"cluttering" poems
Forgive yourself
For the things you've done
For the things you would do
For the things you have not done..
Things that you were not so proud of...
If only by forgiving yourself
by forgiving others
You'd find your inner peace again
help you release your deep rooted pain
bitterness and your worries all the same
Then Forgive...
free your cluttering heart and mind
Forgive and let go..
Forgive your darkest past
and move on...
Try to Forgive..
sit still and enjoy this moment..
the stillness of your soul..
cleansed and rejuvenated
Forgiven soul..
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
Monday
It has come to my attention, that someone has been stealing from
the communal fridge. I notice that my own personal milk with my
name on the bottle is half empty, also three fingers of my kitkat
are missing. Please refrain, or action will be taken.
Tuesday
It has come to my attention, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see
my milk has been topped up, though, why two fingers of my
kitkat in a V sign beggars belief. Just tasted my milk, you
***** ******* I will now be monitoring the fridge from my office.
You will be caught.
Wednesday
It has come to my attention, the camera monitoring the fridge
is now monitoring the ladies toilet. This is intolerable, you are
usurping my authority. Heads will roll. I will now be moving the
fridge into my office till further notice.
Thursday
It has come to my attention, my office has been penetrated,
the fridge is missing, and I find a ransom note on my desk.
I don’t know who you people think you're dealing with, but
let me leave you in no doubt, I will find out who you are, and
you will be dismissed.
Friday
It has come to my attention, a delivery of fifty fridges is
cluttering up the whole building, management is going
ballistic. I concede to your demands, please get rid of
them. Let us get back to you taking my milk and my biscuits,
my job, my life. Just leave me alone.
Thank you.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
My mind is a mess.
And I am to blame for letting you in.
Words form but they make no sound.
Their shapes bump into one another, just when I'm about to understand.
They change.
They become a part of the rest.
Cluttering up my mind.
You came into my life.
And like a tornado you were brutal and forceful.
Your words sweeter than any other poison.
I let you in despite the feeling in my gut, telling me to run away.
You changed me.
I became someone else.
A person I don't understand.
I saw myself fall apart.
And just like that I was nothing but broken pieces of a person.
Foolishly I let you back whenever you decided to return.
You were the only remedy holding the pieces together, and yet apart.
You continued to disappear.
The lies became longer.
Revealing a truth.
A truth I didn't want to believe.
Now your poison is a part of me.
And with the poison came the addiction with no quick fix.
You were the one who called the shots.
You decided when I would get my sweet poison, the satisfaction that slowly killed.
I no longer am.
I am a ghost of a person whom used to be.
A hollow shadow.
A shadow that follows your twisted love to survive.
A love that was never real.
A love that has left my heart twisted.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 6:48 AM UTC
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
Doors open and close.
I am here,
Silent, eyes open, unmoving
Only the steady rise and fall
Separates me
From the inanimate crap cluttering our house.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You see the back of my head
I try to keep myself steady
I hear you turn around
And walk away.
You have better things to do
Than ask why I’m not speaking to you again.
*This is what it feels like to be furniture. *
You mention absently that
We need new couches,
You don’t want to continue trying,
And that the toilet needs to be fixed.
I can’t be bothered to fight with you,
After all, the couch isn't objecting to you throwing it away.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
In good nature
or a manipulative experiment,
I continued to devour
your last leftovers
from boxes signed
in your name,
as average roommates do,
cluttering the sink
with such vile remains
under murky waters, stagnant
from congested plumbing,
all in hopes to one day
hear your voice.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
The cold brought the snow
And the snow brought the ice
And the frosty town dwellers
And chilled out urbanites
Thawed out a little
With a raise of the eyes
An exhaled expression
A neighbourly - Y'alright?
A young woman
In unfriendly red
Comes cluttering
And skidding
Around the bend
I look up -
She pushes past
On her way to the station
But I have the last laugh -
It's closed, I almost shout
There's not even a sign
But if she manages to make it on heels
She'll find out in good time
Things move slower in the cold
And with good reason.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 7:44 AM UTC
flower child.
so soft spoken and sweet.
you are my hippy sister.
fashionista you set trends.
I love your vibe.
so calm and carefree.
with a creative mind and unique soul
you are art.
I can imagine you with a
big curly fro.
paint cans, brushes and canvases
cluttering your NewYork flat
as sounds of
Lana del Rey and Jhene Aiko
fill your apartment
and posters of
Aubrey Graham
grace your walls
ten years from now.
O.Rob.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Everything I touch,
Feels like a memory,
Of when you touched me,
Can I ask why you're still here,
Cluttering my mind,
Dominating my thoughts,
And making my body ache with longing,
Touch me,
Or walk away,
The choice is yours,
But I have no choice,
You have burrowed yourself under my skin,
And I can't find a knife sharp enough to,
Dig,
You,
Out.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
There are too many people here.
Streets are crowded with vendors
and an indelible smell thickens.
Buildings are painted a faint blue, or pink;
they rise upwards, lofty and erratic.
On the balcony of my hotel their roofs are speckled;
one of every color.
Outlandish art fills sun-glazed shops.
Some are only twenty feet wide. Motorbikes
wiz down the cracked roads with intimidating speed.
I look up to the knotted powerlines strung above
cluttering the backdrop of twine green trees.
In the humidity, there is no fresh air.
I can scarcely breathe. Here is a city
impractically shaped, a different world,
but the tender is coming as I descend further.
In the interior is Birla Orphanage
where laughter spreads.
The children wade gigantic waves
on the shore of Do Son Beach.
Mucky water sticks to the sand on our skin.
A boy, three feet tall, beautiful bright brown eyes
peers into my life. I do not know his language,
the most we can do is share gaping smiles
as this city unfolds its secrets to me.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Dollar
If I had one dollar
for every time I loved you
I would still have one dollar
but it would be
a very
big
dollar
My love for you is alive and resting
Like the flickering flame of a candle
sheltered in the darkness
resting in its warmth
sparking at times
calm and swaying
beautiful and glowing
There are days where I wish
that I could love you
a second time
or a third
but the first was so perfect
I was clueless
you were clueless
we were both pretty stupid
If I had one cupcake for every time I kissed you
I would be very fat
But those cupcake kisses
are just little loves
in my big love for you
Maybe only loving you once is good
because it is not fat on cupcake kisses
I have never wanted to be rich
To have piles of filthy green paper
cluttering the space I call home
Maybe only loving you one perfect time
is good enough
because
if I had that many dollars
I would surely spend it on cupcakes
And if I had a love
for every dollar I had
I would be swimming
in worthless loves
when all I want
is you
Yes
loving you once
our only perfect once
our clueless once
our cupcake kissing once
our one dollar once
is so good
Because if I had a dollar
for every time I loved you
I would still have
one dollar
but it would be
a very
big
dollar.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
I shoved that day aside
the moment it started.
Grey skies
with only patches of blue,
internal rhyming
in each casual phrase
said,
tossed,
that meant more
than at first glance.
There were too many forced alliterations,
too many under-the-breath mutterings
cluttering the belly
of every once-white cloud.
The ground was too hard,
the world shifting
too easily beneath my feet,
and the air was too supple,
too slippery to breathe.
Not just another day;
no catastrophe in sight,
but no rainbow ending either.
And no word from you.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
in ballet they tell you to be beautiful
graceful,
elegant,
and soft,
but how is a person with such disgusting
cluttering,
saddening,
dark thoughts
supposed to be anything like that
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Clouded formation of inner color control mechanism
System synesthesia pulsing eyes and dull surroundings
Float in gently woven tapestries that make the atmosphere
Dig into a solidified and nullified enigma
Decisions though no comprehension brought to life like a golem
The line that I cross between focused and lost has me open
Smooth and calm status accepted and enjoyed
Fellow interlocutors debate and compare wisdom
Rowdy and open to suggestion, I share freely
Less inclined to anxious thoughts
Like spiders creeping in the dark
Mysterious and unfamiliar persons are simply characters
As I weave a tale after my own interests
Nothing to fear in a world where I am capable
My guests are strewn about
The ruckus scattered and cluttering
Thumping walls of a thought tank desperate
Hydrate-Revive-Rejuvenate
Rebuild by burning like a forest fire
Cycles become me sadly
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 5:33 AM UTC
What happens when a hoarder marries a minimalist
I'll tell you what happens, chaos, pure chaos
One tries to hang onto everything, Everything!
The other secretly removing items from their home keeping order
Old copies of The National Enquirer where the truth can be told,
not like the hundreds of Rolling Stone Magazines passing for news and entertainment did they ever change from a one-time underground press they started as.
The minimalist is always throwing stuff out and this purge is not taken well by the one wanting to hold on to everything, and not things that serve a purpose, she is like a magpie collecting shinning little bits as well as old and worn vehicles, cluttering up the yard surely making the neighbours smile... yeah right.
I can't keep doing this, he says, not only to himself but also to her.
Was God a hoarder. I think not. Everyday things go away. Species die none stop, Stars explode releasing boundless energy.
Space expands, more room, the sky looks cluttered but is so vast.
The hoarder and the minimalist. They oh so love each other nothing will tear them apart, they stand their ground, they love each other to the end of time, time and space. This life isn't a race it's a challenge. So they continue to give and to take. Love, it's love.
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
You were the one thing that stopped the chaos from cluttering my head
The light that lead me some place happy which could of been anywhere
Especially when I knew I had your attention
And yes, I had your attention
Your eyes locked in with mine
And alcohol set the mood with anticipation and lust
Now I filter options quicker than you were when you had changed your lovely mind that night
The bar was a haze of raspberry kamikaze
You were a smile away from eternity
Yet it hurt to try from fear
Games hurt when you lose them
You leaving hurt worse than that
When will be the day when I can break the silence?
Because for the record...my excuse was selfish just like me
I can only watch your life in pictures and hope for you to know
The real reason between what happened and if only...
Was I loved you and didn't know how to show you the way you have with her
Structure, balance, innocence
A chance to settle
When all I know is roller coasters and tidal waves
When all I was in between
And know all you are is a memory... Or maybe even a dream
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
Set yourself free,
sing until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your chest
and let your heart say
what your mind can't
Act as if you own the day
and all that you live
and all that you see
and all that you feel
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
and tell her that you miss her
but you'll be back someday.
Because being a writer is traveling
through a wide and dangerous and wonderful world
and coming home must wait.
Remember to love yourself
even if it's hard to do with
ideas cluttering your brain.
and Reality tapping at your skull
saying is this worth it?
Warn the neighbors that if they hear voices
It's just your soul
changing and creating.
Learn how to accept others.
Learn to let go of everything you don't need
in order to stay sane,
Learn how to grow
from your failures.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
write
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
• •
_\
-- ""
|
/ (•) ( •) \
/
/\
/ \
This is my rendition of PABLO PICASSO'S
Famous painting
BALD GIRL WITH A MOUSTACHE CONTEMPLATING
WRITING A POEM ON HELLO POETRY
////
And the Masses of flesh piling up
Cluttering even their own alleyways
So much talk !
( so little food to eat )
They love to ****
But they don't really -- breed
So many needs !
They spend their lives on broken knees !
••
Dying every minute of the day !
Pretty ugly
Wouldn't you say ?
The Masses in their alleyways !
( lol ! )
••••
Wait ! Wait !!
this just in !
xxxxxxcc
The X-men are coming to save them !!!
HA ! HA ! HA !
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
There is a single pile of wires cluttering my living space.
It grabs onto my feet, and threatens to trip me.
Everyday I shake my innocent feet free.
Sometimes, it gets wrapped around my feet,
and tangled in my toes.
I pull, and push it out of the way.
It's a Friday when the pile grows exponentially.
I attempt to walk over it,
like I had done so many times before,
but it doesn't let me.
It slithers up my legs and tugs,
and tugs,
and tugs.
I fight its grip with all my might,
looking for leverage on the walls, and the table.
but I could not find a thing to keep me stable.
It yanks me down.
I land face first onto to floor.
It snakes around my wrists, and pulls me into itself.
I push it away from my face, but it comes back stronger.
It wraps itself around my neck.
I will never be free.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:20 AM UTC
Do you hear the muttering?
Foul and desperate falsities fencing through the air?
Do you hear them cluttering, in fickle clamor over futures in despair?
Certainly you hear them fluttering?
In a fervent dichotomy facing disrepair.
All I hear is fomented stuttering, Sowing division, in deleterious affair.
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 3:12 AM UTC
Mysteriously, like a seed
growing underground, consciousness
spreads into the world
seeking a presence to devour.
Like a lion lurking in the Kalahari bush,
consciousness crouches, hidden
within the body, not merely the brain,
waiting for its prey to emerge
from a field of nothingness,
to reveal its essence.
An act, a desire, a pure intentionality,
consciousness pounces on its prey,
embracing its whole presence,
filling in the many sides unseen,
teasing out its eidos.
In itself, consciousness is nothing,
a darkened grain of wheat
buried in the ground. It awakens
only at the stirrings of
the next manifestation.
Always, eternally
a consciousness-of,
it roams my room,
zooming past the myriad
items cluttering my gestalt,
fixing on the single form
it has come to inform.
Consciousness waits
for no one.
Uneasy until it grasps
the one thing necessary,
consciousness expands
and expands, actively roaming
among the wonders of my world.
It acts, but I cannot take hold of it.
It has me in its reflexive spell:
All consciousness is self-consciousness.
And I, in myself, am nothing.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
I used to write down all my secrets
And put them in envelopes
I addressed them to
"The person who keeps everyone's secrets,
Please hold on to some of mine
Because I'm crushing under the weight that they hold"
But because I never met anyone like that
I just stuffed them away in my underwear drawer,
My sock drawer,
My supplies drawer,
My junk drawer,
But eventually I had so many secrets
I ran out of evelopes and ran out of places to hide them.
You kissed me the same day you told her you loved her
You held my hand when no one was looking
Yet you held her entire body as if you were the pedastool
And she was an idol
Her flawless skin
A reminder that I will never be
Flawless enough for you to want only me
It wasn't until all my secrets came flowing out
Cluttering my heart
That I realised I'm your only secret
Do I keep you up at night
They way you haunt my dreams
Afraid to fall asleep
For fear if I hear you say my name again
Ill fall even harder than before.
I doubt it...
Ive been here enough times to know that
I'm just another girl who's heart you keep in a jar on your night stand
Along with the rest of your collection
Yet I don't feel the need to self harm because these words are already sharp enough to cut me open
People always told me to fight for the ones that I love
And baby id fight for you
But there's no point in it if the competition has already won
My heart became the battle field
***** and bruised
So here I am
Admitting defeated
You may have destroyed my dignity
But I have won my respect
Im as fierce as a lioness
And I don't need to be tamed
I won't jump through anymore fiery hoops
Just in hope that one day you'll love me in return
I'm not gonna be another welcome mat on your front porch
Because you're not welcome to walk all over me
You're not welcome to leave behind the ***** particles of your ****** life and expect me to clean it up
You're not welcome to wear me down and then replace me with someone new
Because eventually i'll get used to sleeping alone
I'll manage to stay out of the coldest corners
While still filling up the bed
Every morning ill regain my strength over a cup of coffee
And I'll pick up my pen
I'll write about us
I'll write about how we weren't a tradedy
Just a season passed and a lesson learned
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
I gaze at you,
ceaselessly,
in anticipation of words,
but these vacuous conversations are only ones that seem to come.
These salutations and customs- are all too familiar,
a forewarning to hail this semblance,
a bellow to put on my armour of camaraderie,
a display of grandeur,
as I wallow in cursory nods.
all this while, I still await those words,
ones that promise to slit the soul,
for it keeps on cluttering with ghosts of past flaws,
a past I wish that never was.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC