel
the news is leaking blood again
down the dresser drawers
red puddles float slippers
and the cat licks
my poems
always writing me
i'm their ***** typist slave
terminus
with time off
to be *****
by a savage delta of images
of women misbehaving
with their *****
tonguing my face
for an occasional ***********
and *** drifting rainbows
in old ballet shoes
dogs died from blue pellets they ate today
their corpses were strewn in the yard
and the mice are quiet
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
No one ever knows
the rhymings of my poetry
blob of words combined
And so do I.
In between these rigid lines
Are invisible tears and smiles
Passing through windows
Of soul through the eyes
Daring to touch every strands
Til the inner glands
What do I know, who am I?
I am just a typist who takes part
of my own indefinite poet heart.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
I look out the sides of my eyes now.
Blur my own vision so I can see you.
Going sideways, the fervent typist with an americano
becomes you.
You are back in my space, though fleetingly.
For when I turn my head, to take all of you in
the illusion of you abruptly fades into caffeinated reality.
Your presence no longer imposing, comforting, there.
You will always be on my periphery.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Tobys a clever wizard
with more tricks in his ear than Old Delaneys donkey
he can walk through common or garden walls without detection
has no finger prints only claws
which he unfurls for your inspection
his coats too groovy to mention
and he flies to every high tick convention
hes psychic but noones sidekick
i see to that
at night he dreams ;by day i m his shorthand typist
he conveys his inspirations and i put them on my todo list
BUY FISH
sometimes he gets fleas or even worms
presently he has a neuroma
and he s booked in for an eye test as he suspects glaucoma
he supports the voluntary work i do
for those that cannot see
and he propounds a philosophy
'neither can we '
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
It was nearly winter when,
The dried autumn leaves crumbled,
The laughter of yours warmed me.
Nonchalantly it sounded to me when I realised that as if it was so easy,
Throwing jokes here and there.
Seeing that pretty smile curved away.
It was a cold night accompanied by pocketed hands through the freezing weather, when I realised everything.
It was too late. Too late.
For now, it's getting harder as if distance hurts me badly,
As if the skies are cursing me, away from you.
As if forever means forever and ever, like it never happened.
Like it was a fictional chapter written by a brokenhearted typist,
Seeking banishment from the surface of the world.
It was sad yet happy, for memories lasted more than words and promises.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
Street Typist
Busker
I heard a metronome
on the street
a sort of Morse
or fingered Braille
that stayed in time
with my tapping feet
songs are but
poems with earrings
it’s with keys
they sing
For Krishan Coupland
27/6/2022
Jul 1, 2022
Jul 1, 2022 at 12:51 PM UTC