#furniture
my boyfriend blocks me for four days
because I won’t give him the chair he wants.
I’m left scrolling through IKEA listings,
pretending the algorithm knows my waiting.
outside, neighbors drag out plastic stools
for another birthday party. balloons
tied to the wrong wrist, a dog howling
like it knows who gets the last seat.
on day three, I start naming the chairs
in my apartment: recliner as prophet,
barstool as witness. I kneel before
the ottoman, bargaining like a priest.
when he unblocks me, it feels
less like forgiveness, more like return policy:
no receipt, box dented, parts missing.
we drag it inside together, silent, already exhausted.
what I wanted to say was:
I would’ve sat on the floor
if it meant staying.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, pleasant to dream of old friends---like nothing happened:>
drove the beetle blue
no driver's license just liked the view
send my apologies
to the streets of mysteries
or was it misery in disguise
upon the old she cries
like the hidden furniture
spoke in signs
memories and secrets called mine
tiger rug in luxury shop
familiar gazes made feet stop
never true when doors are slammed
antiques in a swift can slip the hand
a heart of glass
of a weighed mass
maybe not the dream but the morning stance
reminds hints of a glance
her empty seat in a wallet
buries pictures in the back of the pocket
and I ask and count wall blocks and thoughts glue
does she think of me like I do too?
------ravenfeels
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
You
Are like a flame. And I am highly combustible household furniture.
And so you move close to me, and touch me.
And set me on fire.
Slowly,
Then all at once
You multiply and engulf me in your love, in you. All of you.
And we burn
A beautiful hot blaze, wrapped in desire and hunger
And we burn
Illuminating the room, the house, the street.
And we burn, your flames multiply and grow and we are tangled in heat and desperation.
And we ignore the: warning highly flammable sign
And dance till we’ve scorched through the floor,
Leaving burnt out embers
You consume me, all of me.
You search my heart, my soul, my body. A house, room to room
Stealing all my possessions,
All my highly flammable household furniture
And I let you.
I watch your flames dance to me and I feel your heat.
And I let you burn me. Enveloped in the pleasure of your flames I burn.
Hot. Desire. Hot.
Until you’ve burnt through it all.
Left my reflection a wobbling photo of grief.
Exhausted. No more oxygen to eat on.
Just C 0 2.
No more me and you.
And I’m just a shell. A frame.
Filled with burnt furniture
And black.
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 8:47 PM UTC
Days at home and I have started hearing things,
My furniture and home appliances seem to talk to me.
My bed says "Come and lie down,
Enjoy tea in me,"
My pillows say,"Hug us,relax everything is going to be fine.
As I entered the kitchen my toaster jumped up to warn me of my wife's mood,
Too late, we started arguing and the vacuum told me to **** it up,
To make matters worse the washing machine put a different spin on everything.
The T.V and my mobile threatened to die if I did not give them rest,
Furious I banged the front door,
The door **** advised me to get a grip,
But the door screamed I was unhinged,
At that my fan soothingly said it would soon blow over,
At last the curtains ordered me to pull myself together.
4/4/2020
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC
mirrors
questing to see
only our face
in their cracked mirages
and shattered dreams
windows
struggling to see through
one another
as we attempt to open
ourselves out to the
frosty winds of the world
doors
locking everyone else out
locking ourselves in
slamming shut
getting slammed shut
drawers
infinitely tall
full of unopened
chests and unsolved puzzles
rusty keys broken
in rustier locks
lights
trying to
glow and glimmer
in the pressing darkness
refusing
to be snuffed out
walls
some graffiti
some paintings
others ***** stains and *****
we are but furniture
used users using
we are but a home
with cracked walls windows mirrors
but we are a home
we are but humans
with broken minds souls hearts
but we are human.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
Our days roll away like dropped coins.
Individual moments are continually lost,
Often never to be reflected upon again.
But the epochs of a full life remain,
Safeguarded by the cushions of our couch,
Waiting for when we are in need of a treat.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
I'm barely at home
There's my wooden furniture
These my plates of chrome
A fridge full of nourishment
My marble dome
But I'm barely at home
I've barely a hearth
This a room of my choosing
That there my land on earth
My book shelf for musing
Amenities for mirth
But barely a hearth
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 11:49 AM UTC
the part of myself that can enable the footstep
after the hovering, land on the rest
slightly angle against the soft covered cotton.
seeing the dust and rocks laying on the softness
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
I got a new desk today,
I thought "HEY!
if I get a new desk
I'll be able to fix this mess!"
I put together the desk,
it wasn't hard,
I didn't sweat.
I put it in my room
and I got upset
because despite the desk
being beautiful and tall
wooden and long
perfect for that corner in my room,
it was not big enough for the clutter
and the mess
and the stress
and all the books and the stuff
that I need around me.
So now I have a desk and my things
and we all float together in my solitude.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 3:18 PM UTC
You are a piece of furniture
Those that are close to you
act like they own you.
You are their "Loyal Subject"
In their "Kingdom"
in which....
They rule you.
One dare to question or rebel to this
and it is you who are disrespectful
and have the face ,in which , on it, they ****
What you own they have a right too.
What they gain is the object.
What you don't
Don't feel sad...
for in "their kingdom"
That's a breaking of a rule
and such...
would be a "way"
"in which you have just traveled"
Justly Right or unjustly wrong....
it is you who must leave them or endure such..
That is - "you must be the one silent and remain much more strong."
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
The rug
Lying underneath your feet;
Been on the ground
So long,
It's stuck to the ground.
The fence
Standing deep, anchored in soil;
**** rooting down
So deep,
It's part of the land.
The frames are clean,
The pictures seem
Like history.
Once upon a time,
I was
More than furniture to us.
But now:
I want you to see me,
Like the door you can open;
I'm more than what's inside your home.
I want you to want me,
Like you used to everyday;
I'm that girl you wanted to make time for when you're alone.
Now, are you not alone?
Is that why
I'm the rug, fence and your furniture?
I know I work from home.
I know I got a lotta things to do.
I know I haven't lived up to the best of expectations.
I'm still that girl you fell in love with.
I dream beyond every bandwidth.
I take my time to really be sure.
I wanna do it without complications.
But I know,
I bore the hell outta you.
With my
Nagging that could turn ears blue.
But I
Promise that I love you baby,
You gotta see me in the light of the truth:
I want you to see me,
Like the door you can open;
I'm more than what's inside your home.
I want you to want me,
Like you used to everyday;
I'm that girl you wanted to make time for when you're alone.
Now, are you not alone?
Is that why
I'm the rug, fence and your furniture?
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
I left Marcus Aurelius on the coffee table,
Stumbled and caught myself in the mirror.
Only to tumble on down through the fridge.
I was seated on air as a guest of honor.
Feed my wisdom, drank my creativity.
Finally breathed in your soul,
As I crawled up the bed to tuck myself next to you.
I sighed and began to dream again.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
Their stares, so cold
I hide my self
hoping
Praying
they don't notice my forgetfulness
I can't stand small spaces
but this is even worse
Empty, cold, and large
My heart on my sleeve
I reach out
Struggling to fill the space
Trying to speak back
I know they're talking to me
But I can never speak back
Why can't I ever fill this space
With the proper furniture of words
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
Hour by hour down the highways,
Minute by minute down the neighborhoods,
Get out tha' truck,
go to the door,
open the back.
Talk to the customer,
bring tha' furniture in:
"where does it go?"
"how do ya' want it?"
In five minutes to an hour your furniture will be in place
for you to love.
How much overtime did you have this week?
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Like the carpet and our bed,
After so many years we've
Memorized each other --
Becoming permamently imprinted.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am your quiet everyday while you are my everything.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
My Fingers Touch...
(an offshoot of an older poem...)
It happens any minute of any day...the empty feeling...the sadness, the grief visit...all are put on hold...yet, they make me realize all the more, grieving isn't over yet...
i think of the ones gone...but, there are people around me, with pressing needs...faces that get bored, but can't be ignored, needing my say and my care.
Mornings, i work around visible reminders...i touch them, i feel them...they take me back, while dusting old furniture,
window sills, and curtain frills.
My fingers touch the old bookshelf, i see Tortilla Flat, Perry Mason,
The Raven, The Virginian
i find myself in a different era.
My fingers touch old framed pictures and photo albums, and i am slowly unburdened, sighing out unwanted energy.
My fingers touch the old bed, the old seal, the old vases...i am saddened, but comforted, by tangible souvenirs.
My fingers touch my temples, and the old memories, old dreams come back... it's the same face with the smile that never fades,
the same one that still shyly reassures me.
Never saw my father, yet he always smiled at me in my dreams.
perhaps, it was his way of telling me, he wasn't physically with me,
yet, he never left me.
despite his absence, he knows me, us, and we know him well.
i felt him closest when going through a dilemma, or when i was ill.
there was this loving presence,
only i can know...i was sure it was him
i miss the comforting warmth of those moments.
My mother had told us more than enough---their love story, dreams and plans cut short
where I got the shape of my face, my nose, my legs...my fingers
even my allergies,
the funny names he called my siblings and I, his funny tales,
his rocking chair
the events when he died...how he died
where he died...what time he died.
We knew him well
through those stories my late mother told us
through those accounts passed down to us by my late aunts
through my dreams that never have faded.
I realized
he was with us, all the way
silently...invisibly
...we never lost him at all...
Sally
Copyright March 28, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Picture your pain in a plastic pouch
Put it away till it’s lost like change in your couch
Maybe you’ll miss all this aching
Maybe you’ll be better for the loss
Maybe you won’t ever really rally past it
Maybe your pain is like plastic
Elastic and ready to snap back on you
Perhaps you can send the couch to the cleaners
Perhaps they will take all the pain you were saving
Wash it in foamy suds or dry clean it
Perhaps you should have just thrown it away
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
Doors open and close.
I am here,
Silent, eyes open, unmoving
Only the steady rise and fall
Separates me
From the inanimate crap cluttering our house.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You see the back of my head
I try to keep myself steady
I hear you turn around
And walk away.
You have better things to do
Than ask why I’m not speaking to you again.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You mention absently that
We need new couches,
You don’t want to continue trying,
And that the toilet needs to be fixed.
I can’t be bothered to fight with you,
After all, the couch isn't objecting to you throwing it away.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
There is a room.
Dark red walls.
Priceless sofas.
Expensive chandeliers.
There is a gun nestled in the arm of a sofa.
There is a cigarette dying on an ash tray.
The lights flicker on and off.
Too quiet.
The man comes in the room.
The girl is waiting.
She is wearing her pale grey dress.
He takes the gun.
And shoots her in the head.
Everything is normal again.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
I hate you with a passion. I hate that I bump into you in the hallways and how i always jam my toe on the side of you, on
your slick lean edges. Along with the time you hid my favorite shirt from me in your stash of collections, where you keep my
notes in your drawer of secrets. Don't let anyone in, close yourself up just like furniture you are. Silence thats all anyone
hears when they walk by you but not me. I can hear your legs creaking trying to keep you up, strong and tall like how you
should be. My mother wants to throw you away but i won't let her. She wants to replace you with a nice cherry wood drawer. But not me. I still adore your creaking legs, and your rusty knobs. I won't let her throw you away, i forgive you for all the splinters you gave me on my feet. I just want you to stay.
sincerly,
Angelica♡
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
when you left
all your belongings was with me
and i don't suppose how that may matter to you
on a Sunday morning in mid-July
but it mattered to me
because all the **** memories were soaked in the couch
and the stupid scent of you is still in the curtains
so i guess what i'm trying to say is
please take your furniture back
(please take me back)
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC