"footrest" poems - Hello Poetry

Saturday alone on a love seat for two with my roommate plucking away at twisted nickel across the room. Unshowered, unmotivated, a maybe Monday. My clean laundry's a footrest for ***** feet fresh off the almost autumn asphalt. Come visit us. Be unshowered and unmotivated on this maybe Monday. Don't worry, the door's unlocked. There's just a few hundred flamingos waiting to get in, but they should move at the sound of your unshowered, unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps

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Sep 13, 2014

Sep 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC

christopher-cizek

A Few Hundred Flamingos

Saturday alone on a love seat for two with my roommate plucking away at twisted nickel across the room. Unshowered, unmotivated, a maybe Monday. My clean laundry's a footrest for ***** feet fresh off the almost autumn asphalt. Come visit us. Be unshowered and unmotivated on this maybe Monday. Don't worry, the door's unlocked. There's just a few hundred flamingos waiting to get in, but they should move at the sound of your unshowered, unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps

18

I was always weirdly rebellious as a child. As a teen I never pierced my tongue, Snuck boys over the house, Or stole candy bars from the convenience store. Not me, when I was little I would refuse to take my naps. I'd fake sleeping and then sit there and hum to myself, Waiting for my matka to come back and check on me. I cut my own bangs, Even when I was five. Even when I was five the day before school pictures. Matka wasn't pleased. I didn't want to learn the Polish I was being taught. I wanted to be different. I didn't want chocolate milk like everyone else. I wanted plain milk, Not sweet milk. Everyone liked sweets. I didn't like the sun, Because everyone liked the sun. I liked the rain. I wanted to be different. My favorite word was podnóżek. Do not be fooled, It is nothing pretty. It means footrest. I liked it because it was different. I wanted to be a rebel. The coolest rebel of all. One who fakes her naps, cuts her hair, drinks plain milk, and enjoys the word footrest. The coolest rebel of all.

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Jun 5, 2013

Jun 5, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC

itsfinemom

The Coolest Rebel of All

I was always weirdly rebellious as a child. As a teen I never pierced my tongue, Snuck boys over the house, Or stole candy bars from the convenience store. Not me, when I was little I would refuse to take my naps. I'd fake sleeping and then sit there and hum to myself, Waiting for my matka to come back and check on me. I cut my own bangs, Even when I was five. Even when I was five the day before school pictures. Matka wasn't pleased. I didn't want to learn the Polish I was being taught. I wanted to be different. I didn't want chocolate milk like everyone else. I wanted plain milk, Not sweet milk. Everyone liked sweets. I didn't like the sun, Because everyone liked the sun. I liked the rain. I wanted to be different. My favorite word was podnóżek. Do not be fooled, It is nothing pretty. It means footrest. I liked it because it was different. I wanted to be a rebel. The coolest rebel of all. One who fakes her naps, cuts her hair, drinks plain milk, and enjoys the word footrest. The coolest rebel of all.

31

As she sits there silently, rocking back and forth to and fro in her wooden rocking chair. Her eyes closed, head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion, pushed by her tense fists that grip each sidearm and threaten to leave marks into the dullard rich grain that smells like "childhood" covered in dust mites. Her feet propped up on a matching rocking stool, it's a set. She used to lie flat on her stomach, with her feet on the chair, and her belly on the footrest, backwards...I'm flying. Now she's grown, too awkward, too sad. He sits there in an armchair drooping with age with memories sewn into its brown decor. Smells like basement and home. Feels like creativity when life wasn't so hard. When its cushion and pillows held back the world and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped, until it plopped on his face And he would climb out and fix it because inside, he was safe, and happy. Now, his feet would be cold and his head would break the roof not that he has the imagination anymore nor the time. Sitting there, with fingers dead and withered crackling dry, voice depressed heaving sighs with every sentence and a general gloom about the room. Perfectly still, entirely quiet, that stems from silence that is only apparent after a presence has left shed from a carcass growing cold born anew to live a life till stretched and old now a red neon sign lit up, "Vacancy."

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Feb 24, 2013

Feb 24, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC

icarus-m

Merda, la morte.

As she sits there silently, rocking back and forth to and fro in her wooden rocking chair. Her eyes closed, head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion, pushed by her tense fists that grip each sidearm and threaten to leave marks into the dullard rich grain that smells like "childhood" covered in dust mites. Her feet propped up on a matching rocking stool, it's a set. She used to lie flat on her stomach, with her feet on the chair, and her belly on the footrest, backwards...I'm flying. Now she's grown, too awkward, too sad. He sits there in an armchair drooping with age with memories sewn into its brown decor. Smells like basement and home. Feels like creativity when life wasn't so hard. When its cushion and pillows held back the world and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped, until it plopped on his face And he would climb out and fix it because inside, he was safe, and happy. Now, his feet would be cold and his head would break the roof not that he has the imagination anymore nor the time. Sitting there, with fingers dead and withered crackling dry, voice depressed heaving sighs with every sentence and a general gloom about the room. Perfectly still, entirely quiet, that stems from silence that is only apparent after a presence has left shed from a carcass growing cold born anew to live a life till stretched and old now a red neon sign lit up, "Vacancy."

57

i wanted to erase all of it. . Removing tear sick about you. . About someone who never hurt me. . About someone who always erase any hopes. . You came uninvited, Prints memories for the sake of memories, Leaving a footrest without meaning, Which makes me think it is just an illusion. . But it does not mean, Like an old paper, burned by fire. If you understand, That existence means to me, like the sun is always shining on the earth pobud, But that was then, Long before you leave the self alone,

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Mar 29, 2014

Mar 29, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC

farahandhika-fonda

About You

i wanted to erase all of it. . Removing tear sick about you. . About someone who never hurt me. . About someone who always erase any hopes. . You came uninvited, Prints memories for the sake of memories, Leaving a footrest without meaning, Which makes me think it is just an illusion. . But it does not mean, Like an old paper, burned by fire. If you understand, That existence means to me, like the sun is always shining on the earth pobud, But that was then, Long before you leave the self alone,

15

This is a gift that cannot be wasted our breath to it pass through our lung it is tasted and in matters so scantly do our questions unanswered sleep quietly at the footrest of paradise We are moments awaiting to happen a gift that can hardly be wasted © tHE tERRY tREE

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Jan 30, 2014

Jan 30, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC

terry-tree

This Is A Gift

This is a gift that cannot be wasted our breath to it pass through our lung it is tasted and in matters so scantly do our questions unanswered sleep quietly at the footrest of paradise We are moments awaiting to happen a gift that can hardly be wasted © tHE tERRY tREE

12

I don’t want to watch the wallpaper yellow. The floral patterns cause vertigo, while the hallways whisper gospel sounds and talk of gelatin for dessert. I’m afraid that when I fall for another man, he will have a shearling wheelchair. Or, he will be a caregiver raising the crooked footrest. There won’t be quinoa substitute or aperitif. My meals will likely be a glass of sulfur water and mixed vegetables dressed in gravy. Derived from a cheap grocery list where my name is written In between “milk” and “flour” Because I was not remembered.

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May 15, 2019

May 15, 2019 at 10:41 PM UTC

brookewhite

Vertigo Wallpaper

I don’t want to watch the wallpaper yellow. The floral patterns cause vertigo, while the hallways whisper gospel sounds and talk of gelatin for dessert. I’m afraid that when I fall for another man, he will have a shearling wheelchair. Or, he will be a caregiver raising the crooked footrest. There won’t be quinoa substitute or aperitif. My meals will likely be a glass of sulfur water and mixed vegetables dressed in gravy. Derived from a cheap grocery list where my name is written In between “milk” and “flour” Because I was not remembered.

19