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"dumbbell" poems
**Your bulging pecs they are perfection your skin it glows with oil but you wouldn't lift a finger for an honest day of toil. Your abs are simply perfect, boy you are really [][][][] [][][][] [][][][] [][][][] an ace. But I can tell that you're a dumbbell by that look upon your face. An anguished painful countenance that speaks like a loud shout!!! Your wife has had the nerve to ask you put the f'ing garbage out!** SoulSurvivor Catherine Jarvis (C) September 18, 2014
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Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
Dumbbell
Like the sound of the clouds clearing its way from my sight When the waves hit your leg With 9 months of dumbbell Plunge yourself to hot asphalt. Stealing your own heart before its stolen.
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Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Stealing your own heart before its stolen.
Alone. But not isolated. I am in my happy place above the music in my ears I can hear only the iron plates clang together. Along the dumbbell rack are lean twenty somethings mindlessly pumping blood into their biceps staring into the mirror like brain dead bovine their gaze is stolen only by women in painted- on leggings a staple in every gym. By myself in a room full of people I feel only displacement. I am not one of these. I am not here to work out Or look into the vanity mirror. I am here to train. To pick heavy **** off the ground and put it back down. To make my muscles scream To mutilate myself, just like yesterday just like tomorrow And the day after With calloused hands gripping the freezing bar there is no thought but understanding… You will put this weight across your back. and squat your *** down to the floor. Six reps. Or you will die trying. You will not know failure or defeat because you will be dead. The second before there is only one thought: No retreat. No surrender. Into the abyss. So that next year the weight might be thirty pounds heavier if I’m lucky. A little bigger, a little stronger, a little faster. So that in an hour I can stumble out, depleted and say “Today I went to war with myself, and the other guy lost” He didn’t just lose. I put my heel on his windpipe as he choked for air and watched the light drain from his eyes as he clawed at my shins. A victory so sweet it is worth the sleepless nights and the countless tabs of ibuprofen. Because the ache in my muscles comes close to ****** Because this musty, stale dungeon is the closest I will ever get to heaven.
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Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Heaven
Alone. But not isolated. I am in my happy place above the music in my ears I can hear only the iron plates clang together. Along the dumbbell rack are lean twenty somethings mindlessly pumping blood into their biceps staring into the mirror like brain dead bovine their gaze is stolen only by women in painted- on leggings a staple in every gym. By myself in a room full of people I feel only displacement. I am not one of these. I am not here to work out Or look into the vanity mirror. I am here to train. To pick heavy **** off the ground and put it back down. To make my muscles scream To mutilate myself, just like yesterday just like tomorrow And the day after With calloused hands gripping the freezing bar there is no thought but understanding… You will put this weight across your back. and squat your *** down to the floor. Six reps. Or you will die trying. You will not know failure or defeat because you will be dead. The second before there is only one thought: No retreat. No surrender. Into the abyss. So that next year the weight might be thirty pounds heavier if I’m lucky. A little bigger, a little stronger, a little faster. So that in an hour I can stumble out, depleted and say “Today I went to war with myself, and the other guy lost” He didn’t just lose. I put my heel on his windpipe as he choked for air and watched the light drain from his eyes as he clawed at my shins. A victory so sweet it is worth the sleepless nights and the countless tabs of ibuprofen. Because the ache in my muscles comes close to ****** Because this musty, stale dungeon is the closest I will ever get to heaven.
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Throw me in the mist of an ocean Storm Douse me in the water of Alaska during winter Place me on the hot sand of the Saharah desert in the summer Watch my skin sizzle Boiling under the sun Tie a dumbbell around my ankles Watch me sink to the bottom of the Great Lakes Latch me to the walls Throw daggers at me You want to see me fight the waves Want to see me overcome hypothermia Want to watch me fine water in the desert I can show you how to cure sun burn Want to see me escape these chains Dodge the daggers You want to see me overcome all your wicked tricks and pain Fine but you going have to torture me
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Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
Torture me
i smoke **** from time to time it takes off the stress the stress of trying the stress of waiting the stress of expecting but at times my head seems to compress, like the media around a corrupt member of congress like the callused grip of a bodybuilder on an etched dumbbell like scrap metal in the claws of a machine like the walls slowly closing in on the random superhero blood pressure builds as my veins throb my sanity robbed my thoughts lobbed but new thoughts replace the others like THC with the pride a child once gave his mother I have entered a new reality evolved in spirituality although i have left behind compatibility of being i have new ways of seeing a visionary this vision is airy i am fatigued i am fatigued time to hit another bowl time to let anxiety harness my soul let anxiety cloak me but i shall not let it devour me whole spontaneous thoughts and entropic actions but when i rely on my sole self is when i reach true satisfaction. with the high i lose all traction with sobriety i gain much love and attraction but sometimes it's nice to go off the road into unknown terrain because unknown terrain may be a new road to discover on its own I like sobriety and being high i highly enjoy being sober being high is ludicrous but then again i'd be a fool to say i wasn't crazy
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Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
that good old BUD
To Be Pressed By A Dumbbell Two fifteen pound steely danse sing wrought iron dumbbells ill-tempered, impatiently, and intensely a weight their turn to hmm... press me, and forthwith dense trait heavy handed prestidigitation to yours truly, this primate currently attempting to craft sad excuse for a poem, sans far fetched notion, aye trite re: late engendering, foisting, and goading bizarre lifelike qualities to inanimate solid helpmate to build (and/or oven just tone) muscles bitterly, painfully, resignedly wince, where washboard abdomen long a goner impossible to recoup, whar hide didst narrate ting hours sculpting great former Adonis build on these, now nada so lovely bones, and experience spiritual strife to oscillate, perhaps witness sing angst to esse skill late heady feeling healthy vim within myself, how just with verily at least dedicate half hour exercise can be great for body, mind, and soul triage, otherwise... basic gravitational laws of physics gladly hand me unwanted fate, how gradually physique will eventually demonstrate flabby, droopy, and unwanted addy post tissue create ting another reason to berate, castigate, emasculate, where self repudiation will germinate (albeit, thence in extremis), yours truly doth relinquish fitness regime resulting sparking, and taste testing casus belli dictate tête-à-tête, viz hasty unconditional surrender to a void mortal kombat, which latter, would exterminate, the forces of yin and yang, re: lee (I rub hurts) loch cur, thence finding me fraught, (yule hiss see - uselessly) grant ting soul option to disintegrate, in the event emotional civil war, rents asunder every fiber of mine being, which wrath wracked wraith self destruction twill woefully satiate.
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Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
I Cannot Weight To Hmm...
To Be Pressed By A Dumbbell Two fifteen pound steely danse sing wrought iron dumbbells ill-tempered, impatiently, and intensely a weight their turn to hmm... press me, and forthwith dense trait heavy handed prestidigitation to yours truly, this primate currently attempting to craft sad excuse for a poem, sans far fetched notion, aye trite re: late engendering, foisting, and goading bizarre lifelike qualities to inanimate solid helpmate to build (and/or oven just tone) muscles bitterly, painfully, resignedly wince, where washboard abdomen long a goner impossible to recoup, whar hide didst narrate ting hours sculpting great former Adonis build on these, now nada so lovely bones, and experience spiritual strife to oscillate, perhaps witness sing angst to esse skill late heady feeling healthy vim within myself, how just with verily at least dedicate half hour exercise can be great for body, mind, and soul triage, otherwise... basic gravitational laws of physics gladly hand me unwanted fate, how gradually physique will eventually demonstrate flabby, droopy, and unwanted addy post tissue create ting another reason to berate, castigate, emasculate, where self repudiation will germinate (albeit, thence in extremis), yours truly doth relinquish fitness regime resulting sparking, and taste testing casus belli dictate tête-à-tête, viz hasty unconditional surrender to a void mortal kombat, which latter, would exterminate, the forces of yin and yang, re: lee (I rub hurts) loch cur, thence finding me fraught, (yule hiss see - uselessly) grant ting soul option to disintegrate, in the event emotional civil war, rents asunder every fiber of mine being, which wrath wracked wraith self destruction twill woefully satiate.
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