"collared" poems
You think I'm crazy?
HA! That's real funny.
If I were crazy, would I have written a twelve-hundred-page novel without using a single vowel?
No. 'Cause I did. And I'm not crazy.
If I were crazy, would I be able to predict the future by dropping empty tuna cans into an open drain in my backyard?
No. 'Cause I can. And I'm not crazy.
If I were crazy, would I love to slit your ******* throat just to watch the color drain from from your face and onto that cleanly pressed collared shirt of yours?
Yes. I would love that if I were crazy.
But I'm not crazy.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
His trim and beautiful body laid out on the floor,
Chest rising and falling,
She watches silently from the door,
The voices are calling.
Whispers in her ears,
Eyes glazed in a trance,
He could allay her fears,
with an immodest dance.
Her ***** are burning,
Pain would sooth her yearning.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
He strides up to my desk, beaming
like I'm the winning lotto
ticket he wants to rub off in his truck--
"Well, aren't you as cute as a button."
Puke creeps up my throat while
his creased eyes clearly try to
conjure the image of my naked
**** I thought I cleverly disguised
by a collared grandma blouse.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"
Heart racing from the effort to keep
my mouth shut and my cheeks
pale, I see other people
whisper, widen their eyes
at his use of "cutie" and "dearest"
while he winks repeatedly--
apparently a Morse code for
I'd-do-you-baby.
I practically feel the slime
slipping down my outsides,
but I give him a smile.
-because I have to-
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Centered around your neck, the prettiness of the stainless steel shines locked in to place, your Daddy loves you more this day.
On bended knees, you wait, as I approach with it in my hand, tilt your head back as I place it around, and snap the lock down.
Let it dangle, feel the weight, feel the love, the symbolism of you and I, is more then a piece of metal, it is pure love I say.
Little One, you are the first, truly are to be offered this gift, No one before you, no not even her, your loved removed a frown.
Ask yourself, are you worthy to be my submissive? Worthy to be my baby girl? Worthy to love me forever? Worthy to be mine.
Remember this, remember it clearly, the answer to those questions is simple, the answer is yes, forever you will be.
Only you will forever be my property, the stainless around your neck is the significance of this, missing with no shine.
Never, forget my love, forget that I own you, please show the world in our own little way, that you are owned, not free.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
Kisses don't last forever,
lipstick scars on my collared shirt;
sweet perfumes sinking into my neck.
Searching for a rush,
there's a rush out there looking for me.
Let me play my tongue on you;
just like I love to play with my words.
Lust of rush; my eye on a crush,
She's a crushing feeling; as when my cheek
bones hurt every time I blush. Plush; so richly
filled and lush. Could I love you as a must;
But a piece of you is far too much.
Do you...
Indulge in all of those senses;
As my sense of appeal is to be the one who
stole your heart. I'm much made of steel;
heavy weighed inside of my pants.
But why be quick in our advances; let's have
a little romance. Pick out our cards at every chance.
I'll play your King, with just few plays with my hands.
A squeeze; you feel the weakness on your knees,
each time I wrap around your neck.
And proceed into those long kisses that steal your
breath. Bite you down like an enemy; be tender
to all of those marks like a friend.
But I'd soon forget, of which of us gets naked
first; before pulling the covers of the bed.
I'm sitting on the edge; grinning at a striptease
doing in my head.
I can't pretend, that my skins aren't hair raising;
lips craving, body shaking, and I'm embracing
the embrace of me driving my destination inside
of your place.
But these are the thoughts on the road:
of what's about to come.
I'm still on the way.
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 2:15 PM UTC
~commissioned accidentally by a melody,
a passing glance, a purring perchance,
an idle innocent comment,
to be born as the first poem of this day,
@7:00am
Tue Sep 18 2025,
writ in haste, before
departing over many islands to
another place called "home"~
---~<>~---
*sometimes,
not so secret,
anon, ^
sometimes,
so much more,
than that but a glancing of favoring,
a handshake secreted, is actually felt,
actually secreted,
and rare though via~able,
it passes through a longing traveled voyage,
over wire, under sea's cabling, through space,
hoisted from & by satellite over continental divides
just a hop, skip and jumpstart
over this tiny planet,
and though, but, an amorphous 👍 thumb,
a colored 💙 or collared,
or a pointing 🫵
body part
the like,
bears more than just a passing resemblance
to another*
f o u r l e t t er w o r d
its often lost & found
dear cuz ^^
full of meanings hidden,
or even
anon,
"I'll be there shortly"^
magic!
nml
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 7:33 AM UTC
When my daddy leaves me,
I will sleep in his button-down, collared shirt.
I will smoke one cigarette each year on his birthday.
I will always sit in the last seat of the row at the movie theaters.
I will set a pack of junior mints down on his grave religiously.
I will learn how to play 'Stairway to Heaven' on the guitar.
I will always address my waiter or waitress as Sir or Ma'am.
I will become lifelong friends with perfect strangers.
I will always keep a pack of minty gum in my car.
I will watch National Geographic documentaries on how the universe works.
I will learn how to make delicious, impeccable chicken fried rice.
I will never, ever spank my children.
When my daddy leaves me, I will remember him
With all the little things I do.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.
I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.
Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.
I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.
I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my mind while
healing the heart.
I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.
I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
There was no way I could make her happy. The only sympathy I could offer her was my shoulder.
A place where her black tears could dry on my collared shirt.
How could I numb her pain.
I couldn't tell her "this is not the right place" or "people are looking."
Feelings aren't meant to be bottled up inside I figured but relinquished like the make up leaking down on her cheek.
At that moment I had the privilege of witnessing the uncovered human in her.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
2.5k
So many people walking by,
So dead, but still alive.
They're all in a rush to
Get in line.
Familiar faces, with their smiles
As blank as mine,
Open eyes and empty minds...
Stuck in their patterns, day and night,
With no release in sight,
They live and die inside their hives...
From nine to five they keep their
Masters satisfied;
White collared slaves who don't realize...
They drown their pain in
Beer and wine,
Illusions of good times.
Just leave your hopes and dreams
Behind...
Check your emotions,
Leave your happy at the door.
Drowning depressions while they're lying on the floor.
I see the sadness in their eyes,
The truth behind their lies.
See, they can't laugh,
and i can't cry...
They form the pieces of the same machine, and I?
I'm standing by,
Watching your world through
****** eyes...
Apr 12, 2023
Apr 12, 2023 at 10:49 AM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
I walk through a ghost town
where I’m never alone,
kicking empty cider cans across the road,
whispering secrets to the stale, morning air
where my life, at a standstill,
hangs over the beat of a single heart
and a single large Eye,
watching,
always watching,
judging my footsteps as I cross
the path, to a flatland, between the forest
and the streams of music playing in my ears -
there's a spring in my step this cold winter.
Even though I don’t see the sun until it’s too late,
I dance, like the dead, poison in my veins,
because I’m free from my grave.
I’m free from monochrome soil -
draped in a bright pink dress,
I kiss the days away with a warm hand in mine,
and a stolen, back-washed bottle in the other.
I skip on the pavement, rocking back and forth
to high notes and drum rolls,
where I find myself moving between friends and pages,
collared sweatshirts and daydreams.
I whisper my moments of happiness to the North Wind
and hope it travels South,
down to you, down home,
where you’ll hear of my vices
and understand everything.
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 11:14 AM UTC
no safe word
or fail safe
just trust
love and lust
collared
and chained
you love to obey
on your knees
crawl to me
beg
maybe
i'll unleash you
05-09
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 8:54 PM UTC
I can hear gulls squawking
like catcallers in the streets
of New York City
but they're not talking to me,
they're speaking to the ocean breeze.
They'll be heading south soon.
Fall is coming
and you can taste it
even in the August heat.
I still have memories
of childhood summers
that lasted longer than some years
recently.
Can't help but think of the days
I wasted worried about
who I would be
and now I'm someone
sitting beneath a girthy oak tree
wearing a collared button up
that hangs on me a little too loosely.
I don't know what that means
but it may mean something
to somebody else
who writes love letters to life,
that might just double
as quiet cries for help
in a world so high on noise
it's forgotten poetry.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
White collared men in pinstripe suits sit casually across from one another,
completely indifferent.
They discuss ways to obtain power and how to silence the opposition.
The opposition being women.
Power being the rights to our own bodies.
These are the men who make laws against abortion to disguise their ulterior motives.
Trump’s America they call it.
Where belittling women is somehow a “trend”,
Where this type of thing has become “okay”.
Where the women’s rights movement has been threatened time and time again.
All of this,
In efforts to silence our war cries.
But here’s the thing about us that even history seems to have forgotten.
We Are Women.
Our mothers have been crafting our battle armour since before we were born.
Gave it to us the day we were first interrupted in the middle of a sentence.
They told us to be brave, to be bold, to be unapologetic.
To speak our truth and remain strong even when we feel utterly defeated.
You see,
We don’t really do submissive.
Won’t sit back and let you do as you please.
Rather,
we’ll continue to challenge your authority.
Make you wish you kept your laws off our bodies in the first place.
To those who continue to undermine our capability,
I say to you this.
This body, is my own.
This body, is power.
In fact,
I don’t blame you for being afraid.
Because you and I both know that this body is capable of things so extraordinary that only God Himself can envision them.
You can try to silence us,
To take away our voice.
But we will only grow stronger,
Grow louder.
Angrier.
You will hear us
And you will listen.
My body,
My rules.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
Today you wear a black sweater.
Standing in the marshy December atmosphere
With a cigarette between your two most learned fingers
You do not take shame in such a habit
But you make it so appealing.
That day you wore a beige knitted number
I saw you at dinner, and recognized you right away
Your distinctive ****** features peeking out
Over the loosely woven yarn that hugs your torso
That face I still cannot quite figure out.
I watched that beige collared cloth
Hang down your back and angle at your neck
As you danced behind that girl I didn’t know
And then I watched that same sweater
Stumble on over to me, ecstatic to be there
I had no reason not to indulge you.
And when you wear your school’s sweater
I know you need to belong, and play a part
You’re a rugby star, a lettered fraternal success
But I also know that grey cotton crew neck
Clings closer to you, than I ever will.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
Arrival final destination,
Welcome to Huntsville you see,
Enter by the back door,
Then you go to eat,
Traditional fare, if you like,
Burger wrapped in blood,
The blood red of ketchup, matches the blood on your hands,
You are young, dressed in virtual innocence,
Do the crime, you do the time,
Is it worthy of eternity,
Since break of day you wait,
Waiting for impending death,
6 P.M
It is the evening of your darkest day,
For vile sin, with life you pay,
What thoughts traverse through your young head,
As tears trickle and pleas long gone,
For clemency calls rolled onto deaf ears,
You were the big man so they said,
A victim of cruel circumstance,
Collared by forensic drift,
Evidence grabbed,
Poor boy,
At a cost of $86.08,
more than you made on that fateful day,
Led to the gurney in shackles and chain,
Chains weighed heavier than conscience,
Conscience ****** your frightened brain,
Are you moved for your final confession,
Ideal for the papers for in a press release,
The last words he did say,
'Thank God for giving me life, see you soon,
Sir, For it's my final day,
Of course, I forgot you know that anyway',
I'm Sorry, so sorry, Father forgive me,
Waited almost a lifetime for this his final day,
The row of death so welcoming,
The great escape maybe,
Visage of executioner,
Looks deep into your soul,
While you stare vacantly into his eyes,
The ultimate sensation of pain as the needle quickly enters your vein,
As nerve endings and your body die,
Reflection of immaturity,
Bad life, sad life, consequence of situation,
No life had, no love lost!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
all your lovers of summer whisper soundlessly
against my collared [owned]
existence.
airy spirits of longing sleep
unseen by anyone
except me,
and yet these
flickers of response aren't
noticeable.
I?
desolate and weak.
my heart remains and feels the sight
like an eternity of bleach down my throat
or glass in my eyes
or fingernails ripped
or neck broke
or burn marks
or bites
or the Judas Cradle
or the Blood Angel
or the Swedish Drink
or White Torture
or disembowelment
or Scaphism
except worse.
The thoughts are whirlwinds,
or maybe whirlpools
because I'm drowning
in the same way that you drown me out.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 9:25 PM UTC
My home is in a vintage tin
Belonged to your great grandma
With many other varied breeds
Our cousins sorted into jars
I'm often fastened up tight
In British stiff collared fashion
Occasionally burst off
When shirts are ripped open
In the haste of frisky passion
In my other guise
When I am tapped
I connect you worldwide
My neighbour form words and stories
Whilst I encrypt some code for spies.
Machinery, you really need me
To start and then to stop
To raise alarm bells
And when pressed call the cops
I'm a round reminder
Of how life began
Innie or outie and proud
Of how mum's body nurtured your
In utero life-span
Dangerous in the wrong hands
I must be closely guarded
For if you press me
World war three
Could easily be started
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Caribbean waters wrench my gut
with an instinct to sail too far
into the blue plunge
of shark-finned waters
and sharp, yellow coral structures.
Those nature beasts rip wetsuit,
my sleek, stone shade wall from internal chill.
I am, feel, like a tanned fish
on these tire-weathered, cement streets.
Towering above are the heavy looks
down
from windows of sunned glass castles
of plastic and sweat.
They're calling,
pied pipers, to what is steel-stable
and rooted, in unforgiving fashion,
to the death of primal sense.
The urge to rip apart is tied back
around collared neck.
My boat is ashore
as I sea-dream-see of horizons unseen
while clenching an ill-fated
armrest desk of destiny
unexplored.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
I want to write about *******
I want to write about everything I’ve
ever been forbidden
from thinking—I want to ****
everyone, I want to be everyone.
I want to lick up the salt
of your sweat, and bite the supple skin
of your beautiful neck,
and I don’t give a ****
who the ‘you’ is in question.
‘You’ can be anybody, any soul
throbbing with the grit of
humanity, who’ll rip their decency
wide open and stand naked and
unrestrained by the starched collared
shirts of everything that civilization
has taught you about how
people should be.
I want to write
about something that terrifies me, and paint
it in permanent ink across my chest.
I don’t want to find clothes that fit, and ****
finding a moral tailor,
I want to be naked and free and feel the wind
sting my winter-chapped lips and
whip my hair against my face,
and I’ll burn every metaphorical rulebook
containing anything I’ve ever believed
while dancing around the fire.
And I realize this poem (if
you can call it a poem)
doesn’t make any *******
sense, but neither
do you and neither do I.
We’re all confused and ***** and tragically
beautiful little ******** creatures crawling
this earth knowing only
our ridiculous little ******** lives.
And I can’t really tell you anything
you should always take seriously, because
one day you’ll die and **** yourself afterward, and
so will everyone who ever knew you—so you might as well
not care about being naked because we’re all pretty ******* ridiculous
running around in suits we’ve purposely designed
to never fit.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
no safe word
or fail safe
just trust
love and lust
collared
and chained
you love to obey
on your knees
crawl to me
beg
maybe
i'll unleash you
slave girl
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC
reverse engineering:
tomorrow
i will know still your voice,
how your silence splits words
into pieces, as you break me
with your collared sweaters and polka dot
socks: tell me i am floating,
question my Gods, forbid me
from touching your church elders; your parents’
Lord.
today
i will know your laughter, a tad frail:
the voice of an unsteady
deity - your fingers - never stilling a pen,
nor sketching a hand - whittling
my own: your chin trembling as you chide me
for their largeness; i show you their erasures:
your lack of wayward lines; your work
of an artist.
yesterday
i tell you to sing, you tell me not to -
you arm yourself and lock away in your room,
say your poetry terrible,
wrong, un-joyful, cross-averted; they cracks
in all the wrong places like your flimsy
hands, like your hopes massive-disintegrating
like the feebleness in your dust-allergic bodies; your lack
of lungs: brittled long by heavy-handed
words and thin brushes: you with death -
the un-wayward stroke: You
who are sickly, whose quiet breaths reach
where we cannot find
and find the places where
our gods long to be touchable.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC