"diabetic" poems
To ill is scourge hazard of modern man;
The way of life which tricked you leaves you weak.
Before it pounced, prevent you must! You can,
Your visions blur, your limbs cut, your times bleak.
Avoid refined sweetness pure, you should know,
The more you love to eat the more you crave;
Your sweet tongue urged pleasures deals a cruel blow,
The more you indulge, closer be your grave.
This sickness gradual erosion of health,
Like shrinking pools merciless sun would drain.
A diabetic's woe: no amount of wealth,
Could stop the vines that binds and break the chain.
Without remedy and won't heal for good,
So sweat, please monitor intake of food.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
I wake up and eat some eggs, a yogurt, and a few slices of melon
in an attempt to change my life
after all it is that or death
I won't hold my breath
It's a beautiful day to head to the mall
with a friend
I really know where this is going
Hmm
I like that shirt
Oops, this store doesn't offer plus size
On to the next..
I really like these jeans..
Forty five dollars for sizes sixteen and up
What a mess!
Since I refuse to let Lane Bryant **** my wallet in the ***
I decide to head to Barnes and Noble instead
I accidentally bumped into a lady and her baby stroller as I walked past and she mumbled
"Fat ***** under her breath
Yes that's what she said
I didn't even turn my head
Because that's what the lady said
and that's what society says
and instead of trying to explain it's just
easier to walk away
it's the self hatred after I dread
So I buy a whole pizza and eat the entire ******* thing
and it is beyond delicious
though the guilt I feel afterwards wasn't worth it
and vomitting that **** up was viscous
Even when I was a little girl I dreamed of being thin
I dreamed of being a model
I dreamed of having a flat tummy
Just to fit in
I didn't like the belly I had
or the fat in my cheeks
I was the only kid in gym that could never climb the rope
and that began a string of anxiety attacks
that would last for weeks
The doctor calls it insulin resistance
which leaves me with the inability to lose weight
but I shouldn't have to explain to anyone my condition
I just shouldn't have to explain
not to mention the ovarian disease that cripples me to my knees
which so happens to be genetic
and mimics the blood of a diabetic
leaving me incurable
a medical mystery
not to mention infertility
so for me
children are just a dream
Although I tell myself
that I am beautiful
and that I am intelligent
and that I am funny
and that I am a hard worker
and that I am successful
and that I am caring
and that I am loving
and that I am daring
and that I am the best **** friend a person could ever have
To a stranger I'm just a "fat *****
and you know what?
That makes me really ******* sad
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
Filaments fixed on your eyes all night
and the possibility of a chance, of an opportunity,
that I’ll be able to talk to you,
because the club lights are blue
stretched like animal hide across your own hide:
complexion clear cheeks still rouged
though tidal club glow is still blue.
It’s pathetic, worse than any diabetic
with their HumaPen Memoir insulin
length of pen, recording the time
and date
and precise amount of pain
they inject from the last 16 doses.
My pen is my keyboard and records
miserable times
and forgotten dates in cafes
and precise amounts of pain,
though this diabetic is a pathetic poet
and he knows it.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Colorful, tasty
Sticky swirls, canes, and powders
Make the tongue delight.
Ambulance, paramedics
Diabetic coma; sigh
Dec 30, 2009
Dec 30, 2009 at 12:50 PM UTC
I went to see her.
The skinny doctor lady.
She tested my blood.
She tested my mind,
While waiting for the blood test.
Severely depressed.
I knew that, of course.
I have known since I was nine.
Just confirmation.
I told her my pain.
That all-over, horrid pain.
Everywhere. Always.
Fibromyalgia.
Silent, Invisible Pain.
It makes so much sense.
The blood tests came back.
Her drawn-in eyebrows furrowed.
I'm diabetic.
She looked so worried.
I am nearly anemic.
What else could go wrong?
Dejected, she said
I can't have children. Ever.
I am broken now.
Invisible pain.
Emotional. Physical.
No death to stop it.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
She's got her eyes on her hand holding somebody else's
and she's got tiny planets stuck on her tongue
She doesn't understand how nice his hands felt covering hers,
how it reminded her of cotton fields
Funny how he has cotton candy smiles to match everything else about him
He makes her want to shed her skin twenty times
until she's clean enough to touch
But he also makes her want to grab a syringe
and inject some insulin into her bloodstream—
The whole thought of him frightened her to catatonic
and she knew her diabetic heart cannot handle such sweetness
She wants so much to let go of his hand
but he would smile and he would laugh and he would be
heavenly
and she would hate herself for ruining this
So she watches on at her hand holding somebody else's
and grit her teeth to the tiny planets exploding in her mouth
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
I love birthday cake
especially cake with thick
vanilla icing
but a German chocolate cake
would be a great one too.
I like it with ice cream
and icing colored designs on it.
Incidentally being sweetened
wedding cake turns me on too.
I hate it when you get a thin slice
of birthday cake due to being
a diabetic.
I love it to see people eating
their cake with forks
I love how some motherly cooks
come up with a chocolate
icing cake with really
funny waking candles on it.
I like to blow out candles.
I like it when you're old
and the just have one candle
because there wouldn't be enough room
for all the candles as old as you are
somehow I think I already
wrote a song about this subject
but that was a while back.
p.s. You may wonder how I
can go on about trivia like
the essence of birthday cake
but I do.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
What do you do when you aren't hungry,
But you have to eat?
What do you do when that sustenance,
could mean life or death?
what do you do when you feel sick to your stomach,
But without it you may die?
Food.
Its something I need as a diabetic.
But what are you supposed to do,
When you cant even stomach looking at it?
What are you supposed to do,
When you feel like you may throw up?
Do I sit and wait? Or force myself to eat?
Either one is bad.
Forcing making you sicker,
Or waiting making you weaker.
What to do is the question.
To eat or not to eat?
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
This bakery sounds like couples cooing at each other from opposite ends of the booth
Giggling like no one else sees they're playing footsies under the table
And coffee they've let go cold because no one orders hot, black coffee at five pm in this Arizona heat.
It sounds like cookies taunting the diabetic who really did come in for the salads
And the free wifi, of course.
It sounds disgustingly like the same song I've played on repeat for the past three hours
Contemplating what I want to write about tonight.
But not really contemplating
More like wishing that on the walk to this bakery that's stuck on the corner of a straight road
I'd thrown you to the ground and punched you in the face
For all the wrongs you've done and all the wrongs you're going to do.
But your apathy threw me off, and I kept walking in silence.
Wishing I could have the beach's sands, the mountain's bending rivers,
And that I could run away from here.
This bakery sounds like noise, and sometimes noise is tolerable.
At least noise is better than apathy.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
We've got a red white and blue bloodlust
For the drips
from the slits
in the wrist
Of Ms. Statue of Liberty
Miss America
Covered in capitalist pigs blood
camouflaged as corn syrup
whispering bitter somethings
to the diabetic nation
that broke her sweet-heart
They'll give her something
to fill her wounds
And add insult to
Self-inflicted injuries
in flashes of light
our arrogance
under-shadows
our destiny
She’ll overcome us
in her apotheosis
She’ll come
back around harder
next time
When she finally comes for us
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
It’s something about the
way you say pathetic,
the words sting and burn
like the shots of a diabetic.
Overused and undervalued
by a simply judged fanatic.
The looks you cast,
as I slink past,
are all but few and
far between,
let alone sporadic.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
Fig Newton Vanilla Wafers
Like sand through an hourglass
The smell of Doublemint Wrigley’s
Gum that lingers in the air like
Your poltergeist hanging on a string
Chicken and dumplings
Christmas at your place
There were so many pictures and
Do you remember me anymore?
Quicksand neurons coughing up
Phlegm and congestive heart failure
Diabetic membranes hooked up to pacemakers
You’re kidneys were caustic waste bins
And you ****** yourself
Cancer Cancer
Don’t shut your eyes
***** and hypertension
Hyperventilation
My mother is crying
I’m crying
Don’t die
Please don't die
"She’s not responding"
"Somebody say something"
Amazing Grace
Amazing Grace
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
"I can hardly wait
(My friend the diabetic)
to taste the poison."
He takes seppuku serious;
So many sweet things are here!
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
My great grandfathers wore dreadlocks
Yet stood firm, proud as peacocks
Patrolling their territory paddocks
Today they are a source of mocks
A representation of sheer evil
In the world we foolishly call civil
Like an attempt on a biscuit by a weevil
We lost it.
Our great forefathers drank milk
And then over the mountains take a hike
Had absolute no need for a bike
Treated all men with respect alike
We are taking concoction for drink
May never cease to suffer sick
Rounded and diabetic as tick
We lost it.
They went to schools to learn practice
Learnt virtue and shunned away vice
To obey all the elders without a voice
Then there was little necessity for police
We are learning to sit all day in office
To treat subordinates with blowing malice
Learning theory, understanding without choice
We depend on book, written advice
Alphabets unlike words know no justice
Scratching as mice full of lice
We lost it.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
1. You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.
2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.
3. When Cupid calls you corny.
4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.
5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.
6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.
7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".
8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.
9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.
10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.
11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.
12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.
13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.
14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.
15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.
16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.
17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.
18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.
19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.
20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
Beware the baker
for his battery is a
sweet death to follow
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
I shook as I entered your doors
diabetic knees
I walked with caution
make myself unseen
with the utmost desire for visibility
hang off the ledge
bat my lashes
my love for her is unconditional
disappointment and triumph
I am a worm
let me burrow into your chest
and into the heart of the working nest
miss me and accept me
recognize me
be glad to see me
adrenaline, like caffeine
I giggle and beam with river-eyes
expecting intense reaction
you continued your solemn demeanor
but through satellites you kiss my cheek
after alone ventures
windy waits for velvet seats
emptiness absorbed excitement from minutes before
I thought I missed the market
but surely I’ve mistaken
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
your lips burn my heart like acid
to ashes
still i want to be burn
until nothing leftovers of me.
your bites are venomous like the snakes
that my body beg to inject
like insulin for a diabetic patient
your body is like death bed
decorated with red roses
that i want to die every day.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
In the orange cream dying sun's half light
swaddled by blankets wrapped in ***** clothes
I open my lips wanting your taste
eye to eye, mons ***** warm fragrance
To offer myself and soul over completely
When we were young did you ever think
we'd drown in the ocean of flesh between legs?
She smiled brightly, made noises
overjoyed much more than confused,
though that's not the story now, is it?
In an instant passion rises up with steam
gone again before I wipe the mirror and
brush my teeth, and once again I see
blackened debris, they're rotting out
from misspoke verbs
All that's sweet now is the imagining
of diabetic what once was
Two closed eyes reach back with a breathy sigh
withheld truths and well meant half lies,
cannot inspire lift again that left me,
but that doesn't stop the faithful
Has the tide this whole time been sending
waves of false hope, on which I'm floating?
Daydreaming, heating oil, she wants dinner,
and I hunger for satisfaction in new pictures
A hand for a finger, a tongue from both mouths
comforting by grabbing hungrily
until heads get thrown back, abs tighten
when pressed to relax, on the rack
stretched but both floating
Why does she want to drink my blood?
I don't ask just imbibe in return
Those days are long gone
Times when the worst thoughts could not undo
whatever flicker remains in the waning brazier's ember
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
Balloon head girl...
With eggs for eyes and
Sharpie lips,,
Don't cry your egg white tears
For me, or let
the yolk leak from holes in
Your diabetic fingers...
Snap your blouse back on, with
The buttons right up
to your neck, a throat with
3 imprints, but
2 hands and
1 threat
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Short and sweet
like the life of the diabetic
We're all hypochondriacs
To the human conditioning
We've been taught
to be themselves
not ourselves.
No child left behind while evolution is staggering
Tripping our own feet divided by class systems
Get off my lawn
They're still asking,
"where do you see yourselves in 5 years?"
and I still don't know,
this short-term impulse control needs to learn longevity
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
I was an idiot back then,
those trips to Rebekah's hovel.
though they did make me sentimental,
for the days when her dad had taught me guitar
for eight weeks when I was thirteen.
she told me of a suicide dream
that utilized her iron deficiency.
I told her I would tell her parents
if she started pushing it in motion,
that made her cry,
though in retrospect, I wanted her to die.
I was at that misery factory age
when your heart pumps nothing
but razorblades and jealousy,
and the death of some overly-depressed
girl would at least give me a story to
tell.
I was a pseudo-lover,
writing page upon page
of poetry for Sheila,
I used an alias for her:
"Nature's Criminal".
It felt appropriate.
what she did to my
emotions seemed rather
unnatural.
we would kiss on dark, dirt roads,
and duck when cars would passby.
she would always preface
our encounters with,
"remember this doesn't mean anything."
now, Rebekah only writes to tell
of artists signed to Saddle Creek.
she got married to some diabetic,
acne-marred, sex-fiend that
bares the burden of a pet peeve
that revolves around bananas.
now, I only see Sheila,
when some boy is ********** her,
when she feels beyond used.
in her parasitic apartment,
I always remind her
they don't mean anything.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 8:35 AM UTC
"Gone to one’s Glory" so they say.
Where exactly is it that, if we’re all headed that way?
Let ’s ask around to see where and what people think Glory will be.
It might be one place for you and another for me.
Some people, view Glory as a place out beyond the blue, with pearly gates.
They imagine it will be like walking into a magical, nirvana escape.
"I am a restricted diabetic who must pass up the desserts that I like.
Glory for me would be a place like Food Network where I can indulge and delight, and never worry about an insulin spike"
"As an athlete who loves to train my body to the highest level of fitness
Glory for me would be a place of perpetual summer Olympics."
"I am an obese lady with a hundred pounds to lose.
Glory for me would be a place that receives all, even those as big as a caboose."
"As an amputee who lives with stumps
Glory for me would be a place where you get new legs, to run like Forrest Gump."
Winfrey, Bezos, Buffett, and Gates?
Have you discovered Glory here on earth?
"For me, an astronaut, who loves to travel in outer space
I would find Glory to be a place to encounter those outside of the human race."
Glory might not be as far away as some make it seem; we may be shocked!
Glory may be another town, another neighborhood or just around the block.
When ones we love go to their glory we moan and we grieve
But what if we’ve got it all wrong like most other things we believe?
Going to one’s Glory might just mean going on to achieving one's highest dreams
The ancestors described what they thought glory would be
Using their highest imaginations and creativity.
For us It may be imperative and the right time to change that old narrative
Glory might be one place for you and another place for me
In the meantime, in this life, let’s stay present, and be all that we can be.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
She looked at a distance before she sighed, thinking about all the good and bad that we had once both shared.
There's no one quite like you; fun, loud, ambitious, aggressive and toxic.
You hated quietness surrounding you, preferred to be occupied with loud and fun people, the kind that is filled with energy that buzzed your brain cells almost to death.
You hated slow people; those who take time to absorb whatever that is happening into their brains. You loved the speed, the thrill of those events and mostly, you loved those adrenaline rush in your blood stream, those kind that leave you wanting for more.
And you hated those reserved people. You never liked probing but you use your aggressive method to inevitably force people out of their shells. You said sharing was caring, at least, it was caring to you.
I wasn't quite like you.
I was all the things you hated; quiet, slow and introverted.
Yet I was that little difference you've never quite seen, or I might as well say, I'm a lab rodent to you.
I was what you were experimenting on, and after all the fun you had, you'd throw me alone and away, just like what you'd done to the others.
You'll never see this little piece of collection here and if you do, you probably wouldn't know it's you.
You're a surge of toxic, like how diabetic patients needed a syringe of insulin after every meal.
You kept injecting power over my life, day after day. Making me feel weak and inferior whenever I'm with you.
One moment you made me felt like I'm important to you and next, you were having fun out there with people whom I barely know.
Everyone you met and became close to, was a splitting image of you except they didn't know. And I was the failed rodent, who never once got any of your toxic into my character yet I was intoxicated.
This poison never fades; it keeps circulating in my blood, attacking my brain.
Every step of moving on was a pull away from you and a push towards another.
And each pull towards someone reminds me of how much I am respected by others and the right way of me being treated.
But I will and am missing you right now.
Not for your toxic and negativity but for the smiles and bubble my heart always felt whenever I was with you.
The daily memories made even when there were fights all along.
My dearest friend, I hope you'll meet someone who'll be ale to help you more than I can, I hope she turns your toxic into safety.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
*two bottles of 70cl whiskey later and a few beers, popping sleeping pills for an actual effect worked with (it's ten past five p.m., i'm already mentioning ~ eleven minutes to midnight, so wait)... you get the shovel and broom ushering the ***** drinkers from a town centre in Leicester or Norwich; or you implant a hope to live in Scandinavia; you're basically laughing with a russian at that point: 'eh eh, where's lithuania?' 'ah **** it's next to yuri reciting poetry on the laika satellite.' 'thought so.' german started from monkeys, sent one into space... slavs started with dogs... like all good people, i would too have kept the cats grounded in atmosphere; well, the oedipal riddle began with a sphinx, so i'm more than ready for the cerberus.*
i'm not going to repent for
my alcoholic metabolism,
i'll wait till you turn into ostriches
ostricizing vegans for anaemia
and bulimia and the london fashion show;
bullseye market that cares for
diaphragms and diabetes; sure the arabs
are alcohol free, but diabetic
looking into the sand dunes like looking
at dunes of sugar.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC