Long Ballpoint pen Poems
Long Ballpoint pen Poems. Below are the most popular long Ballpoint pen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ballpoint pen poems by poem length and keyword.
This year 2021 seems so very hard
with covid and all its limited implications
but it's worth comparing centuries before
five hundred years before was no celebration
In comparing all these 500 years ago
when it was a world so different from today
this was what Europe then was like
even U.S. hadn't been brought into play
During the 1500s there were no basics
no sewer system, central heating, water supply
refrigeration, antibiotics, penicillin or surgery
in our day not having these we would die
As well as no water heater or water
also, ballpoint pen, typewriter, pc was none
it beggars belief what life was like
life was harsh certainly not much fun
People in that day would've been so poor
struggling would have been a daily chore
so be thankful we're not still back then
despite covid we're still able to roar!
ahhh... the crisp feel of the new notebook
its spine never cracked open
its pages of virgin white perfectly aligned
awaiting their marching orders
eager for all and any pen markings
from sunday best handwriting to doodles
inviting playful interaction
your creative élan of spontaneity
random thoughts splashed on a page
scripted lines scribbled to offload
a mind seeking clarity, peace or absolution
seeking a semblance of order
of profound clarity or silly mischief
one page then another
the daily journal of a busy mind
in search of something
through self-expression
hoping to find it between
the whites of pages
and the ink of a ballpoint pen
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
At five, coarse strands gather in your small fists
as you tear them clean from your scalp.
You hate yourself
You are ugly
You are selfish
You are a monster.
At seven, sitting under the fluorescent lights of the classroom,
you drive the dull graphite point of a pencil straight into your thigh,
puncturing the skin through your clothes
over and over.
You are weird
You are different
You are never enough
You are a monster.
At ten, pressed against the cold glass on the car rides home,
you dig your fingernails into your arms,
dragging them down until thin red lines bloom
and leak onto the surface of your skin.
You are stupid
You are worthless
You are a failure
You are a monster.
At twelve, sitting alone in the quiet of your room,
your hand shakes as you press a blue ballpoint pen
to the lined paper
to write your very first suicide note.
You are unwanted
You are a mistake
You don’t deserve to live
You are a monster.
At fourteen, under the cover of midnight,
the heavy metal head of a hammer strikes your soft, weak body,
leaving dull, aching purple bruises across your skin.
You are unlovable
You are too much
You are a burden
You are a monster.
At sixteen, you keep silver razor blades sleeping
in the dark of your nightstand drawer,
buried beneath your socks,
so no light can reach them.
You are bad
You don’t deserve love
You are broken
You are a monster.
At seventeen, you rely on pain to keep you alive.
You cannot remember a time when breathing didn't hurt.
And in the dark, you ask yourself -
who would you be today if someone
had just wrapped their arms around that small,
trembling five-year-old,
and pulled her hands away from her hair?
Who would you be
if you were allowed to be a child
instead of a monster?
AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
A banana peel littering the sidewalk
A candy wrapper lying carelessly on the parkway
An aluminum Coke can, crushed, by the side of the curb
Cigarette butts scattered randomly on the pavement
A plastic diaper stuffed into a trash container
A ballpoint pen, squished, bleeding in the roadway
A torn knitted glove abandoned on a park bench
Sunflower seed shells strung along a sandy beachfront trail
A careless remark, tossed out haphazardly, devastating a reputation
A promise broken, unintentionally, rattling around our soul
A lifetime of effort, squandered, forever unappreciated
Love spurned, nonchalantly, rending our fragile heartstrings