poetry critical

online poetry workshop

how many poems till i die

when people live
they really don't
They follow eachother
and create a fantasy
I have lived
i have understood their shame
their blame and anger and resentment
but i am just a little keyboard
with a delete key that is is crying to me every day
and an enter key that smiles too much to be guilty

6 Oct 17

Rated 8.7 (8.7) by 3 users.
Active (3): 9, 10
Inactive (0): 7

(define the words in this poem)
(2 more poems by this author)

(1 user considers this poem a favorite)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


for cad
 — impoppy

if you only write a poem when you really have to write one just to live, not to get pity-fucks, there'll be plenty of time between typing to play with yourself in some other way than this.
 — cadmium

this was a time when i had to write one. i wrote a poem today that i thought was the best i could ever do about guns, and why we need them, and it was ad hoc. But when i posted it, and found i was signed out...devastating... meant more to me than those shootings
 — impoppy

this didn't work for me on any level but feeling sad for the author. I read it blind, of couse, and it's not enough for me to say nice things in a poem box, hoping the boomy echo make's it seem real.

like, a poem is organic, and this one is a tube draining keystrokes.

when people live.

I have lived.

but, I am a little keyboard.

__ that's how I read it. death is null, but being afraid is real. who's fear is this about? the shooter? with his little keyboard gun? too many stories in this for someone who's not where you're at. probably work at poetrycircle.com though, but they're mostly into competition on each other for likes, and not about wrestling the poem.
 — cadmium

How many?...maybe a couple of million.

Larry stardust Lark
 — larrylark

whatever losers
 — impoppy

whatever losers reads my pooms,
i hope they die in lonely rooms.

in lonely rooms must they unzip
and die,
while i get paid by tweety-pie.

by tweety-pie, and donald duck,
who make me blo, but do not...

they do not do my virgin bod,
cause, i'm a poet, not a sod.
 — cadmium