"chub" poems
Your ***** is funky
Dripping nectar like fine wine
Your ***** is thick
Fine hairs, crazed and divine
Your ***** don’t taste like water
It smells like a grown woman do
Your thighs are black
And slick with dew
Your ***** looks fuzzy
Your thighs do too
Razors don’t show it love
And chub rub burns it like glue
Your ***** ain’t pink
It ain’t petite
Its quite fat
Your ***** still pretty
Not that you needed affirmation of that fact
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
(Warning: This poem has been de-activated on another site. You must be 18 yrs. old to read this; although we were only 15 then)
Way back then,
When we were
Post-pubescent
Boys,
We sat in a circle,
Not a **** ring,
And rhymed our things
Like this:
You make my **** rock;
You make my thing sing;
You make my **** stink;
You make my log throb;
You make my stick thick;
You make my chub rub;
You make my ******* long;
You make my stump jump;
You make my pole roll;
You make my wiener leaner;
You make my bone moan;
You make my man stand;
You make my limp primp;
You make my rod applaud;
You make my spear smear;
You make my peter sweeter;
You make my one eye cry.
And all in unison:
You make my hard on.
We'd continue with our lines,
Til the case was as empty
As our rhymes.
Them there days of simple joys,
Post pubescent
Boys with toys.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
I am proud of my stretch marks
they are war paint
for the battle people call life
I am proud of my thunder thighs
they make it easier to
smash the patriarchy
I am proud of my chub
it keeps my heart warm
against the cold winds of people's insults
no longer will I let misogynistic views
control my life and
decide my social standing
and no longer will I be told that
I'm pretty "for a fat girl"
or smart "for a fat girl"
or kind "for a fat girl"
because fat is not a taboo word
and longer will I let you
define who I am with a simple word
that cannot hurt me
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Dear thickness,
Dear bold flesh I call shelter of leg,
protection for this body I call home
Dear thighs.
You are more important than you think
more crucial than you've been told
more space than I know what to do with and
more vocal than most other girls' quiet but
your prominence is nothing to hide
your existence is not an apology ready to be given,
your presence does not want to be covered
the way you suffocate yourself into a pair of jeans is
a talent unlike any other
or on hot summer days when skin comes out to
kiss itself between your graces
leaving marks as evidence
what some would call chub rub,
I call magic,
an inability to resist touching,
Thighs.
You never let clothing,
or temperature,
or weather come between you
you are passionate lover,
the proud I always strive to be
the unapologetic beauty I wish was all of me
you maintain the confidence I have to dig for to find within myself
you have so much potential built into the many layers of thick
I cannot tell you enough how important it is
Some say you save lives and
I would have to agree
but still
I know that there have been times when I have neglected you
moments where I have been blind in acknowledging your worth
It is not an easy feat to love the parts of yourself we are taught from
such an early age to hate
magazines have always said be small while
you have always aimed for big
trends tell you to grow in when
all you've ever wanted is to grow out and
expand into a galaxy built of freckles and skin,
you are human as human as gets
I have made you into a warzone on more than
one occassion and for that I am sorry
I am sorry
for more than one reason
I am sorry that this world has twisted your greatness into embarrassment
I am sorry that people have tried to make an apology out of your density
I am sorry that we live in a society that keeps telling you to shrink
I am sorry for all of the times I have wanted you to.
It has taken me years to be thankful for your holy,
you are the answer to my every prayer for health
you are living proof of survival,
Thighs.
This is my proclamation of appreciation
This is my asking forgiveness
I never meant to make you feel anything but needed
Thighs.
you were not made to be thin
you were not meant to be shy
you were built to be the loudest voice in every room
head turning, eye catching, without remorse
you are never silent
even when I am
and for that,
I love you.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Starlight shines from limousines
On the streets of Monte Carlo
But I'd prefer a cup of tea
In a caff with Gary Barlow.
He'd draw inspiration from
The drabness of the venue
And weave sweet melodies around
The items on the menu.
Spreading sounds of happiness
Around the greasy spoon.
He may be a chub-a-lub
But he sure can write a tune.
I could take him back to mine
To feast on milk and cookies.
Watching pirate DVDs
In my flat above the bookies.
I would part the curtains
So the jealous neighbourhood
Saw me ****** rewarding
The blond scribe of 'Back for Good'.
He could climb atop me
Like he mounted Kilimanjaro
Everything changes forever
Once you've tasted Gary Barlow.
Down to earth despite his millions
Cuddlier than Robbie Williams.
Looking pensive in a vest,
Gary Barlow is the best.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
Stopper allsh Chub forsh shrame Good Chinwag, yah?
Arsh sieve Combatibles posh Boys bare playe
Shaye, yay Share! Bar score thore Pieces me - bah!
Mayse Lion bare thine; Yare Deer-Berry splaye
Wot cot Beagle-Risen thorse Polliwog
Spout Arms dash Legs arsh instant forsh shore Sport
Water-Rouse, rebound! Spare Skin-Sherry shogg
Staple coach-wires faye John Tom's Report
Behave, tharne! Parallipparel Shape conduct
Pour-Pore noodlesee Six-Squares shrub contesse
Mare beere yorsh Chest torso-avenue locke
Reprodpress marsh baye Bub-Peppers finesse.
Staye-upon-staye bore thoose talkitook borough
Boy-ish-Boy-font-fare-Potiphar-although.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Another cold night alone
with nothing but the ringing in my ears
and the traffic on the hill
as I grind into sleep.
You are missing from me
I need your smells to welcome me home.
I want your warmth left on the couch cushion.
I have to see girl stuff infiltrate my cabinets.
Please
Bring me yoga pants left on the chair
and random hair ties in weird places
and long hairs on the pillow
and clean dishes
and **** that I would never think of cooking
and stretch marks
and skin products
and grace
and beauty
and soft lips
and smooth curves
and wet folds
and a soft touch
and mood swings
and chub rolls
and dresses, lots of dresses.
Give me your shadows weight
and your insecurities
and fears
and scars
and let me carry
your nothing.
I will help you heal
This cold night,
this tortuous loneliness,
this moment,
Now,
I need you here
Be my sugar.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
the slow kisses that turn into hot breaths exhaled into each other's throats
biting at your lips thinking i can pull out your words. stuck in your head. with the blood i draw
the marks i make are war wounds, baby, and i am proud of each vessel i pop
purple looks good on you. what a ******* color.
beat beat through the silences and internalizations. the anger and the insecurities.
************* trample that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel like you are nothing but the skin on your stomach.
you are not just the skin and tissue and chub on your stomach.
lovely, you are more than your stomach. and your ray bans. and your binder that does such a good job at pushing in what is unwanted and pushing out the breath from your lungs-- your very sustenance.
my dear, you are more than your eyeliner, or lack thereof.
you are more than the way you ****** me last night. and this morning.
pretty ,darling boy. i want more slow kisses that turn into hot breaths. more lip bites drawing enlightenment. blood slicking the tips of my fingers from exploring.
i want morning breath dreams still entwined with your exhale onto my neck. bickering mom and daddy.
who knew we had voices other than moans. who knew gender theories would cross our lips and *** analyses would be common car topics.
the "fffffffff" you make in bed also start the sentences of your fury. yelling at the gas station ****** who misgenders you.
**** YOU ************ I JUST WANT MY **** CIGARETTES.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
.
****
**** *****
Wiener Pecker U
nit ***** Piece T
ool Thing Shaft
Member Doink
er ***** Cack C
hour Chub Pud
******* Wanki
W a n g D ing
a ling Ding Don
g Kielbasa Brat
worst Meat Pop
sicle Meat ther
mometer Bolog
ny pony Salami
Sausage Tube
steak ****** P
orkSword Nood
le Banana Corn
dog Magic wan
d Staff Divine R
od Love muscle
Third leg Tonsi
l tickler Power
drill Jack hamm
er Wedding tac
kle Bat Club Rod
Pole Joystick Ja
ck-in-the-box S
kin flute D-trai
n Mr . Happy B
a ld - headed yo
gurt slinger Lon
g **** Silver Ji
my Johnson Kn
ob Captain Win
ky One eyed W
illy One eyed M
onster Peter On
e eyed trouser
snake The Sala
mander Horse
**** Lincoln lo
g Tootsie Roll F
Lesh trombone
Meat stick Meat
whistle Dobber
Wanger Woody
Shake weight T
iffy Frank and
the beans Ch o
a d t h e dirty
wise man *****
Harry nut cann
on Flesh flute
Satan's clarinet
Sexophone Th e Mayflower ( on
account of all the Puritans who came
on it ) The Wea p o n of A s s
destruction junk mail
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Grandma Clarice,
or Chub as I prefer to call her,
is tough as nails.
All 90 pounds of her on her
not-even-five-feet-tall-frame,
she always told the funniest jokes,
and her laugh was one of
those laughs
that just
reverberated so warm against your
eardrums,
contagious like the
common cold,
you couldn't help but catch it.
Chub always made the best pies,
any kind your gluttonous mind could
imagine:
cherry, blueberry, apple, peach, lemon chiffon, anything creamed;
don't get me wrong,
my mama inherited the gene,
her peach pie my absolute favorite
in the summertime,
but still,
mama learned from the master, and Chub was
the master indeed.
Chub was witty,
she was poised,
she was so many things that I
don't even feel like I ever really have figured out
what all she was, she is.
But I can't deny the
memories I have of Chub
smiling
as I played Christmas tunes on the piano,
looking collected and cool as she
whipped up another perfect meal,
her voice inquisitive as she
asked me about school,
the teacher in her proud yet astute.
Chub can't remember anymore,
but I remember for her,
the laughter, the
impeccable odors wafting from her all-white kitchen,
the late night games of Rummikub,
that tough-as-nails Chub who will always
exist in my
memories.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
Do you remember when we met?
We were at that amusement park I love so much.
At first it was a simple friendship
Occasional talk and text
Then I got to know you better
How we think alike and act
Suddenly after 3 years we're best friends.
Then I realized I had a crush
It was mutual.
I liked you but I couldn't decide how much
If I could kiss my best friend
If this would be something I want
But tonight I realized how I feel about you
Your eyes are like the ocean where I feel most at ease
I want to laugh and be stupid with you as always
But something new
I'm craving your kiss
Being with you is care free and happy
Your flirtatious nature once annoyed me
But now its so sweet
The tease by my friends that once hurt me
Cuz I'm taller than you and you're a little chubby
I don't mind your height and for reasons I cannot find i think your chub is kinda cute
So I'm done being unsure
Telling you we can't be together
Because Im realizing now that you're perfect for me and I'm oh so in love with you.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
slowly i learn
to push away the thoughts
of blood and bleeding
or pills and puking
of starving and loose jeans
of tragedies to other people unseen
slowly i tell myself
ill be okay
maybe
slowly maybe
i learn to recover
drinking and drowning
slowly i fall back
maybe i cant
slowly maybe
im stuck after all
slowly i pull myself
back up
i learn to shower
and eat and sleep
and exist again
my body destroyed
more and more each time
slowly maybe
i learn to love scars
and stretch marks
and chub
cheerful faces fall
slowly maybe i fall
back
but
slowly maybe
i learn to survive
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
this is me
thinking back
to the 'me' i was before,
and pretending
that i am that same 'me'.
i'm going to pretend
that i still believe
that you, my love,
my very first love,
would also be my last.
i'm going to pretend
these god **** tears that
don't have the nerve to stop
are the soft kisses
you planted on my cheeks
every peaceful morning.
i'm going to pretend
this extra chub on my hips
are your hands wrapped around my waist,
protecting me
from the harsh words
of the outside world.
i'm going to pretend
our 'forever' ring
isn't abandoned somewhere in nevada,
thrown out the car window
in a terrifying moment of rage,
like lightning
that you're sorry to see go.
i'm going to pretend
you scoot closer to me
not to ask me what the homework was
for history class,
but to play with my hair,
twisting it around your fingers
and telling me you love the color of it
when you're the only one
who did.
i'm going to pretend
you still glare at any boy
who tries to hit on me,
stepping up so your body is in front of mine
like a lion,
fierce and daring and gorgeous,
instead of remembering
the night you told me to move on,
because you already had.
i'm going to pretend
that you're not the most
excruciatingly beautiful thing
i've ever seen,
full of angles and cheekbones and gold,
like a paragraph over a paragraph
of confessions.
i'm going to pretend
that when you say
'i love you',
it's not just in my memory.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
she's six years old,
and every morning
her mommy would sit in her room
and braid her hair for her.
she's six years old,
and her mommy and daddy
both got home before six,
and the family ate dinner together.
she's six years old,
and her mommy and daddy
still love to cuddle
before they fall asleep,
their limbs tangled together
like twisted tree branches.
she's twelve years old,
and she braids her own hair now,
her mom doesn't get out of bed
early enough anymore.
she's twelve years old,
and she eats dinner alone in her room,
only to lean against the door
to listen to her parents fight.
she's twelve years old,
and her parents sleep on opposite
sides of the bed.
she's fifteen years old,
and she leaves her hair down
so it will hide her face.
she's fifteen years old,
and her parents rarely come home
before nine.
she's fifteen years old,
and she doesn't eat dinner anymore,
squeezing at the chub in her cheeks
and on her stomach,
the nonexistent gap between her thighs.
she's seventeen years old,
and she doesn't know where her father went.
all she knows
is she hasn't seen him since her birthday
last year.
her mother rarely works.
her hair's even longer.
she barely remembers
what dinner is,
and sometimes
she just gets
very,
very
tired.
she's seventeen years old,
and she's completely certain
that life
is too exhausting
for her to go through.
she's seventeen years old,
and she's ready to give up
and make it easy for herself
once more.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
smooth or rugged
strong or frail
fist or caressing
brown or pale
long of finger
open or clubbed
wrinkled parchment
child's chub
Mona Lisa
calm and coy
Captain Hook
girl or boy
remember how
his love attracts?
touching with
his finger backs?
hands with nails
lacquered red
tell him that
it's time for
bed
what could ever
be so grand?
as a tender
*loving
HAND*
SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/11/2017
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:56 AM UTC
a woodland pigeon
is eating pink spring blossoms
while you're eating
hamburgers; eat **** whatever;
outside my window
nearing 8 p.m. with the sunset,
a lovely sight mind you...
lovelier than hamster chub
cheeks of buttock arsenal
on a treadmill to think of...
thank god i didn't have to imagine
anything;
it was just one woodland pigeon
eating spring blossoms
while a throng was migrating
from the sunset direction
of the tilled fields to the sunrise
direction of being perched on oaks.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Glass flat water clear as a crystal
No blemish detected not even a ripple
4 wheel drive brought me here
A tent some food and a cooler of beer
A week here will be just fine
All alone, to clear my mind
Commune with god in my outdoor church
Untangle my thoughts out of this lurch
A couple of fishing rods, tackle and bait
Looking for dinner, fish to pull my line straight
Put on a chub on let it sink to the bottom
that one sits, take a walk, see if I can spot them
One rod out, fly rod in hand, ease around the edge
Cast out with my fly, I see a flash by a ledge
Trout hits my fly and the fight is on
Work him in until his fight is gone
Dinner in the creel, I look around
Other rod bent over clear to the ground
Run over to it and set the hook
Something pulls back, deep I can't give it a look
The fight is on reel screams out drag
whatever this is will cause me to brag
I win the fight, a 42 inch pike
Stocked for the week, I'll go on a hike
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Such a silly haircut
on my little toe-headed girl
it was all tied up,
and short on the sides
bangs falling short
above those light blue eyes
and we stared at each other
for a long, long while
admiring the chub on her cheeks
and the dimples in her smile
i suppose she looked just like you,
although you weren't here to be found
in the thick of South Africa
with accents that did astound me
and i did get the chance to brag
about my little honey-babe
with dirt on her hands
and a smile on her face
to a friend i knew long ago
in her place next to the structure
of eternal expedition
in the form of stimulation
at the users' best convenience
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
baby so soft
baby arms
so chub
like a soft chubby pillow
hugged my hands
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
Do you ever trace the grooves in your hand
Or follow the veins under your skin
Do you slightly sway whenever you stand
Or pick at the bumps on your chin
Is there a bone in your body that doesn't quite fit
Is there a pulse that you can never find
And your mouth's filled with glue rather than spit
Can you see the microbes in your eye
Are your teeth slightly crooked whenever you smile
Are your shoulders more wide than your hips
Is your build more of the disproportionate style
And is the skin chewed from off of your lips
Does your hair fall in clumps right on to the floor
Are your fingernails picked to the nub
Do you find concentrating as more of a chore
Can you also not stand tummy chub
Do the grooves in your mind tend to relapse instead
Of helping move on past the dread
And do you find sometimes you can not trust your own self,
Or control the bad thoughts in your head
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC
Niche ladies song ga rahiya ne
Te eh songa chub rahe ne
Kiwe di badua diti tuci menu?
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC