"typos" poems
Education is currently being used as a weapon
to arm the educated to defend the system.
Question the system.
Go out there and equip yourself for the right belief.
Be a dreamer. The dream is beautiful.
The problem with dreams is that you don’t know
the dream has turned into a nightmare until you wake up.
Are you awake? Be awake.
The problem with being awake; we need to rest.
Lucidly dream. Be lucid.
The problem with being lucid; you’re lucid.
There was a dream not long ago. The dream was beautiful.
We liked the dream, the dream became ours and we slept.
Slowly we all grew tired.
Those that did not need to sleep,
those that did not like our dream,
we treated like children.
We know that we need to rest and we were tired. We left our children to starve.
We forced others to sleep and so, we forced our children to sleep.
Even in our sleep, we forced others to sleep.
And so the big dream grew.
It became nightmare.
We all dream. Be aware of others dreams. Be aware of others while we sleep.
Be aware of those that sleep while we awaken.
When you wake and see your siblings rest no longer.
That their dream, once ours, has turned to terror.
The problem with dreams…
We force our children to sleep.
Is this bad? Always question. Should we force them to wake?
Force can create. Force can destroy.
The problem with being awake, when we know our brothers and sisters
sweat in there nightmares; we have a choice.
That is not a choice to wake them or not. To hope for the best.
That the nightmare will end and the dream will return.
A dream that has travelled
through the terrors of our minds
will not return the same.
Would you like the red pill or the blue pill?
Is there good and bad? Force can create and destroy.
Be mindful of how you wake.
Be lucid of how you force others to wake.
Tea or coffee; a cigarette; some breakfast; some fear?
Use balance.
We are all unique.
I have a personal story. As I wrote this, typos occurred in the original edit.
The technology, ‘swipe’ was used. I meant to spell unique and unite was spelt.
Personal became powerful and with turned to WE.
Is there a reason ‘i’ should always be capitalized?
‘i’ wish to be mindful of my readers. ‘i’ want to stay true to them.
We that can read are the readers. ‘i’ am the reader.
When I isn’t capitalized I began to feel more comfortable with using it,
if i gave it arms; ‘i’.
And when I typed to explain that,
I went to preferring if isn’t typing out ‘and then i and then ‘, to just type two of them;
ii.
We don’t want to be alone.
There’s no I in teamwork but
there is and I in kind.
I is complicated. Be you.
Find your voice. Have a voice and be aware.
Others have a voice.
What would happen if we all respected each other’s voice?
What would happen if we all had the same voice?
That was the beauty of the dream.
The dream is travelling through nightmare
and is slowly returning.
It has changed.
Unite our uniqueness’s.
Do you eat fast food? I love it. It is a dream… Do I eat it all the time, I hope not.
Ken Robinson is a good man to ask. Consider food for the mind.
There are beliefs out there. There’s a belief out there that our world is ******
Forgive the language. Understand it.
I wanted to say, ‘that our world is doomed; eternally ****** to be destroyed’ and that scared me. **** There will always be nightmares, disaster and destruction.
What is an ‘aster’? Curious.
When did we chose to destroy; each other?
Could we create; each other?
There’s a belief out there for that one too.
Are you awake, yet?
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
Cherry lollipops,
Roses, typos, mistakes, signs
And blood are all red.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
the tick in the clock
the chatter of an ignition
dishes clanking
Mr. Everywhere
nowhere to be seen
the lungs don't show the lifetime spent escaping
times are cold
but it's too hot in the kitchen
make me a transient drifter
with a handkerchief on a stick
eating an apple
in a boxcar making it's way through cold night
make me disappear a wrangler
an outlaw
delete my typos
and move me to the recycling bin
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Under the branches Where the tall grass grows, There’s a people who hide And no one knows. The way they survive Is like none other, For they fear the world And all its terror. They hear the voices And see the shadows, They live in darkness And shake and cower. They live but In harsh conditions, Making the craziest Rash decisions. Everyone wants To put them to death, But I say stand up And fight for who’s left. The problem doesn’t lie In the heart of the ****** But in the mind Their thoughts are filled with typos. They twitch and hide And want to die, But nobody sees The demons inside. The voices that haunt them The nightmares that stick, The noises torture them Jumping off the highest peak. Terror and delusion The river that roars, The horrible psychosis The mania implores. These people know nothing But how to live, With the horrible fate That they’ll never be saved.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC
iPad Love
4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.
No need to tell you in sound, out loud,
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.
The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.
Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!
Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.
So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.
Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.
2011
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
*I'm tired
And since I'm not eating
Then my energy
Is non-existing
I'm barely keeping my eyes open
As I type in the words
For this poem.
I'm trying not to make typos,
But it's hard when you only see
A cloudy version of the keyboard
Since your eyelids are slowly closing.
Outside people are enjoying
The sun
Which for once
Are shining over Denmark
But I'm just sitting inside
The University of Copenhagen
Occupying myself
So that there's no time
For crying
I bought myself a new book
One by Niccolò Machiavelli
I plan to read it
In the holiday
And I'm really looking forward to this
Since through the last four years
People have often recommended me
To read it...
So while Green Day's "Panic Song" is playing
On my headphones
I'll finish my poem
And return to my book
'Cause though I'm tempted
Then I can't keep wasting my time
Writing poems
Just to I keep myself occupied.
Maybe I'll take the book
And go read outside
In the sunshine...*
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
I know what I know
What I know is my tell tale
Even when I make mistakes
In grammar,
typos, and in my rhyme
Deep in the abyss of my soul
I know what I know
And It’s what I know
Is my tell tale
Mistakes will take flight
For I am only human
And far from a philosopher
The more mistake I make,
the more I learn,
If you see one,
Bear with me
Tell me a tell tale
I will not take an offensive tale
My mistakes, help me to grow
It's hilarious how many times
I can read my very own work
But I still don't notice a tipo < oops
And it makes me go bersirrk <oops
At times someone else's eyes
Are exactly what it takes
To notice in your little rhime<oops
The smallest of mistakes
Or even the biggest one
Who cares,
what I know
is what I know
My tell tale
It makes it all worth it
<> tell me urs
Feb 14, 2023
Feb 14, 2023 at 4:29 PM UTC
Bongs,boobs, and *****
No ***** given,
Dumb doobies taking a snooze
Only one true love though.
Touching me in heaven,
Making me feel beautiful yo
Society, seclusion, and ceremonies.
No blessings given,
Hippies hang Uno the key
Typos, trends, trumps.
Everything is so intertwined y woven,
I gotta get outta my slump
Only, one, and unto.
The end a *****
For you I do
The surprise of my life.
My lucky # 7,
For my love, my past life.
My universal heaven,
I would take any slated knife
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
I will love you with no regards as to who you've loved before me. No matter who has tasted your oh so precious lips before they met mine.
I will love you no matter who hates you or who loves you, or who loves hating you. I will love you no matter who you love or who you hate, or who you hate loving.
I will love you no matter what a certain group of people say about us, even if this certain group of people are your friends, my friends, or our parents.
I will love you as a novel loves being read and as the reader loves reading a certain quote that he found on the internet that convinced him to buy the novel and how that certain quote loves being revised online as to fool someone's followers on Twitter that it was his own.
I will love you no matter how many typos you have when drunk texting me, or drunk texting someone else who, I hope to God, isn't your ex.
I will love you no matter what songs you sing in the shower, no matter how wrong the lyrics are or if you're out of tune, or even if you don't take showers at all.
I will love you as a graphic artist loves drawing his favorite stroke, even if his professor says it's not the right way it should be done.
I will love you as a certain DJ loves playing his favorite remix, even if the crowd hates The 1975 remixes because they're too biased to appreciate it.
I will love you no matter what bands break up next year and no matter what bands get back together and pull out another Fall Out Boy.
I will love you even if the clowns stop laughing at their own jokes, even if the priests start questioning their own homily sermons, or even when the masses stop laughing at the priest's jokes at homily.
I will love you even if you stop correcting my works even when you grow tired of my mistakes, not only my grammatical ones but the ones I make literally.
I will love you no matter what color your hair is or if you wear contacts to sleep or not. I will love you even if you stop tracing my lips as I fall asleep beside you, even if you steal the blankets at the coldest of nights.
I will love you even if you regret meeting me and that you allowed me to woo you with my saccharine tongue.
That is how I will love you, so please just don't regret loving me.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
there are typos that your bare feet left on my back. thoughtless imprints left by miss steps you took. i feel your weight shift as you cautiously measure where you place your miss placed barefoot. you, walk all over my back without a second glance, or thought. you push away the blood in my skin with the weight of your bare feet and bare bad intentions. there are typos that your bare feet left on my back. but those bad impressions, never do last.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
put down thy pen,
it is in disrepute,
smash thy tablet,
crack its glass...
house the mouse,
don't be an ***
genus human,
you have been
antihero morphed
anthromorprophesized,
****** simply, replaced
you poem prophecy
returned,
stamped,
Unneeded, Unread, Unheeded
you have been excused,
you have been recused,
jury, a chamber of inconclusive noises
dismissed,
the judge will digitally
write all
from now on...
submit your selected tags
for laughs,
a different poem returned to you,
by a digital "humanist"
what do I crave?
give me your youthful typos,
let me literate critique
the good, the bad, the
trite repetitive and especially
the ugly
poetry,
the kind only
humans can write
so I love or hate it,
your literacy,
with impassioned dispassion,
the kind no machine will e'er transcend
pull the plug on your random alphabet generator,
Eliot of York,
or you might find yourself
upgraded into unempoement!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
Don't be fooled by the place it is sent to be
This is no poem no somg nothing to dance to
This is a hope that someone may read and reply
Their thoughts on this thought of mine
Perhaps I should tell a story through sonnet
Of a man of youth battling love and lust
Of sorrow and joy
A man who is flippant, almost overly so
But is serious about matters of the heart
A journey nonetheless
Where he travels many worlds yet goes nowhere
A story of me and how my life has been
With a touch of hyperbolic flamboyance
Would you sit down and read and maybe enjoy
Said work assuming it has been well developed
Amd lacks the typos this probably has?
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
My belly screams
like a chili,
its tear tidy,
Shower seems so teenage-like
as if I have another acne on
my chin,
Eyes open, wide, blinking
is illegal yet everyone claims
to be suicidal,
My baby bear, Goldilocks
actually had black hair,
long, in a braid like Rapunzel,
Please climb the tower
and meet me, meet
my paint, my paint,
Typos are what make
us human, the chest
has found its old self,
Aching in joy of paint,
once upon a time there was a fan
of hurt lived in a canned rainforest.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I typed the first line and it didn't come out write
Holy **** how do I even begin to right
This wasn't intentional
It was just my subliminal
Telling me, "Hey you drank to much last night!"
The first 2 lines were meant to be that way
Hangovers can fun, especially with wordplay
For once in my life, I left my typos untouched
And here's the story about how I drank too much
We started at home with a bottle of wine
Shared between the four of us, we were feeling fine
We got to the car
We didn't go to a bar
Instead we went to a friend of mine
His place was close, about 15 minutes away,
As soon as we got there, we were like "Heeeeyyyy!!"
We played a drinking game, called 'ride a bus'
And soon enough, I felt like I was on an actual bus
My head started to spin, my chest felt heavy
I hurried to the bathroom feeling very dizzy
I looked into the mirror
I felt this glooming fear
I thought to myself, "Oh **** come out already"
And out it came, the wine from before
Just when I thought it was over, and then came more
The punishment I get, for not eating before I drink
Is hurling up everything into the sink
So cleaned myself up, and the sink as well
I wobbled around, I think I almost fell
Someone asked me, "Did you throw up?"
I don't remember who, but I was like... "YUP!"
We got to the car, and reached home safely
I crawled into bed, and I slept like a baby
I woke up this morning, 6.30am, actually
I cleaned up the car, where I threw up unintentionally
Thanks for the party guys, I had a blast
And surely enough, it won't be our last
The next time we drink
Or when our glasses clink
I'll make sure I don't drink it too fast
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
lovely things
the way morning dew sprinkles itself on freshly planted roses
the way someone smiles when they haven't in ages
the way a butterfly silently ***** through the wind making its way to who knows where
the way freshly dried clothes feel on a cold body
the laughter of someone who means the world to you
the feeling after a long nap in the day
the sound of trickling rain on your window
the way compliments flow off of someone's lips and touches your heart
the feeling of success after many failures and fall downs
the feeling of someone who has your back
typewriters
leather journals
freshly polished fingernails
moms
the way your friend keeps messing up when typing
the typos in something freshly written
the smell of bounce
freshly cut grass on a cool morning
the way we believe in 11:11
rough handwriting in cursive
meaningful thank you notes
secret admirers
you
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
Everyone wants a definition.
I don’t care for those things.
I reserve them for dictionaries,
and associate them with uptight individuals who live life undecorated.
We’re conditioned to crave that black and white—
everything simply categorized;
“A place for everything and everything in its place.”
I hate that.
I really, really do.
But I like you.
& listen, I can do without the definitions—
But opinions—those I want.
The individualized answers expressed in a non-textbook-fashion.
As in, “What are your thoughts on Sunday mornings?”
You know, when we hold each other for as long as we like,
and drift in and out of sleep well into the late afternoon.
An opinion.
As in, “I can’t stand the thought of being a part of someone’s collection.”
And I know that’s not a question.
But I can bet on this: You have something to say about that.
An opinion.
As in, “I would totally lay claim to you if I could.”
But you’re not into being claimed—
And I’m not into chasing things that don’t want to be caught.
I was never was a very effective huntress—
Unless, of course, it’s for typos or a triple word score.
I’m not reaching in the dark.
I’m not holding my breath.
But
If you want my opinion—
Fewer things feel worse than this.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
I came across something convicting the other day
Something extremely relevant to our lives today
Jesus wouldn't judge them for their typos and bad grammar and spelling mistakes, and neither should I.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
I know this guy, right
that typos fall out his mouth
like the crumbs from an 8 year old's birthday party;
smothered in icing
cheeks puffed like marshmallow boy
choking on the ecstatic hunger of youth.
I know this guy, right
who's head is stuck together with metal staples
like hooves from the Trojan wars;
part Grecian War Horse
part medical anomaly.
I know this guy, right
who can drink his own body weight
like a Dionysian fountain of beer;
spouting the knowledge of the planets
whilst mixing shots of Whisky with Guinness.
I know this guy, right
who's life revolves around TV and DVD's
like an electronic ****** addict;
citing smoking death rates
and wholesome low price vegan recipes
and the commandments of a moral society.
I know this guy, right
who's a combustible liar with infinite lives
like a genie in the lamp that's flammable;
gets four sentences in and spontaneously implodes
and appears the next night with a tall tale to tell.
I know this guy, right
I know this guy
Some guy
that guy
you know that guy
he doesn't even have to be called Guy
just some guy
you know the guy
we all know the guy
I know this guy, right
I know this guy.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Forget poetry I am screaming
Am I alive or am I dead?
Do I need to include typos
14fe8heqi2regretthedayiwed...
Seriously
there is an unseen gravity that pulls inside my head
stealing my energy can you help me
Enough said
so say the voices inside my head
I am nobody until I die
or am I gravely mistaken
I send this S.O.S.
these words of my distress
Am I alive or am I dead?
does it matter?
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
black chile o' mine...
the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs
the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide
who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie
and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni
a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side
black chile o' mine...
on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye
blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress
quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture
twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights
classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"
and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee
why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines
black chile o' mine...
flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook
tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter
while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential
and fulfill
the dream of slaves
gather dust...
you betta get your act right!
back chile o' mine...
~ P
(7/19/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
IDK if you read much my poems but
when I drop links on friends their usually raw
and as they are just public; still full of typos and all
kinds of unreadable typo mixing's I know; but before I try
to hard with these sort of things and come too far out of trance
and fear losing essence; it's a quandary of course a tug of war sure
though as I can I try to get back through and read as others would,
need and likely do; too my eyes ain't so acute, then still I admit and still say
English just ain't my best language in the usual way!!! U kinda understand as
I see be a true Red Letter Man; too overly fundamental for that typical say and
Bull of Bulls ah huh jive Turkey too but all inclusive must be; see I try I am at work
very hard at this love joy and play; yes long yes a while so too a bit to cooped and overly
riled but for so many reasons realities and overly under and over due seasons here whereabouts;
Only Heaven Is Willing yet Sharing Our X-ing it out for a spell...
Try as much as will and dare can breathe
believe we you me all we are is Love and X-mass
is like a Great Big Kiss to and fro the Mass of God's
All Loving Being in All of Creation to His Mass of Our
Beings Sweet, Dear Babes in the Woods Wooed by Even
His Her's Is Trees!!
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC