It all started out so innocently
A thrift store here, a garage sale there
Anyways, Lord knows how bad I needed
The chartreuse rug of that polyester bear
It goes perfect in my kitchen
Though I can barely see the floor
Just need to move a few piles that grew
From me buying trinkets by the score
Some say I'm a crazy hoarder
I've seen the show and I'm not that bad
Anyway who doesn't need
A stuffed albino Siamese cat
Then there's all the broken plates of china
That I got for a steal
If I ever do find my stove again
I'll use them for my next meal
Why ask why I save all these milk jugs
You never do know when
A herd of cattle will be passing through
The middle of my den
You may say crazy hoarder
I may say I think not
When I look at pile after pile
Of all the treasures that I've got
If you ever care to visit
Just step over this, crawl over that
Till you come to that little itty bitty empty spot
Where we can sit back and relax
And have a little chat,
over this this and that,
maybe why it is ducks quack,
is it brains that they lack,
that my friend is whack...
Don't make me laugh...
I scoop up the last armful of clothes from my drawer,
Look at my uncle sitting at my computer
my eyes screaming,"I'm done, that's it"
he nods his head, listening to my aunt on the other end of the phone
and playing with the settings of the security camera dad bought to spy on us.
I carry them into the hallway,
kick grandmas already half open door
drop them on the bed
and sort them out;
a pair of pants,
I lift the shirts from the Mexican midnight takeout box
insert the pants,
put the shirts back down
add another pile of shirts
and fit the socks and underwear along the side.
this is the third box
and it's done.
three boxes, a clothes basket, a backpack and a computer
and I feel like a hoarder, like I have far more than I need.
as I turn around I feel him wrap his arms around my neck
and ease his tear filled eyes onto my shoulder.
"I love you, Bubba"
he says, in a voice deeper than it should be
"I can deal with him,
but living without either of my brothers scares me"
I start crying, I can't hold back the tears
all the pain and suffering of eighteen long years
finally damn near over
and I almost start grabbing clothes and stuffing them back into the drawers.
I almost say
"I can wait six years for a life"
but I look into his eyes
and see that he's telling me not to stay
that his heart will be torn up
but he can make it through
he always has.
twelve years old and the strongest person I know.
we stand there embraced for a quarter hour
crying until we have no more tears
until we have let out all the anger and fear of the last nine years.
we stumble into the dark hallway
eyes red, swollen, and damp.
Nobody asks any questions
and we continue on with our day,
my entire life piled up on the far side of grandma's bed
I talk to strangers to make me feel less strange.
I wish that you could feel, but you are already out of range.
Similar spectrum, but different lengths of wave.
The man is labeled a hoarder because he tries to save.
While the rest abandon what they thought would make them complete.
They have places to be you can tell by there feet.
Always on schedule, but never truly living.
With grudges like backpacks never truly forgiving.
I am one of them, it would be a lie to say I was not.
No rest for the wicked although my muscles are shot.
The never ending quest for dollars and coins.
Occasionally resting and undressing there groins.
But in the morning we are at it again.
In this competition of humans no one will win.
I love you more than the sands on the beaches
The leaves on the trees
The fishes in the sea
This is not about love
I love you more than the clouds in the sky
The grass under my feet
The amount of times people are kind
This is not about love
I love you more than there are cells in the human body
hairs on the back of a dog
books that there are to study
This is not about love
I love you as equally as a bird loves its mate
A hoarder loves their stuff
Destiny loves fate
This is definitely and utterly not about love
turquoise hair ties
spearmint chewing gum
and fading crosswalks
have become ubiquitous
since I sentimentally
attached them to you
so I've hoarded them
and lit a torch
in hopes that the rising smoke
will cloud my recollection
It creeps on you like dawn's breaking
turning you into a whole new person.
At first, it's easy, but then you become obsessed,
losing the control that you never had.
It makes you too tired to go to your classes
and makes you pass out during your private lessons.
It makes you the World's Best Liar
and the World's Biggest Food Hoarder.
You become The Bitchy Friend
and That Anti-Social Girl Who Never Leaves Her Room.
And during your pain and misery,
you begin to reach your goal:
inch by inch, pound by pound.
It seems to forever disappear and you feel fine,
but then it creeps on you like dawn's breaking,
turning you into a whole new person.
I'm a collector
Of all sorts
Tangible or not,
But they've never
Stayed by me,
I have memories
Gifts and scraps
And years ago,
In everything I have;
Though I have nothing
To show for it,
It's all just stuff
But one thing
Is for sure;
If I could
I'd give it all away;
Just to have kept you...
Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.
Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.
Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.
Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.
Do you ever dream of me?
No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants -- Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.
Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.
I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.
Thoughts, ideas and words
Have always been corporeal objects in my life -
Things, with weight and volume.
If you could see them, stacked precariously one atop another
Pile after pile and stack after stack,
threatening to bury me alive, when the balance is destroyed someday
when I try to remove the wrong item at the wrong time -
Well, If you saw them like that -
The way I see them –
You would, no doubt call me a hoarder,
A hoarder of ideas, thoughts and words,
Living safely in my own little world
Surrounded by the waste products
Of an over active mind,
Unwilling to part with even the most useless thought -
Secure that someday they will all fit together into in a grand poem
That will free me at last.
If I were a picture, you’d be the color.
If I were a spy, you’d be my cover.
If I were a puzzle, you’d be the pieces.
If I were an office space, you’d be my leases.
If I were a book, you’d be all the pages.
If I were a recovering alcoholic, you’d be my stages.
If I were a year, you’d be my days.
If I were a pot, you’d be my glaze.
If I were a chord, you’d be my notes.
If I were a dock, you’d be my boats.
If I were a comedian, you’d be my jokes.
If I were an infomercial, you be the hoax.
If I were a guitar, you’d be my strings.
If I were a hoarder, you’d be my things.
If I were a pirate, you’d be my crew.
If I were a detective, you’d be the clue.
If I were a door, you’d be the hinges.
If I were a bootleg DVD, you’d be the copyright infringement.
If I were a record, you’d be my tunes.
If I were a desert, you’d be my dunes.
If I were a mental patient, you’d be my meds.
If I were Jamaican, you’d be my dreads.
If I were a wizard, you’d be my wand.
If I were a frog, you’d be my pond.
If I were a cheerleader, you’d be my pom-poms.
If I a drum set, you’d be my tom-toms.
If I were a train, you’d be my stations.
If I were an employee, you’d be my paid vacations.
If I were a burglar, you’d be the home.
If I were a hairstylist, you’d be the comb.
If I were a mummy, you’d be the sarcophagus.
If I were a digestive tract, you’d be the esophagus.
If I were cottage cheese, you’d be my curds.
If I were an Alfred Hitchcock movie, you’d be The Birds.
If I were a jacket, you’d be my zipper.
If I were a whale, you’d be my flippers.
And if I were a writer with any talent for prose,
You'd be the poem I love most.