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Maria Etre Dec 2020
I am a hoarder
because my own memory
fails me
Cardboard-Jones Feb 2020
You take the worst of you.
You take the worst and hide it away,
Deep in a dark building,
In its dark basement,
In the darkest room,
And lock it away.
Hidden and forgotten.
You hide it because you’re ashamed;
You hide it because you can’t erase it.
So it’s buried with all your flaws,
Never to see the light.
Time convinces you this is who you are.
And you believe it so.

Then someone comes along
And sees what you want to become.
What you can become,
And the light they shine on you
Is the warmest your skin has ever felt.
You want them to know the real you,
Not the version common eyes feast on.

You clutch the key in your pocket,
Twirling it in your trembling hand,
Wanting to hand it to them,
Allow them to venture to the depths of your failures.
You want them to see it and exclaim
“I still accept you.”

The thought fades,
And you’re reminded of the storage
That haunts the basement of that lonely building.
You see the terrors tucked away
And imagine what this special person would think.

You are a hoarder of horrors,
Too afraid to let anyone see,
And too afraid to let go.
Poetress2 Apr 2019
No one ever told me,
that life would be this hard;
That men could be so cruel,
it simply breaks my heart.
Some with power and money,
rarely think about the poor;
They're the worse of all,
always wanting so much more.
The epitomy of selfishness,
only thinking of themselves;
Slamming doors upon the needy,
refusing to lend their help.
With a smirk upon their faces,
they snub all those in need;
Refusing to help all those,
who are starving in the streets.
They sit at their fancy tables,
with food in abundance to share;
Not concerned about the hungry,
these Vultures do not care.
Do they ever feel remorse,
having more then what they need;
They hoard all their possessions,
consumed by heartless greed.
When night time falls upon them,
they climb in their, soft beds;
Their souls are full of darkness,
their hearts', already dead.
Seth Milliman Mar 2019
Why can’t I write?
Like I once did before,
Tragedy and remedy.
Wrapped up simply yet in a hoard,
What bounding breaks of wording.
Make truth simply desired not abhorred,
When words of life are ever fleeting.
A desire of wanting the same but more.
Anya Dec 2018
The golden baby
In the last slice of Mardigras cake

A half dollar
Well after they stopped being printed

A rare right sided conch
When most others are left

Are the rare treasures I find buried underneath

The glass bird
Dainty as can be
And the size of a nail

The miniature tea cup
A full set
Spoon and all

The Minni and Miki
Mouse holiday wear
mini collectibles

Miniature Kitty Kat
In four different colors

Are the tiny bobbles I couldn’t bear to part with

The multitudes of dice
From classic six sided
To 8 To 12
Even dice in dice
More than can be counted

Erasers by the gazillions
Stingrays, baseball gloves
Eraser pencils with missing erasers
And a baby head detached from the body

Keychains, by the plenty
Sunglasses, Weapons
Dream catchers, bird’s with bells, all sorts
Of strange and curious oddities attached to a chain

Coins, many sizes countries
Fake, real
Dinar, Rupee, Euro, dollar,
Replica of ancient yuan

Don’t even get me started
Necklaces, bracelets
Rings and earrings
Even though my ears aren’t pierced!

My hoarding tendencies coming to light in this
Curious collection of collections
Also known as
The objects in my closet
I was looking through my closet and I just had to make a poem about it.
Frank DeRose Nov 2016
I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.

I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.

I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.

Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.

The base layer of sediment for my being.

In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.

How could I throw it away?

Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.

I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.

In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.

In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.

I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.

In them I see leaves of growth.

Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.

These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.

They show a person, a being--
A life.

Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.

They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.

Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.

They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.
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.
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