"boxers" poems
blue,sports,boxers,
stereotypes
girls wear blue
I wear boxers and currently am identified as a female
girls play every sport and any sport they want
everyone is different
so **** stereotypes!
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because the world around me is ending in my mind
slowly fading into something without meaning
until I cannot breathe and I have to leave
to go cry in the bathroom.
When I am in my statistics class I cannot focus
because there is a boy there who looks like my favorite **** star
I know what his ***** looks like
or might look like
Schrödinger's **** in a box.
I cannot help but stare at him and
picture him in gym shorts and no boxers
or cargo pants and no boxers
or just in boxers
or.
It's an uncomfortable feeling of morbid intrigue that
makes me tap my toes too fast.
I want to know him.
I want to tell him that
I love the way he smiles
and laughs and communicate s
and makes sure everyone is safe and happy.
I can only watch **** that has behind-the-scenes features.
It's comforting to know that
everyone is happy and
everything is consensual and
everyone is having fun.
I get too invested in these people, too attached -
One time I had to give up
and take a moment to breath
because I was just so overwhelmed with pride
Like a parent watching their kid graduate after all their hard work.
And that feeling is not okay.
And seeing that boy in my class is not okay,
Because I feel so proud of all he's accomplished
So when he answers a question right in class all I can think about is
When he ****** a **** on camera for the first time
And the first time he licked whipped cream off another man's *******
And it's very distracting.
When I am in statistics I cannot focus
because I start to worry that I will fail this class
and then I start to worry that I will hate my future
and then I worry about having a future in the first place,
bunching up into an unfocused, panicking, asthmatic mess.
The **** star boy is a distraction.
It's because of him that I'm passing this class.
( and in a way, a stupid, silly way,
it's because of him that I'm alive. )
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
The doctor sat before me
Said "Take your trousers off"
She reached inside my boxers
"now , turn your head and cough"
I thought this little grabfest
With her hand upon my kit
Was a little south of normal
But, I stood and did my bit
She asked me a few questions
And now me....getting rather terse
Said" I went through this already"
"out front talking to the nurse"
"I'm not sure what you're doing"
"And I do not think it's right"
"Get your hand out of my trousers"
"I'm just here to fix the light!"
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
she wasn't cute,
she was alluring.
she wore that chanel no five
and said that she only wore perfume to bed
but if you saw her nights,
you'd see her in her older brother's boxers
and a tank top with a few holes.
and her little harmless lies
were ****
weaving their separate ways through
all sense that you ever had.
she was beautiful, in all the ways that
a person cannot be.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I think about the face of a woman
and her smooth skin
soft lips
the curvature of the Earth is kin to her hips
I feel humanity suffering needlessly
beneath her cells
as I wander her valleys and sand-dune hills
she is the beach
the ocean
the calling of many gulls screaming for food and
I love her white *******
But she is sneaky
and cares for me
caressing is painful
I see it in my own eyes the next day
when the smudgy bruises flit across my reflection
But men understand
without either of us speaking a **** word
we drive
we shout
we catcall
we game
the music takes us and we run for days
doing nothing
anything
and i guess sometimes we ****
Succinct and supernatural
Brawn or brown skin or bright ideas gone awry
always a good day with the gang or the bros
I feel safer in the hoods
I want her to notice me, and to shyly skip over like she did last week
i want to kiss her neck and pull back
soon enough to catch her half-lidded gaze into the abyss behind me
I want to wear boxers and treat her to fancy dinners
But
I want to be her
I want taste a mustache
I want to be lifted overhead like a little sister
and brought back to the earth with sweet
exploration
Impossibility
I want women and men to be the same thing
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
If I could manage to swallow
that growing sense of dread between my
shivering, pale lips, then it would
be much easier to take the lead.
Would I be free of emotional instabilities
the moment my boxers slipped to the floor?
Is that how this works? Where do my hands
even go in the first place?
If I could make my eyes flicker closed
as you lean in to steal my breaths by
means of unwelcome inquiry, perhaps
my heart would cease lamenting.
I could probably say all I wanted in the matter
and plead my case, but when society's the prosecutor,
chances are my legs would be required to stay
open 24/7, like a convenience store.
I'm sorry. I can't fix this, it's not something to be
fixed. I've failed as a basic human and cannot function
without regrets and anger. Besides, there are nicer
sorts around. Find them instead.
Remove your hands from my chest, your mouth from
my mottled shoulder. This is a convenience store that
never opens.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.
He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.
Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.
He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
This isn't going to be much of a poem, just a thought; something that I was thinking about today.
I was asked if it was weird to have dated my ex, since he was 5'5, one inch shorter than I am. And you know what, I've dated professional go-kart racers, jujitsu gold medalists and kick boxers, yes, all much taller than I am, however, none of them made me feel as safe as my 5'5 hockey player did. So the answer to that question, which actually surprised me as well, is no. It was not weird. It was not anything but another relationship, with another boy, who proved to be much more than how tall he was. Height does not matter to me and I don't see it ever mattering because he made me feel just as loved as someone twice his size could have. And even though he turned out to be a complete **** head, that was not because of his small size, that was because he was, and is, a ****** person. Case closed.
By Chloe Elizabeth
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
My trans body brings me joy,
My trans body brings me tears.
Everyday I put my binder on,
I am equal parts overjoyed,
And stood there in pain.
Joy in hiding from the world,
What I wish to be gone.
Pain in knowing that each day,
They will still be there.
Each time I cut my hair,
Each time I'm called handsome,
Each time I wear boxers,
Each time I wear cologne,
My trans body bring me joy.
Each time I'm called 'she',
Each time I'm on my period,
Each time I look at my *******
Each time I'm called 'she'.
My trans body brings me tears.
But each day,
My voice is deeper,
My period is no more,
My smile is bigger,
My skin glows.
My trans body brings me joy.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC
I fell out of the top bunk once
completely naked
right onto the linoleum floor
of your dorm room,
praying that your roommate
wouldn't roll over and see my ***
at 3a.m.
I quietly crawled back up to you.
You cradled my spine,
I'm never letting you go again, I promise.
I told you I was fine,
so we both started laughing.
I had to cover your mouth
or else you'd wake the whole floor up.
You blare Kanye West from your speakers
when you're signing checks
or finishing that last math problem,
and I'll just sit next to you and grab
a piece of scrap paper to doodle on
while asking you stupid questions
just because I want to get you talking again.
Sometimes you take it out on me, but
sometimes we have cereal after ***
You spoon feed me while I sit on your lap
in just our underwear
gasping when the cold milk
drops on our skin--
fruit loop kisses
and detangling my hair with your fingers.
I wear your Polo pull-over backwards
to the boys bathroom sometimes
just because it's closer to your room
and because my name is no secret anymore.
And on Sunday's I fold your laundry
on a gray blanket I lay overtop my ***** carpet,
because I love the smell of clean boxers
and you don't know how to iron dress shirts right.
But you kiss me with your mouth open,
and you hold me when I fall asleep,
and you're all I want to wake up to.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
It wouldn’t be her birthday without a gift
She won’t look hard to find what it is
I can see it in her eyes that she’s ready for it
Her gift is wrapped in my boxers
Come and unwrap it love.
Sep 20, 2024
Sep 20, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC
My sister is a quarterback
I rarely catch a pass
and she can run a marathon
I soon run out of gas
she pitches for her baseball team
I pop up on her curve
and she's an ace at tennis
I can't return her serve
My sister dunks the basketball
I dribble like a mule
she swims like a torpedo
I flounder in the pool
she's accurate at archery
I hardly ever score
She wrestles and she boxers
I wind up on the floor
My sister catches lots of fish
I haven't had any luck
she's captain of her hockey team
I can't control the puck
her bowling's are unbelievable
I bowl like a buffoon
she says someday I'll start to win...
I hope someday is soon
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
***** moisten, ******* wet.
Petite round **** ******* swollen stiff.
**** hard and fully ***** his girth is thick.
Long length, curved at the tip; tight fit.
Silk boxers on the floor, ******* next.
Naked bodies, both so magnificent.
Slippery, silky smooth tongue slid,
up and down her slit.
Lips pressing her hood.
Under it, her exposed clit,
glistens with spit,
Hot breath and warm licks
encircling her tip.
She's rolling her hips,
to the beat of the tongue licking it.
Fingers gripping her long ******* pink.
Twisting her nips, then pinched
squeezing them numb,
between his fingers and thumb.
her moans, turned high pitched
Tongue flicking, ******* as he rubs,
She tugs on his pulsating Dick.
Waves of pleasure whip through his core,
ending at his tip.
Just as quick,
******* rip, through her thick hips;
As he cums.
Her tension shifts,
from her stomach,
to the core of her hips.
Her creamy silk liquid drips,
fluids flowing, fingers sliding,
between her ***** lips.
He licks his lips clean,
cleaning off her salty drips.
Body frozen stiff,
She's shuddering;
spasms of orgasms,
riveting her hips.
He lays at her side,
her wild side subsides,
she's relishing the fix.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
there was a kangaroo he just loved to box
so he had a match with his friend the fox
they built a big square ring like the boxers do
then they stepped inside to go a round or two
now the match was on and the bell began to sound
kangaroo hit fox he fell down to the ground
fox he got up again to have another go
but kangaroo was fast and fox was way to slow
fox was getting tired and decided he would quit
back into his corner where he went to sit
fox he threw the towel in and called it for the day
then shook hands with roo in a sporting way.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
Lazy me.
Still in last night's Rust Never Sleeps T and boxers. Unshaven. Hair pointed in cardinal directions while blue sky frowns down upon me for smokin' up its air.
Mockingbirds playing the guess me game again. Bluebird splashes in the bath giving me a subtle hint.
Mr. Cardinal and Blue Grosbeak
compliment each other on their choice
of colors.
Yellow and Orange daylilies compete
in their own beauty pageant while hibiscus shares her flowers with bees.
Humminbird humming a happy song.
My sweet mutt Daisy is embarrassed to be sitting out here beside me.
Time to go in and let nature bask again.
r ~ 6/15/14
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
He watched as I 'slept",
seems as if my chest is rising and falling in tune
as he breathed deeply through parted lips.
He shed his clothes and,
wearing only his boxers,
he stretched out alongside me.
He trailed a finger down my cheek,
my neck,
caressing every inch of my body
He bent his head to nuzzle my smooth COLD skin,
flicking my ear with his tongue.
A soft moan escaped his lips.
A single tear slides down my face.....
No One Can Hear Me!
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
there’s a hole in your sheet
just large enough for my arm
to tuck away under the cotton
& above the swollen, wet mattress.
you smell of *** and confidence;
the lamplight glistens on your skin.
tracing the scars on your skin
until they’re white as a sheet,
i gently kiss each one, confident
that you will return them. armed
with love you leave the mattress,
our fortress of white billowy cotton.
as you reach for your cotton
boxers, i marvel at your skin.
left alone on the lumpy mattress,
i cover myself with the sheets,
exposing just my face and arms.
i love watching you walk; confidence
seeps out of your pores. confidence
i can touch under the cotton
when i’m wrapped inside your arms,
flesh to flesh skin to skin
together for hours under the sheets,
our own world on this mattress.
i feel secure on this mattress
knowing i can always confide in
you. rain’s coming down in sheets,
soaking the plants hidden by cotton.
you return with shiny drenched skin,
soaked roses bundled in your arms.
wiping my tears with my arm,
i leap up from the mattress,
the thorns have pierced your skin.
i pull them out with confidence
and lead you to the cotton
where we’ll play under the sheets.
on this mattress we’re both confident.
my arm tucks away beneath the cotton
skin to skin under the sheets.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
there was a kangaroo he just loved to box
so he had a match with his friend the fox
they built a big square ring like the boxers do
then they stepped inside to go a round or two
now the match was on and the bell began to sound
kangaroo hit fox he fell down to the ground
fox he got up again to have another go
but kangaroo was fast and fox was way to slow
fox was getting tired and decided he would quit
back into his corner where he went to sit
fox he threw the towel in and called it for the day
then shook hands with roo in a sporting way.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 11:27 AM UTC
Sunday-empty Auckland my pre-breakfast escape,
Sheep-spotted mountains in early morning mist,
Whangarei marina for a cauldron of cappuccino.
Shop of metal sheep starts a day of Kiwi weirdness,
Of customer requesting glassblowing lessons, and
“All Blacks” silk boxers, unworn by players I hope.
Driving to Dargaville for Mr. M. Ujdur museum treat,
That late gum-digging, Esperanto teaching, vintner.
Beside a colossal collection of accordions with muzak,
Playing an instrument-impossible Whiter Shade of Pale,
Plus coins and buttons and stamps and Scotsmen,
Left feeling stunned, like I was tripping on acid.
The possum cull with prizes seemed almost normal.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
nippy thursday outside
black berry clusters gather
in their dark matter conclaves
silent is the August essence
it’s morning and it’s laundry day
got only your boxers on
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
Just as the pyramids would,
In the deserts of Cairo,
Snow-capped mountains gleam distant,
As if Kings on the Main.
This distance complete,
Through the eyes of the beholder,
As from a sea-sided office,
We with watch with wonder lust.
Bright streetlights,
And red lights, and green lights,
And stop signs,
As decadent name-change,
Perceives as if older,
As bigger, as bolder.
Musicians and artists,
Poets and Marxists,
Authors and boxers,
All convene to sing songs,
As egalitarianism,
Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby,
As the idea to be grasped,
In this young mind of mine.
They call this no small town,
In which not one arcade resides;
Gun crime is never,
In percent, as we ride,
A wave of communal,
Small-town "world peace,"
We'll take some money,
Off the governments lease.
In a sense we are distant,
Different, contesting,
A world which conforms,
As if all can and will be,
A slave to a master,
Sociopathic disaster,
As we run faster and faster,
Away from that stream.
We are the masters of our fate,
As we rate the world's hate,
On a scale from 1 to 10.
We are secluded,
Yet unconfused, not diluted;
We are more aware of this world,
Than it is of itself.
We set the sidelines,
As guidelines to life,
As we watch with some bias,
As we remain neutral to strife.
We are the Power,
And we are the River,
Ripped from the main-stream,
We create; we are free.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC