"crabby" poems
Wherever you go
whatever you do
you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're smirking
they're lurking
in the shallow end pool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gummy
** hummy
taking naps around two
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gabby
they're crabby
they're calling **** stool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool!
©2012 Lyn
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
what were they thinking, as I am here and still working
with four months to go and knowing there is no improvement
to be noticed and only betrayal after betrayal
and I've never been done so ***** as at this place
whose management thinks we are making 10 figures
and wheels and deals and has a blonde obnoxious secretary
who gossips and no I don't fit in because this is absurd and I am
reminded how a nasty person can ruin anything
a meal in Paris at a restaurant hundreds of years old
and a crabby old man who was my father in law and his
horrible girlfriend and we sat in this fancy place and I could
only think I wish my husband and I had gone out alone to McDonald's tonight
because we would be free of this hateful presence
or maybe we had just bought a loaf of bread and some cheese and at it
walking down the Champs Elysses, or maybe just starvation
would be better than these people and here I am again
in a perfect little "green" brand new school and I think it
is definitely located in the middle of hell and not surrounded
by wineries and fields and wealth
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.”
Sack of rice is empty
Stomach rumbling mercilessly
Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically
Cold porridge is a feast.
“Go home!” says Mama sternly
Frantic, frightened, panicky
Rocks hurled, bullets fly
Blood splatters; running aimlessly
We dodge our way to safety
Cold porridge is a feast.
“I will not,” I say adamantly
She looks at the sack mournfully
Empty. Devoid of sanity.
Cold porridge is a feast.
“We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I feel weak, I am crabby
I’m staying despite this misery
Cold porridge is a feast.
Childlike will, piety of soul
Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole
Cold porridge is a feast.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I am not who you see,
I am me
The Clumsy, dorky, sometimes ******
The one who will try to make you feel
When you cannot feel anymore,
The one that will stand up for you,
When you are limp, on the floor.
The person that will make sure,
Your information is correct.
Sometimes to be a pain in the ****
The one who will cook, but only if its
For her and another, or more.
But never for herself.
The one that tries to give the best advice,
But never asks for them to listen.
Sometimes she thinks she is male,
For always wanting to be right.
But at the same time, she is female.
Whiny, crabby, always up in your face.
She is indecisive, she doesn’t know half of the time.
Her name is Chelsea.
She is pretty cool.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 12:20 AM UTC
Yes you read the title right
But let me shred some light
It happened in 1980 when I worked on Madison Avenue
The Receptionist was going to buy live crab for dinner
Well as a friend would, I accompanied her
We entered the Butcher, and there were array of kinds of meat and live ***** on Eighth Avenue and West 43rd Street
The Receptionist was going to eat good that night was going to be a treat
The Butcher put 8 Live ***** in the bag
It’s a wonder that none of the ***** had to gag
So walked to 6th Avenue to catch the D train
The continued story gets to be even more insane
One of the ***** escaped out
Some of the passengers made big scream shout
You can imagine in what I am talking about
It was dinner on the run
This was a live crab raw and not even cooked done
I told the Receptionist, there goes your dinner after it
When the Receptionist got home, she cooked those ***** until they were done
But before that, they fought out the bag
It sounds more like they were playing tag
There’s the sea food tail, ***** in their crabby ways, and I will never forget on that day.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
The feelings that I have
And the feelings that are me
Do wax and wane from time to time
With the rising falling sea
Often swamped within its swell
At the mercy of tidal clocks
One day to dance across a beach
Another dashed on rocks.
Rarely going straight to the point
But approached best from the side
Testing gently, tacitly
Before the pincers are applied
And they can be formidable
With a tenacious grip
So be careful what you wish for
If into the rock pool you do slip.
Evolved with solid outer shell
An armoured place to hide
Because beauty may be skin deep
But emotions lie inside
And the softness of the centre
Can be a dangerous place to go
For it can upset the natural balance
Of what we think we know.
And though we truly feel the pain
Our hearts fight to be true
So we cling on through the stormy days
Just because that’s what ***** do.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
Adamant is he
Lonely is he
Insecure is he
Crabby is he
Dependent is he
Scrawny is he
He is, in his old age
He is, in his
Second Childishness !
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
Did you know they pay people to study here,
to stay here after studying? It’s the human
capital flight of the tech-smart who type faster
than an entire room of secretaries in cardigans and pearls.
But the bigger question is, if all the brains
are draining out like spiders in a shower, then who is still here
weighting the state lines down with stones
if not zombies? Brainless bodies hungry, crabby, and without
an appropriate sense of boundaries.
They lure you in
with home values and cheap houses—the tired ones
who are getting old for their age, who don’t run as fast or as often
and want an easy life with chubby children and a yard,
or those who are sick of being felt up ‘accidentally’ on the 22 Fillmore bus.
This is how they get you.
And you stay because it grows on you
the way everything grows in Indiana, effortlessly and way too fast.
Plus, let’s face it, you’ve gotten lazy and don’t
make enough money to one day move away
with the kids and the yard and all.
So the zombies win.
But being Indiana,
the neo-conservatists would swoop in to save the day
against the zombies who hate us for our freedoms
and the liberation of our women. And sometime after
the "Mission Accomplished" banner is broadcast
to all 50 states from a ship safely tucked away
on Lake Michigan,
the zombies will regroup again
and pick us off like old ladies at the bus station.
Then with even more determination and hatred of the living
they’ll get fat on intellect until they’ve eaten the last,
and the un-dead of Indiana will die of starvation.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
Jim
To start I am amazed and baffled why such a loser as myself has had the privilege of knowing so many uncommon people. If nature won’t tolerate a vacuum then God will not allow a deficit life so if one is incomplete he will surly surround it with the right amount of good people.
Old Abe said it right ‘It is right and fitting that we speak these words here to honor these lives so honorably lived. I can say that about Jim and this also he was a prince among men if I do this right the words will convince you.
He had a gentle way and nature he spoke softly but a softness that flowed to you like ribbons that bounced in a little girl’s hair how delightful. He should have been a doctor his hands his mannerism was ideal for that job. I guess thats what made him stand out so strongly like a gentle calm breeze if you came in a panic his soul would float down around you like a parachute first it safely brings you from great anxiety and exaltation to a graceful landing then gently envelops you in its silken embrace. I had this privilege of watching him inter act with his wife as I said and truly he was a prince and I was the beggar that benefitted richly from the sidelines God knew my needs.
He was called from this life but all the days he filled before his home going are the sustaining force noticeably seen felt with keen awareness you know that a gentleman passed this way. In the lives left behind there is a blend of sadness and astonishment you realize you are looking at the work of a master workman who left behind a tightly and perfectly fitted family this unfortunately is sadly rare in this society that boast of its accomplishments.
As a friend his breadth and depth was sufficient you weren’t a burden he had a way of dispelling trouble making you understand with wisdom and unerring judgment then with ease you could extricate yourself from the problem. His heavenly father filled him with tenderness it stood him and others well in a somewhat crabby world. If you’re pressed and anxious about life take from this life expressed. A portion of the good will you need use it as a defense Jim couldn’t be everywhere but God saw fit to make an original that you can duplicate benefit from and be a part of his ongoing legacy. Thanks friend for a life lived well.
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haldenton › Portfolio › Jim
Jim by haldenton
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
Just one day
Just one day I say
I take a breathe in
I blow it back out
I cannot fret over one day
I cannot
Count on me to doubt
People wonder why I'm crabby
Maybe because my mind is full
On the point of brimming over
I cannot describe the pull you have on me
It's strong and breaking
Maybe it's time to let go
Let you take care of yourself
We both know you can't
……Maybe it's time to let go……
Haha oh I am funny arn't I?
Letting you go?
Then we would both cry
Letting you go...
And you just may die....
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
" I like coffee. "
I say this all too often when the truth is
I like the way it makes me feel.
I like the sugar I add.
I like the cream and the way it swirls.
I like that it is more sophisticated that hot chocolate.
I like the way it warms my hands.
all these things go away, though.
I do not like the way it makes me crabby after an hour
I do not like the way it tastes without the extra sugar
I do not like the still blackness when there is no creme to lighten it
I do not like how it doesn't remind me of childhood
I do not like how cold my hands feel when you--
when it is taken away.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
My loving mother loves me to pieces,
She tells herself that every minute, she tells me that every day,
But my loving mother lies,
She lies without meaning to;
She doesn't love me,
She loves the idea of me;
The idea of having a daughter of her own,
A smart one, who every grown up calls pretty and sweet;
But they lie too;
I'm not sweet anymore, I've long since turned sour,
And I'm most definitely not pretty, I'm average at the very best.
So I wonder, oh loving mother,
Why do you convince yourself that you love me?
Is it because I'm all you have left?
But you don't have me, my loving mother.
I gave myself away to depression long ago.
How would you know that anyways, loving mother?
Every time I show that side of me,
You get disappointed and a look of disgust crawls its way onto your face.
So I hide it,
Cry it away,
Instead I look as though I'm happy,
For you, loving mother.
I worry instead,
Like someone who has OCD,
Dwell over little things until the panic and pain hit like a shockwave and sends me flying;
You hate that too, loving mother,
Say that I'm acting, that I can and have to stop, that I'm faking it,
Oh how I wish I was, loving mother.
You also have the tendency of showing me off, loving mother,
Why is that?
I'm no prize to be won, no medal,
So why call me your daughter out in public when you could just avoid it?
I feel bad for you, loving mother,
So I show effort,
Try to look like less of a drab,
Try to sound less crabby,
Make it seem as though I'm happy.
But sometimes I break,
The bullying tends to make me do that,
And when that happens,
I could see the anger rise on your face.
I'm sorry for that, dear mother.
I'm sorry for that and many more:
For not saying I Love You back,
For not showing more emotion,
For being something that you have to fake-love,
For not doing better in life,
For making so many enemies when you have none,
For having to be a fraud around you,
For being me.
My loving mother loves me to pieces,
She tells herself that every minute, she tells me that every day,
But my loving mother lies,
She lies without meaning to;
She doesn't love me,
She loves the idea of me.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
I wanted to thank you all for reading, commenting and enjoying my poems. This site mean the absolute world to me. A year ago ago today, I was told to deal with my metal illness myself. I decided to sign up for this website Hello Poetry. I sent in a crabby poem (My Friend Fear) and within hours I was accepted. I then wrote Depression is my Soulmate ( on my mothers birthday.... Happy Birthday Mom) That was the first poem I wrote just for this site. I thought it was too sad and went to delete it. To my surprise it trended and had so many amazing comment. Now that poem is at 8.5k views! Although that sad depressed little girl had no idea how worse things would get. You all helped me build myself back up.
Through my eating disorder or suicide note you all have given me so much love and support. Thank you!!
I cant forget "It" I wrote that while having a panic attack outside of a store that my mind wouldnt let me go in. To have that poem reach so many people makes me tear up ...just thank you.
I couldn't write this without mentioning the greatest part of my Hello Poetry experience.
I met my rock, my other half, my favorite person, my bestest of friends.... Jules
You will here this whole speech all over again because its soon our one year anniversary too. Thank you Hello Poetry for letting me met the best person I've ever known. I couldn't have survived last year without all of you... thank you!!!
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a story never told
A soul that was unknown
A man who grew too old
Privacy was his game
This game he played so well
Secrets aren't of shame
In retrospect they were sometimes swell
Mr Hermet's shell grew too small
Enough to make him crabby
Too many objects to hold
The man looked surly and shaggy
Like a grape in the sun you find
All the years past weren't too kind
The texture soft and wrinkled
This man still undefined
The tears run like waterfalls
Too quick to slow down
Same as the time this man has left
Not enough to make amends
Maybe some to gain respect
If not, go ahead let the end commence
But all in all he did his best
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
I’ve always ****** at video games
and its no surprise you always beat me
I press the wrong buttons and my hands always shake
but that's okay because you press my buttons
and always keep me awake
I’ll be crabby every morning from lack of sleep
until I open your texts and begin to read
the messages saying you love me
I feel my eyes turn from grey to blue
every time I look at you
but when you leave at the end of the day
my eyes turn an even darker shade of grey
and maybe that's why I always get headaches.
I know we’ve kissed a thousand times
Yet you’ve never noticed how I open my eyes.
I like watching your lashes flutter
as you glue your lips to mine.
I wonder what you’re thinking?
What goes through your mind?
We may never see eye to eye
but maybe thats because I have to stand on my bed
just to be the same height
How is the view up there?
Is the weather really all that different?
Do I really have a bald spot in my hair?
That's whats the kids at school said.
So, what if I’m not as strong as you think at all,
and what if I’m not as gentle or kind as you say?
Well you certainly make me feel ten feet tall
and always make the bad thoughts go away.
“What if” doesn’t mean a thing to me,
not when my head is on your chest and
I can hear your heart beat.
But maybe that's just the sound of the TV
because we always watch cartoons at night.
Shrek is my favorite fairy tale
because love isn’t perfect
and there is no such thing as “right”
It reminds me of you
and how even though I’m not a princess
you still call me beautiful.
Now, I don’t know how to end a poem
that doesn’t involve tears being shed
But I guess that doesn’t matter
since this poem will never end.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
Why don't I just give you the silent treatment,
Or spill my guts with these words,
Building up in my head.
While my nose runs,
And my eyes drip,
I swear, I'm not crying.
It's all the after math of a sneeze.
To each his own,
Or lean on me?
How could I when you're so crabby?
After all, you'd probably just tell me
To leave you alone,
Solitude your only virtue.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 10:57 AM UTC
They collected cockles on the seashore,
Purely for their crunchy shells,
To decorate the rockery, in the flower garden,
They were washed up in abundance,
The rock pools alive with shrimp things,
And worms, that wriggled and jiggled, all twisted and turned.
The rocks round the edges were slippery and slimy,
Crabby creatures were kind of nippy, as was the water of spring time tides,
And the **** of the sea, predicted the weather,
Again, their predictions, they were never ever right.
Youngsters with nets, collected their pets,
Poor little pool fish, destined to die,
In an old preserve jar,
Left on the side in the kitchen,
The one with mid-brown melamine,
Under the cupboard, by the door,
Mummy keeps ********
She never wants sea fish alive in her kitchen,
Mummy never made their flamboyant offspring, set them free,
The fishes day out died,
Minute silver things, skirting about,
Too small to even splash.
Kids curiosity got them, as down the loo they slipped,
Dead fish, on the sewer dash, repatriated to the sea.
(C) Livvi
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
*tonight
the wailing wind
is my bane
as i look through the pane
of the hard crust of my pain
and wonder how i got to be this way
a homeless drifter on an elite highway
exhaling cigarrette smoke like a chimney
in the numbness of a freezing winter spell
selling a dozen crabby tales for a quarter
to bored yuppies aching for kicks
along the stiff terrain they must negotiate
to reach the peaks i scaled before i fell from grace
the whispering breeze tonight
is my lullaby as i struggle to sleep on my feet
and capture these rare moments of life in heat
on a day when a girl's smile is everything
and a stale slice of bread makes me a gourmet
dining on the rancid cast-aways of a third rate cafe
the twinkling stars tonight
are my peers as we help each other through the night
and a call-of-the wild song keeps playing in my heart;
it says classics are melodies woven in moments of adversity
and that i must continue to hog the fringes of society
and willy-nilly help salve the consciences of those who need someone
to throw the rich crumbs of their excesses at*
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
The curtain rod does not fit into my window
so the sun has a key to get in
My room is on the unexposed side of my house
and the morning light climbs into my bed
like a lover
that I had a fight with the night before
who I told to
stay
on
the
couch
and so, I wake up crabby.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
scabby matted hairy patch
sour incandescent colour
crabby splattered scary ******
our adolescent mother
sores are sordid, sold and scorched
broken out in carmine stain
***** implores on my front porch
smokin' bouts of welcome pain
beaten, broken, ****** and used
spanking, pulling, thrusting, please
me, i want to be abused
**** me and fulfill my needs
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
She inhales a huge chunk of the chemically bitter white gram,
Shouts 'I said GOD DAAAAMNMM! GODANM' in the woman’s toilet,
The women snare at her and she beams a grin as she wipes her nostrils clean,
She strolls back to the same uncomfortable silence she had originally left,
A man with a face like a slapped *** and small crabby eyes stares at her,
He lights a cigarette and continues to ask her questions about Mr Wallace,
She angelically takes a sip out of her £5 dollar milkshake,
An announcement storms the room “JACK RABBIT TWIST CONTEST”
She glares at him with an excited smug expression,
The man profusely refuses,
She pulls at the chance and says “I want to dance, and I want to win a trophy”
She centres the room with her bold presence,
Introduces herself and the man to the audience,
Chucky Berry 'You never can tell' dawns the room,
She strikes a mixture of aristocrats dance poses,
He follows along whilst wiggling his legs and arms,
She twirls and moves closer to him,
She spins and rocks the swimmer move,
Thrusting her chest towards him,
He drops into the mash-potato dance
She shakes her *** and struts her feet,
He jiggles into faster swings and sways his hips,
Captivated by her flow and energy,
She becomes entranced by his charisma,
The two intwine like a wreath of flowers,
She devours him with her blood shot eyes
The song comes to an end,
The crowd roar with excitement,
She beams at him with pride,
He shyly smiles and bows down with Mia Wallace
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:09 AM UTC
NOT A THRILLER
CERTAINLY NOT INVOLVING THE SEAS
THESE ARE HUMAN *****
THEY ARE MAD WITH THE WORLD
DISPOSITIONS THAT MAKE OTHER PERSONALITIES SWIRL
THE HUMAN ***** THAT ARE A TURNOFF
YET THEY CAN CERTAINLY BE A FORCE
I REMEMBER IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, I BROUGHT A CAP THAT SAID, “DON’T BOTHER ME, I AM CRABBY”
THAT CAP CERTAINLY FITS THE HUMAN ***** MOOD
I ONLY WISH A HUMAN ***** HEART THAT WOULD MELT LIKE BUTTER WITH A PERSONALITY THAT WOULD SOOTH
HUMAN ***** USUALLY HAVE ATTITUDES HIGH
IT’S THEIR MANNERISMS THAT’S WHY
HUMAN ***** ARE MAD GOING TO BED AND WAKE UP CRABBY THE NEXT MORNING
MISERY LOVES COMPANY
MAD HAS A NEW THEME, “HUMAN *****
BUT LET ME ADD “THE REVENGE OF THE HUMAN *****
ALWAYS READY TO GO WITH A SITUATION AT HAND
BUT HUMAN ***** ARE KNOWN THROUGHOUT THE LAND
CRABBY OR NOT
SOMETIMES YOU JUST WANT TO TIE A HUMAN CRAB IN A KNOT.
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
crusty crispy crabby shrimpy scallopsy
meaty cheesy peppery greeny reddy
mushroomy creamy saucey
yummy tummy fully full
--- now sleepy
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
My stomach is weak, my stomach is cramping,
I'm on my monthly, that's why I'm crabby,
I've been feeling so grumpy and ******
The only way I'll be calm and relaxed, is if I watch the pretty YouTuber, Bambi,
I need something to laugh at, so I go to vine and I looked up, "Young Papi".
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC