"compactor" poems
I am perching
I am searching
Sitting still
My mind filled
With the vigilance
Of a militant
Looking to invade
By throwing grenades
And committing atrocities
At a high velocity
Yet I'm made to lay and wait
My love feels like hate
Stuck in this crate
It's getting late
My feral fate
Makes me shake
Like the love intake
That makes me break
When you're raising the stakes
I see your fin in the water
Moving in for the slaughter
Acting like a shark
You go dark
Like a silent submarine
You float near the bottom
Your gun is submachine
That's how you caught them
Now it's my turn
For a bullet burn
Treat me like a ***** distractor
You're a fractured compactor
Leaving me partially intact
But most of me I lack
After your attack
I should thank you for taking out the trash
But I could've done without the clash
Because now I'm just a pile of ash
Stuck in a bird cage
At an increased age
If I become a phoenix and rise
It'll be an imprisoned surprise
I thought I had prepared
Yet now I need repairs
When it's my love I share
And it's casually broken
To be used as a token
You must be joking
There's no way I could've ever prepared
For the fact that no one ever cared
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
Mother oh Mother. Why?
I find myself
Torn
Between two lives
Mother, oh Mother,
My future self and my past strife
They battle
As I watch with wide eyes
Mother oh Mother,
My head pounds
As my heart
Is pulled two ways
Splitting down the middle
Like the poems I wrote in the beginning of high school
Mother oh Mother,
They were ripped to shreds
And tossed in the trash compactor,
Mother oh Mother,
My heart can't take the same fate
As my first love letter.
Laughed at and ignored,
Set aside when it became a bore.
Mother oh Mother,
you once told me
Don't ever grow up
Well that was a sore mistake
Considering I grew up
Far too quickly
In order to make up
For your ****** up faith
In that ******* bottle
Mother oh Mother,
Do you remember the night
That you shattered it against the wall
(you had missed my head)
Mother oh Mother,
it made for a pretty metaphor
Representing
My life after you
Decided
Facing demons
Was best done
With a little help
From your friends
Jack, Jose and Morgan.
Mother oh Mother,
They never had any right
To take over our lives
Just like him
An invader
Nothing like kin.
No matter how much you insist
There's no problem,
Not even you,
Can begin to understand
What they've cost you.
Mother oh Mother
The memory is clear
As the night you wept,
"Don't grow up to be like me"
You whispered it quietly
Just past midnight
While you sipped on your wine.
Out of that diluted cracked glass,
Sleeping pills in hand.
Mother oh Mother
Do you remember how I sighed?
Closed my eyes.
Hid my tears,
It never did me well to cry
Not with you.
Mother oh Mother,
That night stands clear in my mind.
I took you to bed,
Tucked you in, kissing your forehead.
Setting yet another glass of clear water, two advil down
This night was repeated far too many times.
Mother oh Mother,
Do you even know?
Every single last day
I was screaming on the inside
Mother oh Mother,
Mother oh Mother,
Mother oh Mother,
Why?
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Took the bus home.
Paid my $2.50,
no special discount.
Spent my day selling my wares,
But did not sell enough to
Pay the daily rent,
Hell, to even pay for lunch.
Gave up my seat for sweet,
Baby-child laughed at my
Gallantry, I think,
For his exclamations were
Of the shrieking pleasurable variety.
Saw Macbeth last night,
In the end, he dies,
Same as when I saw it
Last year.
Le plus ca change
The Frenchies say,
Wonder if they still wear berets
And say "Le Weekend?"
In the winter,
The buses are overheated,
So winter coats become furnaces.
I am rendered,
Ash and smoke.
Nothing new there too.
Missed my stop
Writing this,
Happened before,
Hope it happens again.
Came home to the customary
What's new,
So I said
Not too much
But,
Somebody decided that ole
Poem I wrote two years on,
Should be the
Poem of the Day.
That's sweet, my love ,
You surely will be
Insufferably happy and
Impossible to live with
for at least the next
five minutes.
So take the trash out,
Before we leave,
Then pick a place to dine,
For not a thing in the fridge to eat.
So to the compactor,
I strode, thinking Shakespeare
Didn't have to do this, I'll bet,
But started smiling,
Ear to ear,
A ***** eating
Big ole
Grinning,
Nonetheless!
Thinking,
The question is,
How does it feel,
This poem of the day
Accolade,
The answer,
of course!
It feels, like,
I am,
I am just like {you, man}
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Mother oh Mother. Why?
I find myself
Torn
Between two lives
Mother, oh Mother,
My future self and my past strife
They battle
As I watch with wide eyes
Mother oh Mother,
My head pounds
As my heart
Is pulled two ways
Splitting down the middle
Like the poems I wrote in the beginning of high school
Mother oh Mother,
They were ripped to shreds
And tossed in the trash compactor,
Mother oh Mother,
My heart can't take the same fate
As my first love letter.
Laughed at and ignored,
Set aside when it became a bore.
Mother oh Mother,
you once told me
Don't ever grow up
Well that was a sore mistake
Considering I grew up
Far too quickly
In order to make up
For your ****** up faith
In that ******* bottle
Mother oh Mother,
Do you remember the night
That you shattered it against the wall
(you had missed my head)
Mother oh Mother,
it made for a pretty metaphor
Representing
My life after you
Decided
Facing demons
Was best done
With a little help
From your friends
Jack, Jose and Morgan.
Mother oh Mother,
They never had any right
To take over our lives
Just like him
An invader
Nothing like kin.
No matter how much you insist
There's no problem,
Not even you,
Can begin to understand
What they've cost you.
Mother oh Mother
The memory is clear
As the night you wept,
"Don't grow up to be like me"
You whispered it quietly
Just past midnight
While you sipped on your wine.
Out of that diluted cracked glass,
Sleeping pills in hand.
Mother oh Mother
Do you remember how I sighed?
Closed my eyes.
Hid my tears,
It never did me well to cry
Not with you.
Mother oh Mother,
That night stands clear in my mind.
I took you to bed,
Tucked you in, kissing your forehead.
Setting yet another glass of clear water, two advil down
This night was repeated far too many times.
Mother oh Mother,
Do you even know?
Every single last day
I was screaming on the inside
Mother oh Mother,
Mother oh Mother,
Mother oh Mother,
Why?
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
S is the 19th letter of the alphabet.
I had to count twice on my fingers to be sure of that.
It glues together many, many words.
It fixes people to the walls.
It shrivels fruit in the bowl.
It sticks us all in the same soup ****
Let's swim.
You have 19 reasons to die,
written out like manuscripts in manila folders
populating a small cubicle containing your confidence
pasted to the walls, and neatly nested on the next door desk
at least you told someone.
The logic of your feeling breathing life into the spreadsheet,
The simple clicks of order covering up the shame of dead weeks
Day in Day out working toward a little more
Waiting for the future where the ability to break out is yours.
Cage around each arm. Suffering in small doses.
Never overwhelming the epicenter.
I have 19 reasons to die.
Scrawled in sidewalk chalk on 17th street.
Ringing in the ears of all my close relatives and their next of kin.
They say, "Hurry up and usher in the next generation so we can stop worrying about fixing yours."
The crumpled cover letters in my compactor spell pure love, and the reasons it's never noticed.
Simplicity in disarray, a life of static colors. Repugnant sorrow odors.
I am the only town crier left in this town.
Always complete but never fulfilled.
The sad sequel to a Mexican standoff with a self-referential story.
Narcissism and narcotics.
Nihilism and Mnemonics.
Space and the stuff of the stars.
Love and the war of the heart.
S is the 19th letter of PSEUDOPSEUDOHYPOPARATHYROIDISM
No it's not but what a great word.
No it's not but aren't you glad you tried to count?
No it's not but aren't you satisfied with yourself for trying to decipher?
No it isn't and wasn't it worth it to try to speak the sounds?
No it is not and wasn't it the sibilance in your mouth worth every second?
No it is not thank you come again have you had your fill when we're only 19/26?
Reasons to live:
Seemingly unneeded. We're here aren't we? Doing what we could only be meant to do.
R is the real 19th letter.
One more would have been S.
But you'd never know if you didn't count.
So let's count.
Ready?
3...2...1...
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 4:08 AM UTC
1. My mother says, “Taking out the trash is a man’s job.”
2. She says, “A man shouldn’t be afraid to get his hands *****
3. I wonder if she left my father because he wouldn’t get his hands *****
4. The first man my mother dated after the divorce was a garbage man. I still remember the gifts he would bring, the reclaimed objects that were always just a little too broken for my mother to love.
5. I have my father’s hands, a writer ever since I learned how prose could dribble and ooze from a page like the sweetest honey. I couldn’t wait to run my hands through it.
6. I have the eyes of my mother, ever since I learned the beauty of a man willing to get his hands *****
7. I am still so shocked when I confuse myself with the garbage that I have become so accustomed to removing.
8. I am willing to love men who would hold me if only to take me to the dumpster when they’ve finished.
9. I am 19, and I am scared to tell my parents that I don’t want to get my hands ***** for a girl, but that I feel comfortable getting my hands ***** with boys.
10. I worry that my scent betrays me. That it rises like some profane incense from my plastic skin.
11. My father asks me, “Is there a girl you’ve been seeing? I can give you advice about talking to girls.”
12. He says, “You know, you could have any girl you wanted.”
13. I wonder if my father left my mother because he thought he could have any girl he wanted.
14. I imagine the look on each of their faces when I tell them about this part of myself that I couldn’t throw away. Look at me, still talking about it as though it belongs in a landfill. As though I belong with it.
15. I wonder if, next week, it will be their love placed delicately by the side of the curb to be caught in the teeth of a trash compactor. If they will mourn me like I once saw them mourn broken china. Valuable once, maybe, but now, beyond repair.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
This place, it seems, is closing in, like the trash compactor in Star Wars,
And ev’ry person in this place is trudging through; morale has died,
Each face is long, each jaw is clenched, and each heart dreads its daily chores,
For corporate greed has beaten down and stomped upon each person’s pride
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
I have no secret agenda. And for that, people feel bad for me.
I’m still in my gentleman’s valence, and for that, women feel sad for me.
I don’t keep grave secrets lest a grave robber dig up my past and show the skeletons as if they were fresh details rather than a forcefully faded memory.
I wear my glasses, freshly cleaned for better sight, and yet I still can’t see.
I can’t see what everybody else sees. To me, I see a nice guy, a guy that’s lucky to have someone who's lucky to have him. And I don’t flaunt this…………. But apparently I’m oblivious of my own visage.
Apparently I’m a creature of pure evil and disgust for the better things of life.
Apparently I’m perverse when I smile at people and apparently I’m old fashion for opening doors for people.
But in all my aspects of supposed incompleteness, I recognize those that judge me as confused souls just the same as me. For one who shows no respect shalt not receive any, and yet I still don’t receive any.
I can’t stand the feeling of love lost, and yet I feel it every day. I feel the emptiness crowding around me as if I were in a trash compactor. Why is it that nice guys finish last when we started the race? Why is it that If I show no respect, I get more respect from the people I wish to earn it from?
Why do women like fuckboi rather than knowledgeable counterpart? Why am I alone in a world where I know for a fact there is someone who thinks like me?
Why do I even care what anyone thinks? Why am I still looking for a love that I’ve professed not to care about? Why is it that even under my circumstances, I could care less about what’s to do about any and every one of my flaws, giving the same belief that love accepts all flaws?
I tell myself to stop sometimes so that I can look at myself, but even when I look in the mirror, I see broken shards of glass appear at my imperfections. And for that, I know what the meaning of change should imply to me.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
have you missed my absolute ********
screaming in lower case
at a keyboard pounded harder than the **** of a fifteen year old boy
and twice as self indulgent
what the **** have you been expecting to receive from me?
a great aria of who i am
in pretty trills
legatto
i am a soprano only when i sing
and this is no song
this is a mad dash to get myself out
and if you're reading this, fine
but expect nothing else of me
but raw and angry ********
with a miserable side
that is all i am
**** off
i am not worth reading
but i'll post it anyway
because why the **** not
i have embarrassed myself here
i have spilled secrets into the world
and you have read them gleefully
expecting greatness
i am greatness and a trash compactor at the same god **** time
and if you think otherwise
you're wrong
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
hey every one
I've decided to **** my compactor
my professional lock
just a post
without digging a ditch
or
securing a post
hover like that in pink sky
the creature that lives off
blue sky
my heart aims
misses
my lungs
breathe
misses
and i'm supposed to call you
what again
oh yes
out of respect
Anger, no.: just like me
Passion.: yet distant and false
Death discussions
long live all
it misses
struggles to me then and to everyone
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
love is muscular dystrophy.
i can feel the earth cave in
and the mountains touch tips,
a "drunken mistake"
in the church parking lot
they'll never tell their friends.
i get it.
i never told my friends the truth,
i just told them i loved them.
and for a while i have been
attempting to soundtrack
the world's end, my end,
and the realization that
my gastrointestinal system
will collapse before i'm 20
if i don't lift my head up for once.
yet every good poem i've ever written
has been sober and manic,
pessimism with too much hope,
and every metaphor used
never held any actual weight.
i've welcomed writer's block
with half open arms
as i try to write a final track,
or at least a penultimate one,
if the time doesn't feel right.
if i have to promise once more
that i'd try to take care of myself,
stop crying in empty driveways
over broken promises,
stop holding myself over
the diner's staircase
with bulging anticipation.
it felt good being surrounded,
it feels bad being crushed
and knowing there is so much more
out there in the valley or whatever universe
i decide to live in,
yet i can't get out
of my family's trash compactor.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Darnell is
trash compactor
a general
to fabricate
thrift in
whiff of
blustery air
but doctoring
his hallowed
fornicate only
compressed tires
into rototiller
with compost
to enrich
their denizens
with commercial
paper here
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
I can't find my motivation again...
I feel the pull of my bed drag me towards it like I'm a discarded piece of metal subjected to the power of an industrial magnet, waiting to be put on the compactor and meet my clautrophobic end
I can't remember where I left my smile last night
I put it on my night stand, I'm sure... or did I?
Drunkeness forbids me from forming a coherent thought about the laughter I vaguely remember, or if it ever existed
I spit out the blood in my mouth from the grinding of my teeth like a rusty, old hinge that can hardly move to open the cage in which I imprisoned my own happiness
My arms can't seem to hold on tight enough to life, at least not today
I can feel the dread in my thoughts constantly taunt me, poking at every one of my imperfections, shouting at my low self esteem, and my guilt choking me to the point of unconsciousness, because I oppose not
The words I vomited along with all the beer, still stain my clothes and my skin, reminding me of the hangover to come
I will hate myself for having done so, and I will promise myself to never drink or love again
But that's a promise I never keep
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
It is as if I am stuck, spiraling downward,
in a whirl-wind of emotions that will
leave me dizzy, feeling nothing at all
It is as if you placed masking tape
over my mouth and even though
I don't want to scream, the words
I will never say are boiling inside me
waiting to burst out, at any moments notice
It is as if I looked into Medusa's eyes
and I am frozen in fear of the thoughts
I know I am about to think that will leave
me with nothing but tears
and when you ask me
"What could possibly be wrong?"
It is as if you are crushing me inside
a compactor, leaving me to
shrivel, shrink, wither way until
I, too, am absolute nothingness
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
That feeling of looking in the mirror
And wanting to go further
It's a special type of being in the zone
The opposite of zen
Pure adrenaline
The urge to find a body's limits
And then build the strength to go past them
I've forged a mighty body
Large and strong
And why?
So no groceries will ever make me take a second trip
No boxes are too heavy to lift
No dense trash bags from a compactor
Will ever be safe from being tossed in the garbage
No pickle jars will be impossible to open
And when I carry my sleepy girlfriend to her bed
I feel like a ******* superhero
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:31 PM UTC