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chang cosido Nov 2020
I should stop this fruitless job
‎of keeping obsolete little things
‎that never did
‎anything good for me.
‎Maybe i should start
‎by unfolding old unsent letters
‎bare from the enthusiasm i used to
‎envelope them in.
‎Then, i'll throw away pretty glass bottles,
emptied by their contents
‎of sweet perfumes and wild dreams.
‎Pick up plastic beads ,
‎loose from the strings tied
by friendships
‎i used to wrap around my wrists.
‎I should discard useless trinkets,
‎cute nothings and dead mementos.
‎Declutter and make room-
‎for other things ,
‎like self-appreciation,
‎growth,love
  and
‎maybe a pen
‎ or two.
nom de plume Jul 2020
i've kept every
sticky note,
letter,
mindless, simple gift
ever given to me by a friend.
every memory,
from valentine's day cards to ticket stubs.
i'm a hoarder, but of a very specific breed:
a scrapbook's worth of paper with no home and no purpose.
more akin to an archivist for no one.
i started crying yesterday
because i couldn't find my
memory box,
the shoebox i've stuffed all of my
sentimental nothing into.
i still can't find it.
i'm afraid someone threw it away.
(the box is full of letters and notes from my friends, starting from 8th grade. i go off to college in a week.)
but if that someone saw it as trash, they were probably right.
i have old letters from people i haven't talked to in years, that hate me now,
all crammed in this little shoebox
because i could never bring myself to throw them away.
my own personal museum of all the relationships i've let die of starvation,
hung taxidermic and pointless
within the walls of my heart and
cluttering the floors of my room.
exhibit a:
when i broke up with my first girlfriend,
i opened my memory box and burned the letters she'd given me.
but,
i went through them first
so i could keep the ones i couldn't bear to get rid of.
i'm a hoarder. i latch onto every crumb of affection i've ever been given and never throw it away.
wouldn't you?
exhibit b:
i was an angry child
i am an angry adult
i have spent my life roaming the desert of a lonely god,
and finding people willing to love me is a long and empty walk from one
oasis to another,
with nothing to show for it
but a shrine made up of
immortal-dead remnants of
every person i've ever known.
i have been alone before
and i never know if i'll be alone again.
experience hath granted me the wisdom
to hold onto, dig my claws into what is not guaranteed.
so yes, i am a hoarder,
and, exhibit c:
one day i will die alone
surrounded by garbage and words that some person out in the world doesn't even remember writing,
and i won't be able to bring it with me
into the black abyss of wherever else
and they will clean out my house
after i am dead
and throw it all away.
but for now
i'll keep looking for my memory box,
because it's gotta be around here somewhere.
i really do hope
it's around here somewhere.
blazing soul May 2020
Nothing will ever go completely right. As long as there will always be those who wants to hoard things for themselves even though, aware they will never live forever.
As long as there will always be those who are not ready to live right and reasonably...
What's the point?
Reasonably!
Hoarding!
Foolishly!
All leads to the den of obliteration.
Perplexed?
Let's give up!
What if we give down?
What's it about surrender!
What's it about never surrender?
No one is, an exception.
There is neither a thing I can hardly do, except to right the wrongs of the mind with my words.
Words inscribing the wrongs and beauty of the soul in a pinchbeck, puny age, is like a melodious masterpiece of a violin in a noisy throng, rarely a soul offers any attention.
A token of my contribution.
Smiles.. I hope that be enough. Though "bitter Smiles"  cause nothing is ever enough..
Enough!
Cheers..
Verily we are spend thrifts by nature we exhausts everything.  And we! eventually gets exhausted.
Up 4am.
Having aftermath dinner.
With the most tremendous of guests,  comforting yet tormenting, thoughts and Memories.
Dining on meals and wines of,  unfathomable class and brand.
With the most tranquiling of musics, echos of emptiness.
Guarded by The magnificent majestic retinue, lugubrious phantoms.
Encompassed by The most absorbing and cimmerian paintings, mystical darkness.
"In a stead formed yet unformed by ether, the mind".
The journey of the mind.
Absorbed in mystical darkness.
Nigdaw Feb 2020
they are selling sunshine
on these ***** streets
offering escape
at bus stops
beyond the ride home
with hoarding speak
dreams, new worlds
new life, new you
away from this ****** existence
we all perceive
step into
the advertiser's dream
emlyn lua Sep 2019
There once was a tiny dragon,
No larger than the palm of my hand.
She burned no village, stole no princess,
Her name not spoken in fear throughout the land.
She hoarded not gold, not jewels,
Cared not for such frivolous things.
It was memories she kept in her miniscule cave
She guarded with flickering fire and scrap wings.

I went to her cave in the mountains.
Stumbled on it, by mistake;
As I lay down my head at the roots of a tree,
By an obscure and secluded lake.
She emerged in her miniature splendour,
From beneath a nearby rock.
She let out a yawn of fire;
And I froze: in awe, in shock.
She grinned a needlepoint grin,
Beckoned with one curved claw
Into her miniscule cave,
I followed: in shock, in awe.

I peered through the half-hidden opening,
Only inches larger than my head.
The dragon spoke soft but thunderous,
And this is what was said:
“This is my hoard, young human.
This is all I hold dear in the world.”
And she handed to me a birthday card -
Some edges singed, some curled.

It had writing in a swirling foreign script
That seemed to be etched, not written.
“This is the love of my first ever crush,
In the days when we were still smitten.”
“Is this all?” I scoffed, “Just pieces of paper,
and wrappers and old useless things?”
Her doll-sized body began to shudder
With a judder of claws and a flutter of wings.

No larger than my littlest finger,
She was a smaller version of herself;
But still I froze as she perched on my nose,
To her, a sizeable shelf.
“You hold no value to memories?
Then why don’t you leave yours behind?
Since they strike you as being so useless,
I’m certain you wouldn’t mind.”

Now all my memories are scraps,
Shadows of what they once were.
I wonder if she kept them somewhere,
In that diminutive cave with her.
Notes from a wife I think I had:
About the shopping, the kids? The car?
A card from my parents, a gift from a friend,
A reason for this faint lip scar.
I try to keep letters, tickets, receipts,
Compulsively, I feel I must.
But whenever I reach for that link to my past,
It is nothing but ash, but dust.
Some homes don't let go of things
And their floors become unclear
Behind their blinds
It's hard to find
But the reason's always fear

Closets full of little things
A sweet sentimental Salve
Various keys
To Memories
Rather re-lived than had

kitchens gathered up with things
As if clutched in jaws most grim
It's all about
Not running out
False anticipation

Bedrooms full of silent things
Like a promise never kept
The sheepless wool
That's ment to cull
The sight from dreams once dreamt
Home is where the heart is, but what if your heart is broken?
Penguin Poems Sep 2018
I’m a hoarder
I keep letters of sorrow and happiness,
Getting high off of borrowed moments from the past that I know won’t last.
My tolerance will grow,
And I won’t get the same high that I now know.
But I keep them anyway, all the momentos from my childhood that cling on to the last hope I carry in my heart from times that were better.
Letter by letter I read them and try not to realize what I’ve lost,
But instead realize what I had.
And even though it’s not the same as it was before the memories bring a smile to my face that I try to keep as long as I can before it melts into a much more depressed state.
Because you can’t think about what you’ve had before without realizing what you lost as well, they’re hand in hand.
I don’t want to be a hoarder anymore.
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