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Lika Mizukoshi  Jan 2017
Lika Mizukoshi Jan 2017
I am a hoarder
You may not see it at first sight.
My clothes, pressed and wrinkle-free
My shoes, freshly polished
Not a single hair misplaced
but I am a hoarder
My room, though, is spotless
Not a book out of place
Every little thing in its own little case
but I am a hoarder
No, I do not collect used up shoes and stack them in a pile
nor do I have a hard time throwing out broken down furniture
Nothing around me sitting for more than awhile
No, I am a special kind of hoarder
The lack of mess you see on the outside
has been compensated by the mess I sleep in every night
I collect dust-filled memories and broken down dreams
some, too broken to be recognised
I stack expectation upon shattered expectation in a pile too high for me to move without it falling
I have tried countless of times to move out the pieces of what used to be plans and pictures of the future,
The storybook fairytale love stories have lost its luster,
now they sit next to overused ideas I still try to play once in a while,
but it seems to get stuck on repeat all the time,
and I try to explain that hoarding isn't just on the outside, but something worse when it's within
The inability to let go of the past, so I keep them hidden
and no one would notice, not one bit what I am
I am a hoarder
of the worst kind
I do not hoard things,
but something far much more unkind
Pages upon pages of sleepless nights
trying to make my burnt up mind and second-hand run down heart to work alright,
Cause I know I've tossed too many out on the bed
to even try to count how many are still left unread,
I am a hoarder
compulsive, emotional, restless.
and much more than I'm willing to confess.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
My daily activities range between avoiding most things
to avoiding all things.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
Penny Vincent Apr 2015
Right here in this moment
As I look into my eyes
My heart tells me I'm not good enough
But it's just been a hoarder of lies.

The raindrops were colored
With old stormy skies
I thought I saw rainbows
With my searching hopeful eyes.

The scent of true happiness
Wafted free in my mind
Always just out of reach
Of what I was hoping to find.

My heart has held on
held strong and held tight
To pain and shame and hopelessness that pierce my soul at night

I can't say anymore
That the hurt and pain aren't there
But the search is now over
For the giver of despair.

I am giving my heart back
To the child I'm supposed to be
If you truly love someone
You must set them free.

Right here in this moment
As I look into my eyes
It's no surprise my heart protected me
But it's just been a hoarder of lies.
We live in a world, that's loaded down with greed.  Man will do anything for money, falling to do a good deed.
Man will take a chance, to traffic people across the boarder.  They pack them in like sardines, and like a selfish hoarder.
We will never stop allowing drugs, from entering our land.  Men thinks that they are cleaver, by planting drugs, within the body of man.
With the technology we have, something  need to be done.  The slavery of woman who 's brought to our country, to them, it's not fun.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Mike Hauser  May 2013
Mike Hauser May 2013
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...

Crazy Hoarder?!?
Don't make me laugh...
Edward Coles Jul 2014
“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“ know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.
I apologise profusely for posting up a short story instead of a poem. I wrote this in one go tonight and haven't proofread it. I had no plan, I just wrote until there was -something- there. I just wanted to try something different.

Isabelle  Jul 2016
Isabelle Jul 2016
She was a hoarder
-of memories

And it was good and bad
Holding on to memories..
Brycical Nov 2014
My mom once kicked a hole in the wall as a way to threaten me.  
Any minute, it feels like my mom could toss out all her marbles & shove a pillow in her mother's face.

Sometimes my entitled Grandma has no idea what her name is,
so she wouldn't know what the **** is happening.

Before he died, my fair-skinned grandfather tried to hide the fact that his wife would forget where she was sometimes. And as his face melted because of leukemia he also tried to hide the fact that he was a hoarder, blaming all of it on Grandma, who was also a hoarder.

There's talk amongst some of my family that Grandfather's brother, the one who went to church every Sunday and spoiled everyone in the family with copious amounts of pies, cookies and money decided to pull the breathing tubes out of his nose.

This is the same Uncle who decided that his sister, whom I used to see as a saint, shouldn't be hooked up to a machine after her stroke. My Aunt made the best pancakes, and cookies, and cakes, and sweet treats from scratch.

From my understanding, their father was a scumbag drunkaholic but their mother was the church going working type who had a way with dogs. She's the stuff of those walking uphill in the snow to and from school with one boot legends.  

My Father used to be a dreamer. Now he sleeps with the TV on blaring either CNN or Fox News, sometimes in a buzzy drunken chainsaw snoring kind of sleep that's only awoken in a panicked restlessness wishing he had a gun under his pillow, probably because he ran away from a cult.

His mother joined a cult at a young age after years of working for the man. Now she's constantly in debt but swears that this cult is helping her change the world.

Her husband split when my dad was around three years old. He died homeless in Washington State. The day my father married my mom was the first time my dad met his step-father, also part of the cult.

My Grandmother's brothers are all the libatious kind of drinkers who all took jobs as either firemen or bank truck drivers. They're proud hellraisers.

Their father was a double-****** beer drinker on days he wasn't cheating on his wife with her sister, supposedly. He was a **** ballerina with a beer gut on the ice. Their mother was a bitter woman whose family lost all their money and would sometimes beat her husband with a skillet.

I don't wish to say much about my brother because i once found him in a compromising position in the bathroom with mom's panyhose over his head when he was around 10 or 11. So I shudder to think what weird things he's into now.
A response to all the people who have told me that my family "must have done something right" because I turned out ok.
Vanessa Grace  Dec 2015
Vanessa Grace Dec 2015
I will re-decorate
the space in my mind
for you;
the space that cries
and the chains that scream
h o a r d
I hoard memories.
Stacy Del Gallo  Jul 2010
Stacy Del Gallo Jul 2010
It looks like a house.
It has four walls and a roof,
windows dressed in brightly
colored curtains and
an American Flag
blowing out front

but the tarnished cement on
the walkway, the chipped paint
on the front door,
the broken screen,
the overgrown garden
and the lonely lawn chairs
warn that this is not a house.

Mountains of memories plague
every opening-
obstruct any attempt
to walk from room to room.

A two hundred dollar telescope
sits cold and unused
in the dining room buried
in the middle of papers and
bills never paid.

The shower stands naked- pipes
showing beneath a clumsily placed
plastic bag. Tiles peel and hope
to be uprooted away from
cat litter thrown from untidy pets.

Closets shelter coats long
out of fashion and toddler
toys unfit for a now
12 year old boy.

He comes home
from school,
sits down
and sighs.

He does his homework
on the floor- his desk
buried beneath old children's
books and computer paper.

There is a couch that sits
bare in the living room with
cushions stained and
sunken in- holding
place for a heavy body that
lounges with eyes shut.

My mother dances around it all,
feet feeling for holes
to fit into from kitchen
to bathroom to bed.

Her path is formed like
footprints in snow.

She sleeps surrounded by
discarded perfume bottles
and dresses three
sizes too small.

A small black urn
sits sadly beneath
a battered TV-
if only he could
watch her from beneath
the debris.

The washer and dryer still clean
her clothes and the bathroom still
washes away sweat from busy days-

But she knows this is not a house.

No more dinner parties
with familiar faces.

No more meals
served on the kitchen table-
now a holding place for boxes
and unopened presents
from holidays past.

No more sleep over parties
in the basement- comfy couches
now corroded by seven years
of mold and wreckage
from a small flood.

No more Christmas tree
dimly lighting
the living room since
a Best Buy box
now occupies its space-
broken down
and filled with forgotten pogs
and Pokemon videos.

The house holds it all
up with accepting planks
and brick- it is stronger
than she is.

Secretly she wishes the
house would fall down.
Secretly she wishes
she would be inside it.

Sometimes I want
to bring flowers to lay
in front of this messy grave,

But my family still breathes
inside the tomb
that they’ve made.
Lizzie  Jan 2016
Lizzie Jan 2016
tell me what you need
and when I cannot find
one of your necessities
I'll reach inside myself
search around corners and under beds
and offer what I've found
you're free to take any part of me
I've meant to declutter anyway
I just hope I have what you're looking for
Joe Thompson  Sep 2012
Joe Thompson Sep 2012
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.

— The End —