Stream Of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness
Thoughts that come at random
With no foresight and no plan
My fingers type at their own volition
With no structured idea at hand
I live in an environment of inquietude
In an ambiance of unease and perhaps fear
There’s a weight upon my forehead
A sense of loss of things I hold dear
Today’s a day much like any other
I read, I eat, yet feel so incomplete,
and blandly smiling at me in calm so replete
On my desk, photos of sisters and brother
Just to sit and compose idle randomness
At my desk, takes my mind away for a bit
Yet at the back of my mind sits emptyness
And knowing I cannot escape from it
This bit of inane exposition
Is from my fingers and not of my mind
I try to stop all conscious thought
And let my fingers write blind
My busy fingers put a name
To unconscious sentiments so sad
Stream of consciousness
says more of the same…and that..
I’m slowly going mad
poem by David Whalen
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Related quotes
Frenzied Fingers Run Amuck
When I get you into my arms
I can't control the things that I do.
Fingers grab the hair on your head.
Fingers caress the small of your back.
Fingers travel down your spine
and back up again.
Fingers reach to all corners of your being,
quietly unnoticed at first,
but more frenzied with passing time.
Wild fingers travel your soul
with frenzied action that is hard to stop.
Uncontrollable fingers run wild
until you beg them to stop.
But even then, there's no counting on it.
These fingers like to run wild.
Whenever I place my fingers on you,
frenzied fingers run amuck.
Run My Hand
the thoughts
in me force
me to run my hand over the font
to pen me a thought
and bond
to squat me a poem in thought
like a dream that sucks my sores
between my fingers
and thumb, in scores
of many other thoughts
by the shores
stagger my mind
in awe
as i dig my mind
with the pen on my hand
between me and slightly no end
and stuck within the same band
as the music of the tip of my pen
dance to my fingers and learn
how to write; i knew not until then
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Against The Evidence
As I reach to close each book
lying open on my desk, it leaps up
to snap at my fingers. My legs
won’t hold me, I must sit down.
My fingers pain me
where the thick leaves snapped together
at my touch.
All my life
I’ve held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning
their pages and straightening out
their creases. I use books
almost apologetically. I believe
I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where theirs leave off
and mine begin. I am so much alone
in the world, I can observe the stars
or study the breeze, I can count the steps
on a stair on the way up or down,
and I can look at another human being
and get a smile, knowing
it is for the sake of politeness.
Nothing must be said of estrangement
among the human race and yet
nothing is said at all
because of that.
But no book will help either.
I stroke my desk,
its wood so smooth, so patient and still.
I set a typewriter on its surface
and begin to type
to tell myself my troubles.
Against the evidence, I live by choice.
poem by David Ignatow
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Slippin' Through My Fingers
Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I'm losing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone there's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
(Slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didn't
And why I just don't know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Schoolbag in hand she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slipping Through My Fingers
Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that Im losing her forever
And without really entering her world
Im glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see whats in her mind
Each time I think Im close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when shes gone theres that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I cant deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
(slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didnt
And why I just dont know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see whats in her mind
Each time I think Im close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Schoolbag in hand she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile...
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sorrow and JD
I was looking to drown my sorrows
in a large bottle of JD.
After six fingers things looked better
as they became sunk in me.
Twelve fingers and my mind became blurry,
the JD was getting increasingly less.
I was losing all sense of reason
and becoming a mixed up mess.
The liquid was decidedly more ish,
as fingers became more like hands.
Bad memories faded into oblivion
as the JD took over command.
I lost my grip on everything
as my elbow slipped off the bar.
My glass passed through my fingers
and bounced as it hit the floor.
At this point I lost my co-ordination,
and the bar wouldn’t keep still.
I was a passenger in a spinning helicopter
and I was feeling unquestionably ill.
I woke up as a red eyed headache,
with my clothes in a state of distress.
My first thoughts were that of self pity
caused by sorrow, and JD excess.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Tears Rolling Down
Open notebook
Closed mind
A poet's crime-
Devoid of rhyme!
Sinister tale
A fear that ails
And cripples me...
She would love
To have my name-
I know her well
She persists-
But has she changed
To someone else
Who is melting down
On my desk
As a simple thought
In other word,
A shadow woman
Without a form?
Like an answer
Captured first in my mind
And then on my tongue
And as a result,
My fingers go slowly
Down to a blank sheet
Translating this tragedy
Into another sad love poem...
©All Rights Reserved-2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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The Touch
For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.
The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.
And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand - just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.
The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.
Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.
poem by Anne Sexton
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United In Pain
my fingers
are not mine anymore
they are running
out of control
i do not wish
to write some more
to infuriate you
but my hands are
rebels
coming out from
my arms
into their
fingers
writing these
lines
i am detached
severed
from the rest of my
parts
i have no more control
about
destiny in the making
birds of blue
feathers
are coming out
from my mouth
and they are not
coming back
my fingers are
automatons
writing now on
their own
i am not
responsible for your
anger
i am a useless man
and my fingers
are not mine anymore
my C5 chokes a nerve
i am numb
my fingers are at war
against
each other now
thoughts converge
without much meaning
united
in pain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Out Of My Mind
(lebon, rhodes, cuccurullo)
Light a candle, lay flowers at the door
For those whore left behind and the ones whove gone before
Here it comes now, sure as silence follows rain,
The taste of you upon my lips, the fingers in my brain
Ever gentle, as it kills me where I lay
Who am I to resist, who are you to fail?
Got to get you out of my mind
But I cant escape from the feeling
As I try to leave the memory behind
Without you whats left to believe in?
Could be so sorry, for the way it had to go
But now I feel your presence in a way I could not know
And I wonder, do you ever feel the same?
In whispering darkness, do you ever here my name?
(chorus)
(here in the back of your mind)
(here in the back of your mind)
And how could you dare,
To become so real (become so real..)
When youre just a ghost in me
And ive....
(chorus)
Here in the back of your mind
Deep in the back of your mind
Here in the back of your mind
Deep in the back of your mind
Deep in the back of your mind...
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One-Finger Typist (Fun Poem 122)
I used to be a one-finger typist
and as the one finger wore down,
I discovered how to use two.
Finding that easy to score
and with the added bonus
of being able to play
chopsticks on the piano as well,
I decided to add a little bonus
and increased my fingers to three
and then on to four.
All on the same hand, I might add.
One day my left hand
feeling left in the lurch
decided it was going to join in
and my fingers typing doubled
to the number eight.
The thumbs then got jealous
and came into play.
Now both hands of fingers and thumbs
dance merrily across the keys,
but there I have a problem,
as they all want to press a key simultaneously.
Slowly words with three or four letters
were getting left behind
and I could only type words
with eight letters with two hyphens in between.
Confused? I was as well
as everything I typed became double hyphenated
and made no sense at all.
In desperation and frustration,
I reverted to being a one-finger typist
and now you know the story of my plight.
As for the other fingers,
well they got a new position
of multi-tasking elsewhere.
poem by David Harris
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The Joining
With our fingers entwined,
We do not mind,
Where we might be,
Or who might see,
How much we care,
How much we share,
This closeness so comfy,
For him and for me,
Here now on show,
Saying, I love you so.
So let's tell the world,
With our fingers curled
Within each other's hand,
That this joining was planned.
And we'll travel as one,
Into the setting sun.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Author's Inspiration
My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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Do You Really Find It Hard To Write A Poem?
let me tell you
it is not hard to write the poems in your mind
they are already there in the first place
inside your heart
always wanting to be written
all you need is just your way of waking your fingers in deep sleep
let them be
let them write the words
at the tip of your fingers
let the words speak for themselves
do not intervene
let them be
let the emotions dance like the wind
let the thoughts trickle like the rain
let them be
follow the river as it winds along the banks of your feelings
then watch
how all the waters of your self fall like
a water fall.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Almost Everything
Music by richard marx and bruce gaitsch
Lyrics by richard marx
Im waiting for some kind of healing to begin
And I wonder if you know the kind of pain Im in
Its hard wondering just what it is you see
There hasnt been a moment youve been off my mind
Ive searched through every meditation I can find
As if something could bring you back to me
Do I go on in silence
Or shout at the sky
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say that Ive won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
I imagine you until I swear I feel your touch
And I read the words you wrote me when it gets too much
The one piece of solace I can steal
I still need you in my life
Like never before
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say I have won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
I still need you in my life
More than ever before
Give me all the earthly treasures
That a single man can hold
Put the magic in my fingers
That turns everything to gold
Hand me the sun, say I have won
The world on a string
And then I will have almost everything
song performed by by Richard Marx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Typing...
fingers
playing...
with out type writer...
but...
type human body
male with female...
type a kiss
a sex...
a love...
what is this...?
typing fingers only
no it....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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All In All I Know
When I asked myself the other day I came to realise I'm not ok
I've burned my fingers bad before I've seen myself through worse I'm sure
But just the same I'm really not ok
Oh how I wish that I could sleep
I try but won't just sink that deep
My fingers won't stop aching so tired yet awaken
Or should I let it all loose and just weep
I've been pacing up and down my floors I have lost all sense of time
I sometimes halt and ask myself if I'm about to loose my mind
All in all I know ::
From when I get up way past lunch time I keep on asking myself
If when the night falls hard on all I'm up to pace around again
All in all I know ::
song performed by by Quorthon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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