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Some guy eats a ****** bat
do dah do dah
All I say is "fancy that"
all the do dah day
keep your distance, give me space
do dah do dah
remember do not touch your face
all the do dah day

wash your hands all night
wash your hands all day
wash your hands and wash them right
and you wil be ok.

keep your groupings under ten,
do dah do day
that goes for women and for men
all the do dah day
stay inside and don't go out
do dah do dah
the virus is all round about
all the do dah day

wash your hands all night
wash your hands all day
wash your hands and wash them right
and you wil be ok.

toilet paper's hard to find
do dah do dah
some folks have just lost their mind
all the do dah day
buying everything in sight
do dah do dah
i've got to say that isn't right
all the do dah day

wash your hands all night
wash your hands all day
twash your hands and wash them right
and you wil be ok.

if we all play by the rules
do dah do dah
and quit acting like ****** fools
all the do dah day
this will pass i promise you
do dah do dah
do what the doctors tell you to
all the do dah day

wash your hands all night
wash your hands all day
wash your hands and wash them right
and you wil be ok.
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,
Mistakes,
Regrets,
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.
elh Dec 2019
carved from rosewood and once heavily polished,
it now crumbled beneath a mountainous tomb
of collector's items,
stained blankets,
abandoned food,
and stuffed animals from a childhood long gone.
an artifact crucified by material obsession
aching to be reborn.
ms reluctance Apr 2019
One-click shopping,
instant payment –  
so convenient;
so ******* easy
to cross over
from being a shopper
to a low-key hoarder.

I don’t buy expensive stuff.
No, nothing excessive.

Just read about a new book,
must-read of the season,
rave reviews on Goodreads.
Available on Amazon?
Yes, it also has a Kindle version.
(See,
even though there is no comparison
between the warmth of a paperback
and the cool efficiency of e-books,
I prefer my Kindle simply because  
it’s easier to carry multiple books.)
So I click – buy – get it.
Now it sits
in merry company  
of all the books I bought
so ******* conveniently
while I keep rereading the books
I’ve already read.  

Don’t get me started  
on my obsession with stationery.
Is there any feeling better
than writing on blank paper?
Seeing your busy thoughts
fall in neat lines,
march in formation,
until they reveal the idea underneath.
I keep browsing through the section
of notebooks, journals, diaries,
pencils, pens – oh, there are so many kinds!
I click – buy – get it.
A moment of ecstasy
when the I get the delivery
even though I mostly jot down
any sudden flash of inspiration  
on my phone because it’s always handy.

Getting bigger?  
Get larger jeans.
No need to stand trial  
before judgemental eyes
of the “helpful” salesperson.
Sidestep the self-esteem crisis,
just click – buy – get it.
Easy return policy;
quick refund if it does not fit.

Idly scrolling on social media
and I’m bombarded
with some choice targeted marketing.
How can I refuse
such a customised bait?
Hook, line, click on the link –
there – it’s not that expensive,
nothing too excessive.
I’ll buy that yellow dress,
those cute strappy sandals,
the quirky socks,
ooh a new mascara!
Wear the dress once and chuck it aside,
then go back to cycle the same five outfits.
Put on the mascara,
bat my eyes in jubilation,
then banish it to the drawer
because it gets on my contacts
and causes irritation.

I can go on and on and wax poetic
about the wonders of window-shopping
from the comfort of my couch.
I swear it’s such a great feeling
coming home to find my package waiting.
NaPoWriMo Day 16
Poetry form: List
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
Pouches
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

Jewelry-
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.
Peter Balkus Oct 2018
I collect dreams,
I've got loads of them
at my tiny place -
they are everywhere!

On my bedroom floor,
in the corridor,
in the kitchen, stacked
on the wash-machine,

next to plates and mugs.
And under the sink.
In the cellar, and
in the attic too.

They are - everywhere,
no place left, no room.

But I'd never wanted
to chuck them away -
I believe my dreams
will come true one day.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018

Bottles of cheap bliss
drown out lugubrious sadness
replaced with bottles of ****
in this festering den of madness

at least there’s paradise in my poems
at least there’s a clean bed in my dreams
at least in those spaces I’m in your arms
at least I’m happy bathing in the moonbeam

surround by a fetid smell
with a lack of care for myself,
is my hunger even quelled
when there’s no food left on the shelf?

a roach skitters across a pile of clothes
my temporary friend that I confide in
he speaks, “Here is what I propose.
Stop thinking that you are a has been

get off your *** and clean this mess
unless you want more of my kin
stop ******* at the bottle is what I suggest
and have a little victory, a little win

you don’t have to live”

Squish

“Funny how you can survive a nuke
but not my tiny bare foot,
well you pest, there’s my rebuke
how’s it feel to be ground to soot?”

“What am I doing with my life?
Maybe the cockroach was right.”
Tap Head May 2017
I live in a tin *** house
with clatter and clutter
and not an ounce of living space
my tin *** house is sad and sorry place.

Junk piled on furniture
and muck on the walls,
my tin *** house doesn’t get
many visitors at all.

The fence is falling down,  
the flowers dying in the heat.  
My tin *** house is such a mess,  
a tip could not compete.

The spider’s webs’
are the only thing that grows
and from the taps,
it's only cold water that flows.  

So yes, my tin *** house
is a sad and sorry place
and my tin *** family
is in a sad and sorry state.
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.
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