"cushy" poems
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill.
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.
First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.
Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.
As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun.
But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.
The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.
And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
Insanity Is the comfort of a pillow, used for suffocation.
Insanity Is the warmth of a gun, used for a death shot.
Insanity Is the enabler,
The barrier breaker,
The undertaker.
Insanity Is a safety zone.
Insanity Is a shield.
Insanity Is a guard for all to take part in it,
All who brush with it,
All who dwell in it.
Insanity Is the abstract thoughts, the rotund ways.
Insanity Is the thought that you can do anything.
Insanity Is the fact that people can question, can insult, can pry,
And they never seem to affect you,
And they never will.
Insanity Is a soft room, padded with cushy walls.
Insanity Is a group of people, who try to figure out what's wrong.
Insanity Is not quite knowing what's going on,
Having that privilege,
Having that power.
Insanity Is engulfing, a single being in itself.
Insanity Is the process of losing yourself.
Insanity Is the way you go when you just seem to snap,
Lucky enough to see nothing,
Lucky that everything goes black.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
I thought I knew what love was like.
I thought I could ride it like a bike.
Go fast or slow as I saw fit
with a cushy seat on which to sit.
Hop off when I got tired or sore
and ride again if I got bored.
But there is no rhyme or reason
Love is unexpected
and so were you
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Four walls crush
barely recognizing the reflection that stares
longing for the fat a cushy existence has brought
to burn with the binding responsibilities
another morning brings
Freedom
is hunting with the wolves
no place to call home
open air, open eyes
open life
with only your bones and wit as companions
new faces, new place
no cage around what should be free
will
guilt would linger at first
then a home would be made in the ***** blanket
that is loneliness
fleeting moments with strangers a staple in this life
I will create
like many do when it all becomes too much
and you become reckless abandon
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
We were just laying there
her in front of me
my arms wrapped around, holding her tight.
It was one of those modern cushy porch swings
as comfortable as a couch.
Kissing behind her ear
that one special spot
it got her worked up real fast
she grabbed my hand and slipped it down
beyond the elastic waistband of her pajama pants.
It was so cold outside
felt like she was steamin' on the inside.
She reached around and unzipped my pants
taking it out and rubbing it against her ***
the moon giant sized, yellow, and rare
above us
as I slipped it in from behind
still laying down, her in front of me.
It was such a relief
after months of no lovin'
on account of her Christian pre-marital *** guilt.
With each ******
the swing moved more and more
just swingin'
rockin & rollin with the *** beat
we had goin.
That's when we both heard the front door of her house
slam shut.
It was her mother.
From the backyard we could see the entire house
through the numerous windows.
Her mom was a real miserable *****
from China.
She hated my guts
hated everyone
especially herself, it seemed.
She was headed straight to the backdoor
we were frozen stiff
too terrified to move
my **** just sitting inside of her
our pants around our ankles
hidden beneath the blanket draped over us.
Her mom set down her bag and was coming right for us
we were caught.
And my pecker was about to get cut off
with a Chinese sword.
Then
not two feet from the backdoor
she was about to bust us
when my girlfriend's little sister
grabbed her mother's hand
and pulled her
led her back to the other side of the house.
We scrambled to pull our pants up
pulled the blanket back over ourselves
and sat upright.
I pulled her close to me
and gave her a soft kiss,
whispering
"Holy **** That was close, huh?"
"Yeah too ******* close. Oh my God. She would've killed you Danny..."
And she kissed me again
both of us cracking up and laughing in mid-kiss.
I put my arm around her and breathed a sigh of relief.
Her mother's voice boomed into the backyard
as the door swung open, hitting the wall
"HEY! GET YOUR ARM OFF OF HER!"
Whatever you say lady.
Whatever you say.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
I like seeing pretty Korean girl, Miss Mina, putting things in her mouth so I watch and watch and watch wondering if she like to put me in her mouth too.
I wonder am I a good texture
spicy, salty maybe a little sweet?
she said she likes cushy flexible
does not like it to thick on the outside
because it takes away the flavor of the inside
Hoping she eat me all up
like sea squirt and gogi mandu!
Ouchy Ouchy Ouchy
she's drooling on a slow riser
the top is dry and the bottom wet
but so soft
feels like a pillow
and a surprise inside
like edible paint
I love Korean food and Miss Mina look tasty too
I like to put her in my mouth like spicy noodle
taste like conditioned hair
or just maybe desert
but always moist on the inside
cookie yakgwa
mmmmmmmm
very tasty treat!
I want to eat her mommyoh too,
eeeeek
ok maybe a little stringy but still good enough :)
I like chrysanthemum bread
and kimchee dumpling
@
KOREAN STREET FOOD
on Jeju Island Market
make me happy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFAM2P1TX2I
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 2:33 PM UTC
Although your friendly demeanor
Helps mask your vexatious vibe,
What's hidden under your trench coat
I can effortlessly describe.
Your ignorance is beautiful
Complimenting your facetiousness,
Which gets people to laugh,
Following you like a princess.
The amiable attitude masks
An ugly judgmental jowl
Which tends to spark
A camouflaged scowl
Your playful features are
No more than soft and cushy wool.
The transparent grin you flaunt about
Is just a bunch of bull.
Now grapple my ideas
Don't throw them out if sight.
Just listen when I say
"You're stupid and I'm right"
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Looking back on it now,
after the wars & the peace & the wars,
I wish I'd never met you.
Imagine what your life would have been like:
you would have finished graduate school
and gotten a cushy job at a large bank
and worn those **** office suits of secretaries
that show just enough cleavage to make
the boss wish he had more ******
and your sales for the quarter would have
skyrocketed like a smooth stone
fired from a slingshot and you would be
as happy and content as you were
in the age of innocence,
And you would pass the field
where I lay sometimes on your way to work, staring
at the seas on the moon-wondering
why they look like closed eyes-
But alas,
-things didn't work as planned.
We met and fought and made peace
and now we spend our nights together
in that lonely field,
staring at the face of the moon,
eternally wondering why He
doesn't smile back.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Looking at hundreds of women
I come across you
No pleasure shown in your face
No moaning from your lips
No enthusiasm in your motion
You are not here to pay for college
Or to cover the bills
You have no choice
No choice at all
And here we are
In our cushy chairs
Spending our spare time
Getting off on you
I regret any pleasure I had
That came at your cost
Please forgive me
If you can find the will
In what's left of your heart
A sickness lives within us
If we carry this on
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Angel number one, the single mother.
A minority is she where I live
But where I love, she is abundant.
She loves her children with such a great force
But cannot always be around.
She works three jobs for dirt cheap
Just to support her babies.
Whether she wanted them or not,
Daddy walked out and won't pay child support.
Now she must play both mom and dad.
She has every reason to give up,
But she does not and will not.
And yet so many parents are walking away,
Because their kids are "too much to handle."
And they live affluently.
Angel number two, the pregnant teen.
I know, you are rolling your eyes right now
And of course, sometimes it is her fault
But many times it is not.
Either way, she is still a child.
Daddy hit her, or he left
Or Mama's boyfriend touched her
And all she wants is to feel love
From someone with strong hands.
Now at those same hands,
She begs for mercy.
The first time he punched her,
She smiled timidly.
"It's alright" she says.
But even she cannot believe it,
Or come out of the ghost-like state that has come over her.
They've dug a grave for her self-esteem.
Now she is with child
And he is with the state.
She is relieved, and yet unsettled.
She will not abandon her love for him.
She has no real options.
With these two women, and so many more like them
How can we sit back and complain?
Our cushy lives in our three story homes,
Seem like their heaven.
I have even heard a child of nine, when he came to our community, say
"It's like Disney World!"
We must be their voices.
We must be their light.
If we do not,
Who else will do it for them?
They will never ask for it.
They will not complain.
So we must bring a light to make heaven
Out of this city of forgotten angels.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
.
*1
Paired truths' paradox
Instant gratifications
Dissatisfactions
2
Black and white suits drone
Crushing joys in stale board rooms
Wishing for lunchtime
3
Only prints can touch
Rejection up on the screens
Instant messages
4
At water cooler
Smiles are leaving as they begin
Punch clock is waiting
5
New lovers are blind
Eyes on mobile devices
Hands in empty laps
6
Paper copies voids
Work a day world is shuffled
Even carpets smudged
7
Message coming in
Break away from actuality
Machine is turnoff
8
Monitoring tables
New job for prince or princess
Thrown cushy with wheels
9
Economy rules
Each worker replaceable
Sociopaths king
10
Drones chirp in dreamworld
Beyond corporate glass room
Birds singing outside*
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
it seem to me...that on this site
most of you..don't go for fright
you like it cushy....i surly see
the mushy the better...i'll try to be
well here it goes..
i'll do my best
i wan't compare..to all the rest
im gonna try...to write a poem
not a rhyme ..as i know em
my first shot at love
you soon will read
i hope you like it
i wanna see
if you like this attempt
at the words that i write
please leave a comment
in the box ..in the night
here is the poem
i promised you all
it's coming right up
i'll no longer stall
to soar in the sky...on the wings of a dove
it's something fantastic
we all call it love
love takes us higher
than we ever been
the dove she will fly
to the great blue and then....
the woman of your dreams
will start her decent
you know love is true
the way she stares at you
you look in her eyes
the prettiest of blue
she tells you she loves you
and you say it back
if your both being honest
the love stays intact
keep the dove airborne..and don't let it land
love needs a chance
to make a firm stand
on the wings of a dove...you'll have forever
the love you both share
if you are cleaver
hold on to each other
as long as you can
cause the wings of a dove won't change your flight plan
the coo in the morning ...the dove always makes
will remind you each day
to not make mistakes
be true to your woman
and she'll give it back...
even more for certain
that is a fact
let the dove land ...so gracefully
wings flapping gently
and let your love be...
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Monotonous
Monotonous
The word to describe the imminent danger that we seem to fall into,
Once we become rhythmically sound, with whats going on, and is around
Just Us
And the world that we’ve been given
We shed,
Still our dream seem to hide before they ever leave
And will never return
Unless we say
Please
Falling into the trap that we lay for ourselves
Wrapped up
Just children believe they are aloud to
Become robotic
Sitting on the table chair
Reading hieroglyphs
Under circumstances I declare
That the world is full of simple gifts
Its not the way the we should,
Its not the kind that looks good, on just anybody
Especially me and my family
As we run on the treadmill trying to step further into the sea
But the emptiness, isn’t as clean as I hoped it would be
I still feel things
You know what I mean
Like the way we walk down the side walk
Talking to the trees tripping over rocks
While selling some **** in your ***** bathroom socks
We can only bring so much attention
To the walls that hold all of our attention
Just long enough to sing the melody
We’ve already heard too much
We understand, but never plan to do anything about it
We allow it
We fall into it
We talk about
But we’re still stuck
Lost in the grip that never loosens
Which will hide the fact that we’re all held in nooses
Being told what to choose
And who loses
But thats not what I would like to see
While I sit on the fence post waiting for the final killing spree
We are not free
Yet
And I still see double when I think about the vet
If I was a dog and had an allergic reaction to some chocolate
It seemed worth it
The pay check I receive seems worth it
When returning to the cushy 1 bed room apartment that I sleep in
On occasion
I seldom listen
To just the radio stations
Just to have a little peace
From the monotony that never seises
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
This is for the birds who take their time leaving cages
Who use all the strength in their brains to take them places
Who use all the strength in their beaks to cry out on their stages
And declare peace on the birds on the rescue mission to save them
This is for the birds who work alone
Who type alone on their computers
Give their life to social media users
But are still strangers to the ones who live at home
This is for the birds who shed a tear
When that anniversary comes around each year
Whether it be the last bottle you downed or the last blood stained floor you cleared
The last blood stained soul, in the mirror you feared
Even when all the birds around you ceased to cheer
This is for the birds whose nest was burned down to the ground
By the father who let a political party take him down
But still sits and waits quietly til the coast is clear
But still sits and waits in the fire while the rescue birds are here
And maybe does it burn
But maybe that’s how birds learn
By waiting for the coast to be clear
By being taught when to burn
And it pains me to say but
It’s pain that saves us when the soft and cushy world fails to give us what we’ve earned
The exposition of the truth
The key to the freedom birds so often chase after
But this is for the birds who take their time leaving cages
Who use all the weakness in their hearts to imagine places
Who would rather stay in than be alive on a stage
It’s really clear
That maybe what you wanted was a little bit of control
Because the nest burned down and you thought
“What would happen if I go?”
But the time to find out is right now
Right here
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
first comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life
getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task
next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats
some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
come, taste our brew
chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces
illuminated screens
across coffee, latte or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces
what is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past
people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground
he never orders latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup
someday
an inkling may stir
his brain, he will order
a white chocolate mocha
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
we'd all like to have
that nice cushy job
where toiling can be given
a mammoth fob
those who've landed
in these plum positions
will be assured of the
best working conditions
few if any missions
do get facilitated
the office is a place
of nil being slated
an extended lunch hour
management takes
whilst busy bees are
hauling the heavy stakes
company CEO's lounging
around in boardrooms
penalizing the labourers
who are pushing the brooms
wouldn't it be great
to sit constantly down
and not keep polishing
the boss's idling crown
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
these are the questions
i ponder on a friday afternoon
after a few mango beers
do slugs get to volunteer to be snails or vice versa?
do you think, tadpoles grieve for their tails?
are the black and white
goldfish, aware of the colour
of their skin?
do polar bears, in captivity,
miss the ice fishing?
do lions get jealous, of how
cushy housecats get it?
why does nobody ever ask,
does my head look to big in this book?
yep..... i know ....deep
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
The congenial and amusing essence of the grass fills my mind with freshness and newness
I lay on the cozy, cushy meadow as I look at the empyrean sky.
The stars shine just as bright as a happy smile that's seen very rarely in this hoggish and egoistic world.
I close my eyes and picture the rapturous sky.
My mind flushes the Stygian sky with colours. A little red from the right and a little blue from the left.
As soon as the colours collide the sky turns lilac.
I see myself struggling to get up to fly in that dazzling lilac sky as my legs are tied to the chains which are buried deep inside the earth where the Satan lives.
I cry as I feel the Satan pulling me down.
Just then I realized that holding on to the unchangeable past serves no purpose and will never let me reveal the mysteries of tomorrow.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Some days i sit at this cushy chair, hard on my *** bored, eyes glued to the glare of questionable information and quiet chuckles. Don’t know where to go from here-Refresh. Click. Click. **** Back. Perhaps smoke more, or read less, give some madness to this rhyme. Or, is that how the saying goes? Sorry, got lost staring at my cat on a rug. It’s a neat rug. The black circles on a brown and grey background. It’s almost enchanting. I, like my feline friends, am fixated by this sublime texture. Oh yea, about the boredom…
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
"Money isn't real, George. It doesn't matter,
it only seems like it does."
But it's tough to live those words
when the world gives you two options,
rich and cushy or poor and rough.
If money isn't real then what's the deal
with this green laying in my hand
that just bought me a meal and a doobie?
Most nights I try to figure out the mystery
of the world like Scoobie
and those meddlesome kids.
In the past two weeks I've decided,
I'd rather be airborne twenty four seven
and dropped out of college.
I guess pops was right when he said,
"It's not for you", he called it.
But it's all good, never been better
except for the fact that money still rules me
no matter how many times I replay that clip from
the movie.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
breath the air of spring time in
a robust chest swelling
hard knobs fingers glands
pressing into the sky
spreading and seeking
full of air a chest waits
to formalize titillation
the cushy mounds
arouse bringing heat of spring time live
the season of expanding
citation of love modern nation
we hold this moment
with palms of hands
earth life giving
these feelings to demand
we know such love of life
nurture and hold creation
for I am this creature of spring heat
of earth blooming I see the living light
the snake eyes of mona lisa
the jerking of hands
star in heart star of mind
whiling west ward seeking
crawling out of my skin
a peace debater a living shadow
of intellect arises this truth
the rapture of the living
movements of spring
the growth of our destiny
whiling west teaching
gjmars 5/10/15
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
First comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life
getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task
Next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats
some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
Come, taste our brew
chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces
illuminated screens
across coffee, latte, or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces
What is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past
people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground
He never orders a latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup
someday
An inkling may stir him
to order
a white chocolate mocha
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 9:40 AM UTC
For me,
love was
my favourite
pale yellow chiffon dress
or may be
my light brown hemp neck less
Brightness of diamonds
placed closely on my fingers
Or darkness of black lines
around my eyes
Love,
may be smiling, giggling or crying over long phonecalls
Or spending hours and hours
and someone’s savings
in a overcrowded mall
Tell me.
how could I realize love can be
more than my imagination,
and your life
It could be choosing
sleepless nights in dark forests
filled with pointed stones
when chances to throw your body
over a cushy bed
in a warm room
is still on
How could I know
how it feels
to take a bullet
directly on your chest
only to
protect the soil on which you were born?
And we, whom you left
in our five star rooms
to sleep peacefully
watch movies with bowls of popcorns
will never understand
what you did for us
even though
we are not related with relations
Today
When I saw you
sleeping peacefully
in the arms of tricolour
and 21-gun salute
could not touch your ear
Today when
thousands of bodies like me
with tear filled heart
raised their hand
I realized
my heart can never love the way
your heart does
and
your soul can never be touched
with my prayers
because
I have never been there
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC