Keyboard Warriors
Anonymous Courage
You’re so threatening, insulting, and mean
You’re the baddest dude anyone’s seen
You swear and you cuss
While riding a bus
Safe and sound on a digital screen
You love taunting the folks you abuse
But your keyboard is all that you use
You huff and you puff
You know it’s a bluff
Your persona’s a terrible ruse
Whether politics, dogma, or sport
You exaggerate, lie, and distort
A fictional knife
Now threatens my life
Your mom’s basement must feel like a fort
If we stood face to face you would seize
So unlike all those threats you would tease
Like, “Pump you with lead
And, “Leave you for dead”
As you’re violently pounding those keys
Well, I’m coming and settling scores
Metaphorically kicking down doors
Next time you’re online
Your butt will be mine
Cos my keyboard is bigger than yours
About the Creator
Earl W. Pearl
I’ve been writing poetry (rhyming mostly) since about 2014 and have recently transitioned to writing novels and short stories. My poetry genres are faith, humor, social issues, politics, pretty much any subject matter.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova6 days ago in Poets
Comments (5)
Hahahahaha Mom's basement! That was awesome! Keyboards Warriors are the biggest cowards ever!
I see this as a rap , this poem would scare anyone 🤭🫣🙀
Nice piece 😁📝✌️
Haha! So good!!!
lol! Fantastic work! Good job!