Long Laptop Poems
Long Laptop Poems. Below are the most popular long Laptop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Laptop poems by poem length and keyword.
Thank you, Lemmy, I am just listening now
Listening now to your fantastic album
“Expanded”, it’s amazing. It’s give me blood and life
Life and Blood in my brain are expanded
"Just 'Cos You Got the Power"
This is an amazing track, living life
Nevertheless, I am an almost dead single-life
Living life, here are five ante meridiem
Alcohol has slowly gone from my veins and blood
Hmm, it’s my life. But life. …Of a feeble man's life
But coming now the daytime, the daily hours and times
And everything will be changed,
Coming the good Christian’s life
Then evening, then night, and…
Oh! Letter be light! Then…
Coming to my Satanistic life
Satanistic? No, I am not that. He is my only best friend
I am a good man, a bible reader, a bible study person, a man
But nighttime inside, inside in my heart and my mind changed…
All the desires
Satan taught me and gave me new thoughts and desires
He is my master, prophet, philosopher, theologian, counselor, mentor
He always teaches me telepathically
He night to night always builds my life
He and I created together created my websites
My life has expanded from dark to light
And from the light to the dark
This life is the whole life
Dark and light?
The Dark and the Light!
Black and white?
No, my life isn’t a monochrome vision
My life is colorful, only mine
It’s a rainbow, including all the colors
And a flesh, death is realized
My soul just now arriving into a new life
There waiting me the death
Laughing and saying to me, Welcome! Step in!
Throne room
Pomp
Magnificence impressions
Satan smiling on the throne
Says to me Welcome! Welcome!
And he continues: I saved your laptop and camera, here you go
Continue your work and never stop
Your life includes new emotions, thoughts, and desires!
I woke up
I am an enlightenment
Clicking my camera
Sitting on my bed.
Not much in my head.
As dark as it is in this room.
It feels endless, but not like a tomb.
My computer screen is all I can see.
Writing in my room is free.
I can get a taste of harsh screen light.
My hands look ominous on a keyboard lit bright.
Maybe the ceiling is dripping with slime.
It could be ready to drip on my head anytime.
I wouldn’t know.
Even if the ceiling started to snow.
I sometimes fall asleep with my laptop on.
In this room that feels fond.
Sleeping in my bed.
The computer goes dead.
But everything is ok.
Knowing my words will be there the next day.
sitting in front of my record player
i am glad that i fixed it and that i found some 45s and some 78s
my excitement builds as i sift through all of the new discoveries
i am in my element
all i need is a cream soda and some peppercorn ranch sun chips
time is nonexistent
people are intentionally omitted
stress is not even a word
life is a free feeling with an open door policy for the mind
i am glad that i booked this trip
i am glad that i booked a two bedroom cottage this time
i am glad that i chose somewhere other than the beach this time
i am glad to have a friend who told me about myself a bit and recommended this place
i turn off my cell phone
i turn off my tablet
i turn off my laptop
i leave the kids with their grandparents
i bring my Sweets for, EHEM!, Personal Inspiration
she is asleep on the sofa as i write this poem
this leads me to this song called Something So Strong
as i listen, a thought suddenly comes to me
A House May Be Crowded, But True Love Balances Everything Out
that is how i feel when i am unconditionally loved by my Sweets
nothing else can make me feel differently
nobody from the outside can change the world of my thoughts
then suddenly, that song from thunderclap newman pops into my head
however love is in the air of my mind, not an impending revolution
i laugh at the thought and love my Sweets even That Much More.....
Oh goodness the house is on fire,
And so is the one across the street,
And the one next door, I’m scared,
And frantic and overpowered with smoke!
I hear the fire crackling
And voices and feel intense heat,
I have to run, and save some
Of my treasures, they are irreplaceable,
Someone is shouting,
Get out of this house, I hear running feet,
Put a wet towel over my head
And head to the lounge which is Smokey,
Collect my first treasure an oil painting
Of my late parents, got to beat
This fire but there’s still more I need
To save, my religious icons from the
Spare bedroom and whilst I am there,
My favourite pink sneakers, repeat
After me I say to myself, ‘You’ll
Be fine’, must hurry - grab my laptop
With irreplaceable information and
My poetry soup poems, I hear someone greet
Me, a fireman, he tells me to leave,
But I still must find great Greek Grandma’s
Vase, whoops grabbed it, nearly dropped it
I blush and try to be discreet,
As I ripped off my pyjama pants,
They were scorched and hot, rush Jennifer
Rush, can’t take much more of this fire and heat,
Unhooked my degrees, as I turn, meet
The chief fireman who grabs my arm,
My word girl, this a command, leave
This house at once! Please there’s just one
More thing I must find, I say yes, but cheat
And turn back towards where half of the
House has burnt down, I have one-minute left!
Go back to my bedroom through fearsome flames,
Still have the wet towel on my head,
Save my gold trinket bracelet from my 21st,
And with newfound strength, run to the street,
I only have my pajama top and panties on
But covered with minor burns, bruises and soot,
From head to foot!
Happy as I lark, I couldn’t care for the rest,
And I saved what I wanted,
Risking my life and trying my best!
THANK GOODNESS MY FAMILY WERE NOT IN THE HOUSE!
ENTERING POETRY CONTEST – SEVEN THINGS YOU WOULD SAVE IF YOUR HOUSE WAS ON FIRE.
14/2/2019
He stared at the pictures,
faces of the love searchers,
twenty first century wanted posters,
scanning their rewards,
nothing pecuniary ,
preliminary,
maybe,
move on.
“Shall I advertise myself,” he thought,
no one appears sold or bought,
given to the mass,
on a screen of glass,
the physical hidden,
abrogate madness in description,
we are all still strangers,
with keyboards,
watching screens.
Laptop lap dance dreaming,
muscles screaming,
from the primal theatre,
soul said rise,
clearing eyes,
bleary plasma vision clearing,
fresh air endearing,
left behind the digital desert,
went out to speak,
parched vocal chords starved,
thirsting for voice.
No dust on the keyboard,
he moved away in dead skin’s storm,
hunched and wild,
hair hung lank and ragged,
bedraggled wardrobe on blood and bone’s frame,
almost lame he walks,
to the shower stalks,
water staving off the slaughter,
the hot water,
a dream of cascading falls,
at his feet the last days drowned,
washed to the sewer,
where screen days live,
blending easily;
with battered shopping trolleys & ****.
He dressed slowly,
went to his front door,
where the mirror smiled,
I remember you,
you once passed by often,
don’t be a stranger,
I’d rather see you leaving,
twisted contradictions of a mirror’s perspective,
not because you’re ugly,
because you’re beautiful,
and you shouldn’t be here with only me,
he laughed and said goodbye,
fresh air and light,
a missing intoxication,
he drank deeply;
walking to bid the strangers hello...
©David Nickle Read2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author
Put down your remote
pick up your pen
write me
Make me current
as I could only be written
in this very moment
(but make me timeless)
Assign words to
smells, sounds, tastes, sights
that only you sense
(but make me universal)
Recall every poet
(but be yourself)
Recollect every writing rule
(so you will know when and how to break them)
Make me enigmatic enough
that I can’t be comprehended on the first pass
(but intriguing enough to want seconds)
Season me with swagger
to inspire the timid
Saturate me with hope
to comfort the downhearted
Imbue me with faith
to inspire the seeking
Permeate me with love
to bless the lonely
Don't sweat it if others do it better than you
(they don't know your heart)
Put down your laptop
your briefcase
your phone
pick up your pen
and write me
(I am your story)
Still not done with our kingdom
Ours is peopled by the low, the high
With abundant wealth that surround us
We still munch the stench of poverty
Like we swallow our daily ”Garri”
Though still in our Master’s Garrison.
Taken aback became my ordeal
When I saw the boys in the area
I wept for them the “Area Boys”
They are the condemned, the hopeless
The wretched, poverty-stricken, the destitute
Turned hoodlums and Tax Collectors
How do we say of them the forceful Tax Collectors?
The ones that saw a laptop for the first time
I was besieged by them as they sight the box in my hand
Shocked, as they told me not to camera them again
For people “camera us” with it for registration
Still in our kingdom,
Millions still dines with illiteracy
Ignorance has eaten deep into our fabrics
Fourty-seven years after cutting our teeth
Our senses still blurred with poverty
We can hardly drink “Garri” twice a day
Hunger they made our friend without our consent
Starvation they made our life-long companion
Misery, they made the daily toga of old and young
Shall we still stand akimbo watching helpless?
Alayande Stephen T.
02.29am
3rd February 2007
NB-For Area Boys at Mile 12 depicting the high level
Of educational degneracy of the Nigerian populace.
(A new poem written for Constance La France's "The Pensive Poet" Contest)
The taste of the accidentally swallowed ink is still making me nauseous.
The blue stains on the left side of my mouth and face look like I was on the losing end of a pugilistic bout.
There is no salvaging my good white shirt which caught the leaking ink before it reached my trousers.
Chewing on the end of my pen during pensive moments of writers’ block is a habit I really must quit.
And still the ink has not put any rhyming words on the blank sheet of paper on my desk mocking me.
Perhaps it is time to make friends with the laptop PC my son bought for me and the word processing applications that intimidate me.
Although a blank screen is no more comforting than a blank piece of paper.
And, I am not sure my fingernails are willing to make the sacrifice of replacing the end of a Bic pen.
Poetry is my paramour; pensivity, her jealous lover.
Argh... infamous pinwheel on macbook pro 2009
alas and alack
myopic staring eyes
bulge out their sockets,
cuz yours truly taken aback
I espied sight more frightful,
than rookie dazed chess player
checkmated courtesy men in black
pawn during next move dizzily
stunned as if suckerpunched smack
dab, now seeing stars circling around,
especially worrisome laptop gone slack
unsure if oppositional forces crack
militia (rumor monger)
grandmaster flying Union Jack
sabotaged Macbook Pro end user,
aye only see multi colored spinning circle,
no larger than flat head on thumbtack
lifeline no longer linkedin argh...
worse fate than death or trampled by yak,
disguised as ignoble,
ignominious ignoramus idiot savant
also interestingly enough chess playing hack
but... playing online access
to Internet chess got rendered offtrack
methinks wind in the willows
instrumental holed up there...,
yea that caddyshack
hear something went click and clack
unable to prepare for attack
or launch defensive comeback
hmm... perhaps flag down Cossack
will trumpet my return, meantime biden
time - lemme pursue whether cashback
paid with cryptocurrency virtual stack
bitcoin/ blockchain largesse...
got brilliant knack
did promise sweet treat
towering Taj Mahal size sack
unless... party investigating rival
prefers eating to their hearts content
regarding large fries and big mac
yukon villain me on details later
gotta poem long overdue
I haint want no flack
from Roberta or anybody else,
cuz this "fake" poet gonna barrack
aid himself for needed shuteye
dreaming of goose laying golden egg
where upon waking I will issue quack.
Blue Stone
Sagittarius piano fingers waltzing splendidly upon my laptop.
I can hear your nervous ticking heart clapping and tapping—
Collapsing there— as the meat philosophers send their brocades—
You never told me your name— whether real or frequently imagined—
As you came through my back door with nyloned legs shaking,
Your virgin-scented pearls shining inside my blue-eyed machinations,
Your curious feeders seeking certain electric favors with lip gloves.
Now you give your blue stone to me as one would gift a rich beggar,
To regale the climes with thousand island cadenzas and madrigals.
Sagittarius piano fingers dancing like salad fire upon my laptop.