"checkbook" poems
Falling in love is dangerous. For when you fall in love, you pay a price. A price so unrealistic that you simply cannot pull out your checkbook and write down "here is my everything, please handle with care, very fragile" and expect it to cover the debt. No. You give your heart and your soul. Your mind is always cluttered with thoughts of them. Your body tingles when you hear their voice. You become addicted and you expect more and more, so you keep paying until one day, there's nothing left. You're completely theirs and your definition of home…begins with their name.
And just thinking about that is terrifyingly beautiful. Something could happen, and all that will be left of you are tears and a cracked voice to match the holes that cover the walls. Now there is no place to call home, you gave them everything. Someday you will be asked the question of what they returned and you'll reply: "they gave enough to make it seem like a lifetime of happiness, and more importantly, that feeling of love…was infinite."
In the end, there would be pain and you knew this, but you still them your all. You are stronger than you think and believe me when I say you will regain your all back.
Falling in love is dangerous, but you cannot stop it, you cannot slow it down, and you cannot escape it. So it's understandable to be scared, but just know it's okay to take that fall…especially for him.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
There was a woman with an ecclesiastic body.
I found out I was just one member of its congregation.
She was a soothsayer when the lights were down,
When she proved she was a succubus -
But what the **** I've never been a saint.
She put the screws to me.
She used to belong to another man.
Now she's putting me through my paces.
If I had paid attention to the signs,
I could have seen my fate before it happened.
There was this dude I knew who was hard pressed.
I thought I might could offer him a place to crash for awhile,
So he could get his **** together.
Apparently demons have an appetite for gutter ****
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It was just a reminder,
Cause it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
There are accusations to bring me down,
It's like I'm already dead.
They throw down their gauntlets,
They make every pledge.
I don't trust a word they say.
They're liers and deceivers.
All they want is whatever they can get.
They prey on fools and their believers.
They'll prophesy, then pass you by
Unless you've got an edge,
The dusty demons, dryer than a dessert segde.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
She never failed to cause me woe.
But, I'm not an innocent soul.
I guess what goes around,
Comes back around.
When it's harvest time, they'll know,
They done ****** with the wrong one.
Everybody reaps what they sow.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell
There is no such thing as kindness here.
I'll save troubles for another day,
They only multiply.
The more I see, the more I know
That strumpets belong with urchins.
They never will know,
Until they are each other's paroxysm,
But even then, they won't care.
No good deed is without a price to pay.
They took a ride in my ride,
And didn't forget my checkbook.
They didn't neglect to clean my house
Of nearly everything inside.
It's just a reminder, but it really ain't no surprise.
That there's a burning lake
And gnashing on flesh,
Yeah, it's nothing but any empty, cold black well.
It's a Godless place,
You're on your own.
There ain't no honor among thieves.
Remember this,
There are no friends in Hell.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
My Father's mother wrote me a check
And though she has a checkbook
with her name on it
From four years ago,
She sent me the decadent sum
of twenty-five dollars
On a slip of paper with a name
that was of her husband,
My Father's Father,
And still is.
When I look at this check pinned to my wall
I am reminded of the man,
The eighteen-wheeling man,
And how a few years ago I was afraid
and unamused
So I did not peek into his open casket.
It was a year since I had seen him,
And 'goodbye' escaped my lips (which were sealed
incredibly) until he was lowered.
I hope he went to heaven; if he did not
I am sure I will say 'hello'
After I cash this check,
But not yet.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Ever since I can remember, Barbara has been coming to our home
With her poofy hair and her powdered cheeks, all in a cloud of pink perfume.
She would speak in the fragile, broken voice of a woman well beyond her years,
And Mother would beckon her cheerfully to sit at the table in our dining room.
With whatever coffee was in the *** and whatever Danish found,
Mother would prepare the table and invite my older sister and I to gather round.
From noon to three they’d gab and chat and flip through the catalogues
That Barbara the Avon Lady had brought.
My sister and I would thumb through glossy, vibrant pages
Of blushes and eye shadows, eyeliners and mascaras.
But I, I would thumb quickly and tire even faster
At the conversation of the table that awaited me, inevitably, after.
With feigned interest, I would sit there a bit
And watch as my older sister would, more patiently, fake it.
I’d grab a cookie and then leave
Mother with her checkbook and her bitter black coffee,
Barbara with her perfume cloud and cheeks all porcelain powdery,
And my sister, with her blonde hair, which was just like mine,
But which tried, much harder to grow much faster.
Yes I would flounce away with my neck-length locks,
And go play with my younger brother.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
That silly flood made me
Tread all the way down
Here.
Political pensions over.
Spent on pens and ties.
Bipartisanship is basically
A commandment now. They’re
Only there because they have to be, I say.
They would send relief,
Should I wait a week so the
Check don’t bounce? I
Know how that goes. They
Got a profit on us anyway.
They’re checkbook turned to
Chicken scratch, more like chicken ****
We’ll see how that goes.
At least I got time to locate
My house that floated off its
Hinges a few miles south.
*Note: these next poems I’m posting are going to be more political because it’s a project I am writing for a conference.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
the thing they don't mention
the thing they don't want
you
or the person with the
checkbook to know is
after it gets better
it always gets
worse.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
I'm all spent
No, really
It's just that one boy wanted my love and one wanted my virtue
But I'm not sure which boy wanted what
All I know is that I'm all spent now
I mean,
I gave all my love to the first boy
And looking back
It seems all he wanted were kisses
And the second boy
Well
You can guess some of the things I gave him
But looking back
It seems that all he wanted was words of affection that kisses can't buy
I can only assume
I mean, I wasn't very good at balancing my checkbook when it all started payrolling out like this
All I know is that I'm staring at the bank account and realizing
I have nothing left to give anyone anymore
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
The grim reaper is collecting,
Cigarette butts on your doorstep.
I bet you're wishing you could adjust the angle,
That you see your insides from.
I see all the frills,
That you can't live without.
I see all the signs of your demise,
In your little checkbook.
She thinks she's a killer.
Do the stigmas hit you hard,
When you smoke with her, baby?
She's bleeding alcohol when you crush her.
I am even lesser.
I dare you.
Step down to my level,
So that we're both trying ourselves.
How ungrateful of me,
To see another truth,
And hide it out of sight.
Unfaithful to myself.
Always gasping in my sleep,
"You, it's you."
I'm living on the other side,
While your riches die.
But this moment is golden.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
We see life in the subways.
On the playground.
In the garden.
Even in space, on planets covered in hostile frozen water.
But all of it is wrapped in parcels.
Nobody knows what a microrganism is thinking.
Me, I like to imagine what
they'd say.
Stories about the bag lady,
wearing a quilted poncho, once a blanket,
clutching a bag with a drawing of a lion peeking out of the top.
How did she land?
I stare into strangers eyes,
imagining how they'd feel next to me in bed.
If their hair would be soft if it accidentally brushed my arm.
Does the lost looking girl balance her checkbook in her head,
or did her boyfriend leave her last night? Did she remember to pay rent?
Did the bus driver eat breakfast this morning.
If only I could ask.
What prevents us from pricking the thin casings of our fleshy balloons.
We walk around in bubbles, draw lines around us.
Somehow everyone got the memo not to toe those.
Even the three year old, flicking his eyes up fearfully to you,
then his mother, when she pulls him too fast in the market
and his hand bumps your market basket.
In-scripted on our genes, and
woven into our jeans.
Nature briefs nurture.
They have lunch together, just before babies are born.
Then the stork kisses them on their tiny little foreheads.
They scream because that's just
too young to have to absorb all those rules.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 10:22 PM UTC
he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer's disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were
operations, radiation
treatments
which decayed the bones in his
jaw
which then had to be
wired.
daily he put his wife in
rubber diapers
like a
baby.
unable to drive in his
condition
he had to take a taxi to
the medical
center,
had difficulty speaking,
had to
write the directions
down.
on his last visit
they informed him
there would be another
operation: a bit more
left
cheek and a bit more
tongue.
when he returned
he changed his wife's
diapers
put on the tv
dinners, watched the
evening news
then went to the bedroom, got the
gun, put it to her
temple, fired.
she fell to the
left, he sat upon the
couch
put the gun into his
mouth, pulled the
trigger.
the shots didn't arouse
the neighbors.
later
the burning tv dinners
did.
somebody arrived, pushed
the door open, saw
it.
soon
the police arrived and
went through their
routine, found
some items:
a closed savings
account and
a checkbook with a
balance of
$1.14
suicide, they
deduced.
in three weeks
there were two
new tenants:
a computer engineer
named
Ross
and his wife
Anatana
who studied
ballet.
they looked like another
upwardly mobile
pair.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
returning home from an evening out,
I'm in bed never later, than 5 minutes after,
which never fails to provoke a
"How can u be in bed so fast?"
same reply, every time,
got you women, got you girl,
to do the nighttime girlie stuff,
so you can kiss your fast asleep man,
a tender good nite...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
puttering punches
woke up energized,
called to muster,
dishwasher emptied,
the fresh grape vine scissored
into manageable bite size clusters,
coffee machine oiled and coiled,
fresh beans and water, dregs downloaded,
if we had a lawn,
I'd rake the invisible leaves
she later arrives,
sees my puttering efforts,
cowgirl mounts me to squeeze the bejesus outta me,
then punches me in the arm
to express her unmeasured pleasure
as is her wont,
me, don't say nuttin', just smilin'
cause I kinda punched first...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
paid bills
paid some bills this morning,
the kind that don't come in the mail,
but eyes read and and the heart knows,
these are dues you need paying,
no questions asked,
no answers given,
checkbook lighter,
but then again,
so is the heart,
the day starts well,
maybe even the year,
a lighter start
for the new year..
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
"Penny for your thoughts?"
You haven't the change.
Too many to count
And it's not worth the asking amount.
Faded shadows of whispering accounts
Surely your cash could be spent on something more wise
Something more tender
Something more kind.
Bills would stack with each word that came out
I'd put you in debt and without an allowance at all
If you keep asking that question, love.
How about a wishing well?
It takes the jingle of jangling coins
Without asking any questions.
Wishes are worth paying for.
Toss it in
Close your eyes
Tell no one
Or else the wish won't come to life.
Make it a surprise.
Unless you have a *** nickel
Fake currency is illegal
Pay me in jest just to tune out the rest.
You only asked to fill the silence.
And when you're gone and I suddenly see
My payment of my words to you
Was just a big rip off to me.
Take my secrets to the grave?
That's easy to do when you weren't listening anyways.
I know how that game is played
Giving to charity with the smallest amount paid.
Resolving it to be a decent trade.
You could have just looked behind the drawer
Between the couch cushions
In the cracks of the floor.
Your not so ******* poor
To pay the price of paying attention for a minute or more.
And those who have good till to pay
Emptying bank accounts just to hear what I have to say
I tell them all to put their checkbook away.
I'm fine
There's nothing on my mind today.
Here
Have some of my spare change
Let me put it in the jukebox in your brain.
Say whatever you need to say.
You'd tell me for free but you know I'll pay anyways.
Just a little something to get by
Here's a penny for your thoughts
You need it more than I.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Solving for the x. Step by step
Time is clocking theres no time for any misstep
Thought I had been getting ready for these arithmetics
But now I feel like in anesthetics. Maybe it aint in my genetics
These mathematics got me feelin dumb
Aint got energy to solve. Ive been feeding myself of crumbs, been livin in a slum
Aint easy to have the mind in the equations when everything else is off
Balancing these numbers dont go so peasy when all I want to do is tell the world to **** off
Because who cares about this x when theres no money in the checkbook
I got more problems than the chapters in this textbook
Hoping all this senseless calculations will improve my situation
But waiting for the future is hard when Im living on a ration
Been working all my hours in exchange for some dollars
All of this cause my momma said the only ones that make it are the scholars
But the work I put in seems to be less than the money I receive.
And it all goes away to the bills. Got barely any left to live.
Divide the provisions and multiply the meals
Make sure that tonights dinner is a bit more than beans
Hope that my body has had enough proteins to keep all this going on
Because it seems my mind is about to shut down. Dont know if I can find the answer you were hoping for.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC
you're like a little checkbook
i pull out blanks
and write
"three, four, five kisses"
signed
michelle
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
There’s magic in my coffee cup,
and laundry folded and put up.
My shirts are hanging fully pressed
ready for me when I get dressed.
My checkbook’s balanced, the bills get paid,
the carpet’s vacuumed, the bed is made;
there’s food in the kitchen and the bathroom’s clean,
the trash is emptied and the plants are green.
And at the start of every day
with a magic kiss I’m on my way.
And as the day draws to a close
your magic touch can curl my toes.
In days filled with joy or strife
You are the magic in my life.
I know on this I can depend –
you'll make the magic happen.
© 2011 Michael S. Davis
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
I do not believe in any greater being calling the shots
I do not believe in any exterior Heaven or Hell.
In the end, The Great End, will it be taken into account that I can balance a checkbook?
That I have the astonishing ability to give you the electron configuration of an element?
I do not believe these are things with which to be wasting what precious time we are allowed.
We should be living. Truly living.
Yet, it should be taken into account that "living" has a different definition to each person.
To some, living is simply keeping your blood rushing and lungs inhaling
But what good are veins if you cannot feel excitement overpowering blood?
What good are lungs if from time to time, they are not left barren from pure beauty?
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Five summers, four lovers
and three checkbooks ago,
I've been here, as I am today.
Same corner, same shade of gloomy day,
and about the same volume of falling rain,
still a one-call-away favorite friend of pain.
Only now I am much more
clever and conniving,
more calculating
and dare I say,
more frightening.
My approaching steps are the pitter-patter
of the storm starting,
the thundering warning of my arrival
is Manila's hour rushing.
Words from my lips
are news you'd rather miss,
however I can't say the same
about my infamous kiss.
I am older, and longer are my to-do lists.
My patience is longer,
but my heart no longer sighs or beats.
Aug 7, 2023
Aug 7, 2023 at 4:50 AM UTC
i miss you with an urgency that demands attention during even the most mundane of daily activities.
you are among the leafy greens in the grocery store
and between the cracks in the pavement
you waft from my morning coffee and
carry the one in my checkbook
i miss you in a way that permits me to only express my guts in tired cliches and saccharine ballads from a decade before i was born.
you are in affected vocalists crooning
and far less temperate than a summer's day
sometimes i ponder embarrassingly earnestly
what you'd think about This Specific Cloud
i miss you so intensely that i seize each moment because i can't fathom more than one day between seeing you next.
i'm sorry you bleed through in latin
when i'm disgusted and pathetic
but maybe you are the imprint of where
another universe bumped against mine
i come to you shedding dignity and pretense to tell you i miss you ardently, vehemently, rabidly.
please keep me.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
in the palm of my hand
is a pen
that will write my future
into this paper
this paper
has strings that
will ultimately
bring me to my
future
and i am ******* scared
because
i'm 17
and you are asking me
about my future
so early
i don't even
understand how
to solve the minimum
and maximum of a parabola
how do you expect me to choose
what i want to take
when i don't even know
how to balance a checkbook
or how to work in the real world
how do you help me process rejection
how will you help me choose my
plan b
if my plan a fails
- a.l.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
If you are not dead
you are far from me.
If you are not dead
you are knocking on
some other sucker’s
door. Perhaps he is
in debt and in love,
cursed in similar
afflictions. Perhaps he is
up to the eyes in hedge funds
and stock investments,
his symmetric face smiling
down his checkbook at you,
attracting you in ways
mine never could.
If you are not dead
than perhaps you
are happy.
If you are not dead
than perhaps
you are sad. I certainly
will never know.
Do wedding bells ring already?
Do the long nights of love
break bones in bitter morning?
For a long time this imagination
proved worse than any reality
could have possibly been;
I lay in fevered dreams,
praying for answers,
only hoping to find
where love had been lain to rest.
Now, it is just nice to be rid
of the whole deal.
The universe makes
a lot more sense
without you.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
Crazy Horse Waits For Neil Young
Working their way through the Harvard Classics
half-moon reading glasses perched precariously
on their noses, dozing off from time to time
myoclonic twitches jolting hands and feet
that pine to plug in and mark time, dreaming
of that bait shop in the Maldives with a cooler
full of Bud where a man could do some combing
on the beach and wait for the sea to rise
or the pending call that sends them up the attic
stairs on a frantic search for their carry on
luggage and the worn out Converse and that
lucky tee shirt from Rust Never Sleeps. Never
a doubt, not one; well maybe a few but
the changes and chords will come wandering back
and the chorus to ****** Up practically
sings itself, but in the meantime the checkbook
needs attention and a grandson’s home from Helmand
and isn’t the Lipitor running low?
Two chapters left in Moby **** they eye the
phone convinced again tonight’s the night.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
i’ve been sick a lot this year. like, little kid sick. with the kind of cough that only a sick little kid would have.
and it’s 2016 and i’m congested in my infested sad grad bachelorette pad. and if i’ve taught myself anything, it’s how to take care of myself. if that’s what too much netflix and not enough water means then i’m a ********* doctor.
my hair is unwashed and my face is about twelve difference colors. and i conclude that yes, i am in fact too gross for groceries.
so today i don’t think i have any tools to collect the courage to talk to the cute boy at the deli even though i’m vegetarian so perhaps it’s not meant to be.
and it’s hot in here. the taste in my mouth is familiar, and i close my eyes trying to place it. through the ringing in my ears at the bathroom sink, i can hear 1996 and you’re there on the phone
and i’m on the couch and you’re not checking on me but you’re balancing your checkbook. tom brokaw on nbc is telling me everything that’s wrong with the world but i hear you laughing and that tells me everything is right.
and the sourness in my stomach makes me think of the suspense of a summer storm. and before tom holden on wkbn turns it over to weather, you tell me that it’s going to rain because the leaves are turning over. and you turned off the tv and you turned on the radio and you lit a cigarette and even though you were out of your suit and in your gym shorts, you looked like the most learned man in the world.
and i open my eyes and i look in the mirror and there you are, staring back at me. it’s even more glaring when i’m tired. you cant make eye contact with me in person anymore but you can't beat the mirror. at least with the magic of a mascara wand i can see the parts of you i want to see.
my stomach turns a little more at the thought of how many times the world has turned since 1996.
whenever it rains in the summer. or i find a picture of you laughing. or chicago comes on the radio, i forget everything you’ve ever done. and you’re the person i want to be again.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
No good news today to take away the gloom I watched
My neighbor's house burn down leaving only fumes
But everybody have to carry their own troubled cross and keep
On living daily no matter what has been lost
Fight on still despite the pain if I lose today tomorrow I'll surely gain
No good news today for anyone to hear so keep on marching past each doubt and fear no good news to help your peace of mind
Debts and mortgage will hurt your checkbook every time the tv
Is turned on and listen for some good news and go to sleep depressed
And hurting from the blues no good news to share
Bad news travels fast wish I could hear some good news other
Than somebody busted for selling a ton of grass
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Failing was Never considered in Her Checkbook
She was the Ultimate warrior
She was Left Undefeated
She was and still remains a Hidden
Masterpiece.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
One hot and sultry summer night,
While the trees outside stood dark and still,
I tried to get my checkbook right,
At the desk beside my window sill.
One thing moved in the heat and damp,
The whispering of a hundred moths,
Trapped around the backyard lamp.
In pity, I went and turned it off.
They flew away and left me there,
Wishing that something, likewise, might
Free me from the musty air
That gathered around my dim desk light.
My old brass wind-harp, long un-tongued,
Gave forth a single, clarion chime,
From where it had, untroubled, hung.
A neighbor’s porch gave answering rhyme.
I turned to see the heat-lights leap
Between the towering thunderheads,
Which had gathered in the upper deep,
While I nodded, working, half asleep.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC