"cardigans" poems
Quick break-up Senryus.
Pick one to quickly, cut that
relationship cord:
I'm sorry, What'd you say?
I can't hear you (confused look)
- we’re breaking up.
You’re the guy that
every girl at our school wants
- it's their lucky day.
It's time that we took
our relationship to the
previous level.
I still cherish the
initial misconceptions
I had about you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Love on the Rocks by Lizzie Mintz
Lovefool by The Cardigans
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Forever by X-Cetra
Sep 5, 2025
Sep 5, 2025 at 9:54 PM UTC
You just can't
compete with
**** Me
boots.
The leather-clad calves
that
whisper "come to bed...
I promise so
many touches"
Cardigans merely dictate
"shoulders maybe...
You so much as peek
at my
collarbones, and you're
done for,
Mister."
Spoken -
Maybe I would
tease...
"Try only,
to kiss
my cheek
because I'm
on the
boring bus"
(and especially
in your Chamber)
Or so you
would suppose.
But inside this
sweater, I'm
a Butterfly.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
Smooth, silky hair tied in a high ponytail
Clear lip gloss
Fingernails painted pale pink
The perfect girl next door
Pastel cardigans and sweaters were her thing
Waking up with red, swollen, puffy eyes
Staring at her reflection in the mirror for hours
And reappearing fresh cuts on her wrist
Yet no one knew the blackness growing darker in her
What's done is done
No way to go back in time
A little attention would've been sufficient to stop it
But to be fair
She got it in the end
As her body laid on the ground
With blood gushing out of her hand
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
#
The Perfect Girl
As most would describe her
Quite, sweet a lovely delight
but be weary boys the perfect girl bites
Short brown hair
with a strange splash of colour
Light blue eyes
that couldn't get any duller
The girl was once pure
An absolute saint
she went to church weekly
Till he covered her with a fresh coat of paint
Warm cardigans and jeans
that was her fashion
until the boy on the pedestal
came into her life crashing
A girl so perfect
was doomed from the start
She fell instantly for him
but he had no heart
Changing her style
and the way that she looked
trying to gain his attention
and surely he was hooked
Low cut shirts
and extremely short shorts
forgetting her bra
and fixing her looks
dropping her grades
and breaking the rules
she became a new girl
but her reputation stood
She was just another game
but only at the start
For somehow pedestal boy
had suddenly grown a heart
A relationship grew
and they both were obsessed
A static connection
that was somehow messed
The tables had turned
and so had her heart
Perfect girl made a choice
Lets be apart.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
Truth is,
I suppose I really would like to be one of those girls
who frollicks in the sun in white dresses
and ballet slipper pink cardigans.
But I can't.
Something inside me fears it,
I don't feel... safe in those colors.
They don't fit me.
I'd like to look like Kalel from Wonderland Wardrobe,
but she's like every other girl,
tiny and naturally cute.
I'm too big to wear those clothes.
I have a big head and big arms
and a long torso
and strong horse legs.
I'd like to be a lady,
cute and sweet,
but I was born unfeminite.
I was born ugly.
A goblin amongst humans.
I'd like to wear my hair like that
and flaunt just like all of them,
but I could never do that,
for I was not made like that.
I wasn't made
for lace and ribbons
I was made for leather and chains
even better, a box,
a cardboard box suits me best
as it'd hide all my features
and keep my hidden from the world.
Phantom of the opera,
I do love the opera,
covering my pig face in a mask
and stumpy body in a black shroud.
I'm doomed to be like this.
I wanted to be like the other girls so bad
but I couldn't
and I started to hate it,
hate those colors
and stupid flowers
and ribbons
and makeup-
because they didn't look good on me,
made me look like a fool.
And now I'm trapped in
black, black,
black,
black
and more black
only ever black
black and bulky
because my body isn't like theirs
and my head is big
and like that of a pig,
so I'm stuck hiding
knowing I'll never be able to wear
white dresses
or those Ballet Slipper Pink cardigans.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
golfers riding mechanical bulls.
puking on street corners.
awkward cops. angry to boot.
***** fights. purple dresses. gold heels.
greasy cheesesteaks.
shuffle board AND bocce ball.
spirit'o'mericuh.
doritos. cool ranch AND nacho cheese.
white and black pin strip cardigans.
breast pumps or sound amplifiers?
****** indie.
photo booth bombs.
hot tea.
cheap whiskey.
expensive cocktails.
sticky icky danky green.
missed shows.
long lines.
wait.
remind me why im here again?
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
You're like a window
Light shines through
But it's dark inside
Cardigans for Curtains
All those lovely shapes, beside
Depending on the weather
Sometimes you're blue (Don't forget I can see through)
Sometimes you're black
Sometimes stars get stuck
Fixation, Oxygen deprivation
Where would we be without you...?
dot, dot, dot, Question
The stars get stuck in the cracks
Obviously a metaphor for your flaws
And these lines/curves/obscurities
of my vision
Help me see you
Prism, dancing, and trying to age like wine
Getting, getting better all the time
Reflect it back
Childhood
Magnolia leaves
Currently being abandoned
Streets
Real Estate
And different Paint
Then College
NOT taking you're money
"Too bad, see you next time honey"
Lanterns and Moths like houseguests
Here to assess the property damage
You are not Real Estate
You are a Window
Light shines through
Ivy like a crown
Curtains like a blanket
You're looking from the corner
Feeling like the abandoned streets
Ex boyfriend like kids throwing stones
their blind, so they usually miss...you're beauty
You may crack, fracture, fractal
But you are Urban
There will be renewal
Here comes the repairman (Not that you need a man)
Band-aids & stickers
Heartache like a stomachache
And he's looking in
There's the Windowsill
Light Shines through
You are more than a Window
But it's dark inside
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Thump Thump.
Butterflies crawl in my chest.
Thoughts swirl around in my head.
I can’t focus or see straight.
This is anxiety.
And it’s not something I
talk about often, though it’s
more common than one might
think, where my heart pounds so
loud and anxious
thoughts threaten to
drown out everything
that makes me,
Me.
You see, my brain sees simple
things incorrectly.
Texts and sometimes the
thought of leaving the
house sends
adrenaline coursing through my
system like
a thousand shots of caffeine
into my bloodstream.
The logical parts of me fled on the
first flight out of town,
leaving me to feel the tremors and
full force tsunami
on the ground.
Anxiety is a lot like love,
but it’s a battle not a dance.
A lifetime, not five minutes.
Unlike love, it’s often violent.
But just like love, it’s quite silent.
Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger.
Like fear, but it lasts longer.
Writing this poem has quelled the
qualms that anxiety often spells.
I wish that I could be honest
about this part of me. But it's
one of those things you’re trained
not to talk about from a young age.
Because unless you’re depressed,
medicated, or heaven forbid
you’re not seeing a therapist,
then it’s not bad enough to qualify.
It’s not big enough to report.
I’m not suffering enough.
But if you could just feel
my heart beating fast.
If you could interpret the swell
of my tell-tale blush.
If you could whisk your fingers
through all of my thoughts.
If you could only
hear all of the things I’m feeling
but can’t quite express.
Then you would know that my
silence is telling.
I may be smiling, but currently I’m
fighting for sanity in my own mind.
The mind I feel is no longer mine.
I’m walking a dangerous
tightrope slope.
My mind is a minefield of poisonous
butterflies.
They threaten to swallow me alive, so
I tread the violence quietly.
I fear when I expose you to this
side of me, you’ll only see anxiety
or that maybe I’m lying.
But anxiety is not me.
I am more than mixed up brain signals.
The rest of me is cardigans in the summer,
because it’s cold inside.
I am mock converse and ponytails and
words on paper,
thoughts poured out,
slowly.
I just feel anxious
Sometimes.
More than normal, actually.
But I’m dealing with it.
And I’m no less me.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.
I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.
I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.
I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
it’ll be shaved legs and summer dresses
without cardigans
sunkissed hair, skin, eyes even
though you’ll never know, I wonder,
would your eyes burst out of their sockets
like rockets
if you saw that much of my skin
under healthy light?
instead of naked in your bed
I’m untouchable,
a fantasy, barefoot in a meadow
skin so wanted
- though she’ll be wearing hers
blatantly and ready
for you to have,
smoking a cigarette she says is her
last
because
‘she’s only smoked three
this week’
she’s proud, sure she is
though you’re not even sure you care at all
and the sun makes the day longer
the moon makes the night as romantic
as Paris
and you’ll get along
even though you don’t smoke
and she doesn’t know what it means
to not need you
and she doesn’t know what it means
when you’re with and crave the skin
of another woman
- like me for instance -
but you’ll get along
like sea turtles or baby pandas playing
under sheets or
spontaneously in your kitchen
weaving breaths
weaving beats
an effortless ******
then heavy sleep
because you two know what it’s like
to know each other that well
yeah,
you’ll get along
for months to come
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Department store leg warmers
sharing the stage with thrift store achievements
candle wax and I can't recognize futuristic defeat.
Here in my corner
red lights, behind plenty of ears and tattoos
cardigans, cardigans galore.
I've seen them all before,
these cardboard cutouts.
Lamp, desk, repeat
lamp, desk, repeat.
I love the view when everything
dissipates into jean and jean and
t-shirt
I was reading when you're pineapple hair scooped
up my conscious mind
behind books and bags,
books and bags and cups.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
I wake day after day with the same lingering dismay of what my life has become & of what is supposedly my fate
synthetic happiness works no longer
& I find the craving for death inside me growing stronger
old habits come again disguised as friends that like me better in cardigans that never let my scars show
this might all go away, maybe after one more blow?
songs and trees and mysteries are not enough to keep me intrigued and the bridge I walk by everyday is so appealing to take a leap and end it once & for all
The idea of living much longer makes my skin crawl
& so I am restless and I get into brawls & succumb to my sadness as it became my downfall
I can never quench it for I don’t have the gall as I hit my head against the wall
Artificial honey used to do the trick you see
a simple lick made me forget my misery
even though it sometimes made me jittery
it was also my only escape
It is my high and it leads me to my low but who cares! The tears always flow
wether I’m joyful or filled with woe
this illness sits on my shoulder like a crow
& I have to accept that I am shackled and it truly has me baffled that I can only set myself free by slitting my wrists or drowning in a sea.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
I am a rare breed. I'm a soft breeze in the very beginning of fall. The little orange leaf that's fallen off the branch of a forty foot tall tree. I am cardigans and ginger hair braided back with a little daisy chain tucked behind my ears. I am the smell of a new book right if the shelf of Barns And Nobel. I am the leather bound journal used for writing down the secrets God shares with His children. I am twinkly lights hung around white walls. A sweet smelling candle and warm pumpkin pie.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Decorum is corrupt, decorum is dead, the books we told were good
have all been read.
Fitzgerald has been bled dry by institutions, teachers and those guys in
red chrome cardigans.
Those Pennine walks have turned to drunken talks in the eaves of the night,
high above conscious thought and the cold glow candle light
The long haul flights back to the heavenly sight of tyre black
tarmac have become tedious meditations;
though those lamentations still exist within my wrists,
a yearning for your riverside kiss.
Bus journeys along roads and routes I already knew are
changing without consultation,
it’s temporary probation, an experimentation, a test
of time well spent.
Time well spent in ground floor, high rent, properties,
fading away into a slack attitude disease.
Needles and fluid, *** and Cupid won’t lift you from this
perpetual stall,
nor will anything at all; though maybe plans scribbled down on
napkin edge corners will.
With thought, white paper vertices can quickly become
mountain range peaks.
Throw politeness out of your transport’s window
and become a widow to the road,
black veil eyes, cold and grainy, lost in your endeavour
to find somewhere new to feel safe and clever.
Take those books that you thought were good to tear
into the new prose of the year.
Rip title pages and dedication pages and index pages
from the spine
and throw them in the air
to make a new line of literature and pain.
Take also your pencils and strip them of
their back bone lead
and shave them into clean kindling for fire start
shavings for a warmer lonely camp bed.
It’s there and then, in your fake polyester,
four season sleeping bag womb
that’ll you’ll experience the darkened tomb
of unbound freedom.
But like paragraphs of small print found in the back of the squint-again-magazines,
freedom comes at a price, as if long hair and lice or poverty and bedroom escapade vice.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
You, with your cookbooks and cardigans
And me, with my pretzels and poetry
Together occupy a tiny space in this great big world
Your fire melts me and my cold tempers your flame
And together we evaporate
leaving behind nothing but traces of your love for me
and mine for you.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
The blackberries be coming.
Thorny brambles being fruity.
In shades and tones of ruby red, gooseberry green and mauve,
shiny in late summer sun.
In spite of a little the summer sun, a sure fire sign that summer's done.
An odd day dons a beach umbrella, a sun hat and a deck chair.
The coming in of autumn slowly,
Provocative of cardigans and rain hats.
Here we go,
All fall down.
Anyone fancy a crumble or pie.
Spite the end of summer days.
Smack autumn in the eye.
There be bonus upon the yield be given from the hedgehog bush.
(c)LIVVI
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:34 AM UTC
Did you know they pay people to study here,
to stay here after studying? It’s the human
capital flight of the tech-smart who type faster
than an entire room of secretaries in cardigans and pearls.
But the bigger question is, if all the brains
are draining out like spiders in a shower, then who is still here
weighting the state lines down with stones
if not zombies? Brainless bodies hungry, crabby, and without
an appropriate sense of boundaries.
They lure you in
with home values and cheap houses—the tired ones
who are getting old for their age, who don’t run as fast or as often
and want an easy life with chubby children and a yard,
or those who are sick of being felt up ‘accidentally’ on the 22 Fillmore bus.
This is how they get you.
And you stay because it grows on you
the way everything grows in Indiana, effortlessly and way too fast.
Plus, let’s face it, you’ve gotten lazy and don’t
make enough money to one day move away
with the kids and the yard and all.
So the zombies win.
But being Indiana,
the neo-conservatists would swoop in to save the day
against the zombies who hate us for our freedoms
and the liberation of our women. And sometime after
the "Mission Accomplished" banner is broadcast
to all 50 states from a ship safely tucked away
on Lake Michigan,
the zombies will regroup again
and pick us off like old ladies at the bus station.
Then with even more determination and hatred of the living
they’ll get fat on intellect until they’ve eaten the last,
and the un-dead of Indiana will die of starvation.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
My English teacher told me that my sentences didn't have enough commas. Sounds to me like she just needs some looser cardigans. I just want Swarovski crystals and silk pajamas. I want nice bed sheets and curtains. Preferably white and lacy. I want a nice little part time desk job that's only a few days a week. you see, I'm actually a good writer, but it's not straight A's on essays that I seek.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
The cardigans have invaded Carnegie Hall
Flickering in the reflection of an antique disco ball
The piano keys tremble in fear
Of the beauty no one will hear
Dulled out through a clash of commotion
Rumbling in the raging ocean
Stomping their feet in senseless rhythm
Leaving wayward elbows to cause a schism
The violins bellow noise
The band play with their toys
Everyone seems perfectly content
Forgetting how much money they spent
Waiting for one lasting memory.
Something akin to 'Discovery'
Then as the precipice reaches the sun
A fire alarm cause everyone to run.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
*actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the ******** as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.*
yeah, i believe in meow-meow land,
that's the country next to la-la-land...
where you're trying to sterilise
yourself in terms of organic
historicity and integrate yourself
in terms of inorganic sterilisation
via importing alien values to hush
the monogamy crescendo of failure.
with the irish telling you:
ain't no english...
and with scots you shout back:
there's no thing as to be treated impossible
whether in thought about or moved!
the irish want you to have a coarse
enough accent as them so you can be belittled...
i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted ********
and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender
kilt loving twirly girl of a music box
of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak
for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
it's abut 9pm and I decide I don't want to be alone
there was a car crash earlier that day up west towards Salida--
some Kansas man who was killed by a driver trying to pass
in the right lane, declared deceased on scene, another man
from Monument who was air-lifted to St. Thomas Moore,
no critical injuries.
I tend to ask God for these big signs, signs that I'll recognize. I tell him
that they need to be something I'll notice because you know me, sometimes I can't hear you. Anyway, signs, crashes. A Kansas man died. It's 9pm and I pull on some jeans and leave the house.
I'm supposed to be at a rodeo dancing, but maybe I wasn't supposed to be there after all. I have this white dress in my closet that you can't even see, tucked between everything else because it's so thin, lays flat beneath the aztec smocks and cream cardigans. I take it out and brush it off, thread my fingers through the open lace--
10pm. When I breathe soft enough the stars look like they're hanging on strings, like I could reach up and snap them off,
they'd be no bigger than dew drops on a spider web
so light they'd drift up in the night breeze and
set up in my own natural atmosphere.
What good would it have done me to be there? I only ask
myself to assuage the warm fear i've been feeling since Friday
night, a lingering umbrage I did not think would stay--
I can see the white stitches in my jeans that look
like they're glowing,
smells like rain out here.
I wish I was out at Chaffey
for a quick moment, enveloping
someone else in this chanel perfume
makin' someone else envious of the
way another man got to spin me out--
I'm trying to be all these people at once, an
audience of crowd pleasers piled into one body
It's so quiet, I'm so quiet up on the sideways knoll in
Florence, tired of letting people down easy off the sidewalk
curb and being tossed off the bridge over the state highway myself,
I can't help it, I want to say aloud.
I can't help that I am this way, collected.
calm in hearty hysterics, anxious to tell
you about how I've been fixed,
that warm fear growin' hotter
a coal for every man who suggested
I be less than who I am by pourin' more
into my cup,
I'm trying. I'm trying.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
O hear! i listen the winters walk
They come here with their serene talk
To make us lethargic as they knock
But i love the chilly blow
Dat blows around and makes us glow
The rosy cheeks and red nose
Ah! Wait around as now sneezing goes
Fullsleeves enter as my cardigans rowed
My blankets go fat as fluffy as my cat
Adieu summer as i welcome winter
O hear! I listen the winter walk
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
I miss you
You always smelled like flowers
Like a woman
I wanted that scent
so I could breathe it in every day and feel you
picture you
put in on and become you
I still want to become you
You're perfect
Your ***** blond hair
Your moon-shaped glasses
Your shoulder bag
Your salads
Your smile
Your quick wit
Those rebellious ears that stick out
Just like you do
In a crowd
The freckles and tiny hairs on your arms
Your slim fingers
So perfect
So immaculate
So precise
Your forest green cardigans and white dress shirts
Your tweed jacket and pants
Your ancient blackberry
Your voice
Smooth as milk and honey
Your exercises
Your books
Your mind
Your ring
Which you no longer wear
What do divorced men do with their rings?
Do they make love to them?
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC