Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Graff1980 Jul 2015
You put garbage in you get garbage out
Health food fanatics know what I am talking about
McDonalds, Arby’s and all those Buffets
Sluggish citizens working Twelve to ten
And to cover up their poor nutrition
We soup up the brackish black brew
Killing ourselves with more caffeine till
We collapse

You put garbage in you get garbage out
Good teachers with years of experience
Know what I am talking about
The tweet, the face book
Are superficial connections
Binge watching brain-dead reality show people
Speed reading unverified Articles
Peer reviewed paper by academic writers
Don’t get the press the talking heads
With party lines and hateful sentiments get

You put garbage in you get garbage out
Any poet philosopher knows what I am talking about
Flashing screens switching scenes while twitching teens
Sit texting banal and ephemeral things
No grand dreams but to be normal
No expansion of the human potential
Just block and block of picket fence prisons
Dreams are limited to advertised fantasies
Andressa Leite Nov 2011
they say dreams
are the garbage of your day.

i agree.

considering my life
consists entirely of
garbage,

there is nothing left
to do than to conclude
that yes,

my life is garbage
my dreams are garbage
therefore,
i am garbage.

but garbage gets taken out
and picked up by men
every week.
so I guess I can't be
garbage
after all.
John Stevens Oct 2014
Driving down the road
1994. Daughter 13.

Song on the radio
not to my taste.
So bad, Dad had to comment.

"That sounds like garbage"
Said I to daughter #1
"Yes it is" came the reply.
"And you like that?" Said I.
"Yes I do." said she.
"Why?  It is garbage!"
"Yes it is." Said she.
"Listen to it. It sounds like garbage."
"That is because it is." said she.
"I never heard such garbage before"
"It is a new song." said she.
"It is still garbage."
"Yes it is." said she.
"Why do you like garbage?"
I Like their music." said she.
"Their music?" said I
"Yes. The groups name is
     GARBAGE."

Who knew.
Obviously not Dad.

(c) Dad
Oct. 2014
Fortunately garbage did not last long.
I guess it was taken to the dump.
july hearne Jul 2018
we are not safe
all the markets could come crashing down
it could happen any day now

a blue origin rocket ship
never making it to its final destination

no man knows the hour or the day
no man knoweth that

bridget jones had her cigarettes
with wine and mr darcy
but i only have **** and a plastic
one liter bottle of coke zero
and no mr darcy to know the hour or the day

helen fielding, enabler of the delusional,
recycled happy endings

but the plastic coke bottle
isn't a jane austen novel
and the chinese don't want our garbage anymore

there is enough garbage in china already

"there are 8.3 billion tons of plastic in the world"
8.8 million metric tons are chinese trash
for the yangtze river to carry to the sea

sometimes i feel just like garbage previously shipped to china

trash and blue origin debris
comeuppance for the yangtze river to carry to the sea







endless oceans end
same place plastic rocketship garbage begins
https://www.rt.com/business/432912-us-waste-recycling-landfills-china/

"Garbage previously shipped to China is now piling up in places like the processing plant in Elkridge, Maryland, where tons of trash arrive every day from the US capital."
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
Start and stop
Up the street,
Turn 180,
Repeat the beat.
The gurus on
Confessional wheels,
Absolve our sins,
Emptying bins.
I swear
They swear
A solemn oath
Never to
Disclose the truth
Found in our garbage
By the brethern,
Garbage stinking
To high heaven.
Bottles, syringes,
Boxes, bones,
Peelings, plastics,
Old cell phones,
Discarded trash
From our homes.
Wrappings bleeding
Seeping ****:
*By our garbage
Ye shall know us.
Creep Jan 2015
Chonny: -in car- Hey, dad?
Dad: What?
Chonny: Which way to the doctors again?
Dad: You have to turn left here and then go straight. Okay, hey what you do at doctor anyway? You sick? Eat some panadol then.
Chonny: Oh no no, I'm going there for a blood test 'cause I wanna find out what blood type I am.
Dad: Oh, ok. Is this what you do in your spare time?
Chonny: It's kinda for my work.
Dad: It's kinda... gay.
Dad: Hey boy. How's school?
Chonny: Oh, not that good... um... I get bullied at school...
Dad: Who cares? I just want to know the result from your report card!
Chonny: Oh uh uh they're pretty good, I got a A+ in math.
Dad: Mm. That's okay. 7 times 7!
Chonny: 49!
Dad: Mm. That's okay.
Chonny: I got a A+ in Chemistry.
Dad: Mm, that's good, make me the drug.
Chonny: A+ in Physics.
Dad: Mm. That's okay, you could have done better.
Dad: What about the English?
Chonny: Uh.. I got uh....
Dad: What about the ENGLISH?
Chonny: I got a... I got a...
Dad: WHAT ABOUT THE ENGLISH?!
Chonny: I got a... B, B+.
Dad: B+?! WHA, WHA, B PLUS?!?
Mom: B PLUS?!
Dad: B PLUS AGAIN?! That's it. Too late. No more chance. You die.
Chonny: WHAT?! Why?
Dad: You die, ok? When we get home, I'm gonna go to the backyard, okay, get my butcher knife, chop the branch, chop the stick from the tree, very long one, and I'm gonna have to whip a *****, I'm gonna have to whip you! I'm gonna have to whip you!
Chonny: NO! No, sorry dad! I'm sorry!
Dad: Sorry is not an excuse, okay. Just listen to my lecture, listen, listen carefully.
Chonny: -sniffs-
Dad: Ok. A, it stand for the good job. Ok. A stand for the good job, you have to get A. It stand for the good job. A stand for: A doctor. A lawyer. A dentist. Ok? All the good job.
Chonny: Then that means A can stand for a garbage man.
Dad: Garbage man? Ga- garbage man?! GARBAGE MAN START WITH A G! NO WONDER YOU FAIL THE ENGLISH! YOU CAN'T EVEN SPELL DA GARBAGE MAN! Just get out of my car, ok. We already at the doctor. Just get out.
Chonny: -gets out of car-
Dad: Garbage... ugh. Garbage man start with a G. Even I know that and I can't even spell garbage.

30 Minutes Later

Chonny: -gets back into car-
Dad: So how was it? Your blood all good?
Chonny: Yeah, yeah, it was all good.
Dad: So what the result? What blood type are you?
Chonny: Um, my blood type is B positive.
Dad: B positive? B PLUS?! B PLUS AGAIN?!?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IN7o2Iy89WQ

watch the video, the accents r hilarious XD one of my favorite videos, yourchonny is the best, he's my favorite youtuber! :D

(no song, just the video for this one ^^)
jo forstrom Jan 2014
The Garbage.

The garbage sits out here

Piled as though sky high with no more bridges left to cross over

And here I am

Sitting here nestled inside of this pile high garbage

For these earthly deeds of mine are now all done.

And it is I that now hears that so long ago distant hum

A hum of substance

And of such intense sound
that only I can seem to be of

As it just tends to hum along with the sound of this huge garbage truck that has now come to a sudden instant halt

And a voice yells out

Who let you become of this pile of all garbage ever

And I say to him so out-loud

It is all that I am worth.

jo.
jeffrey robin Aug 2010
"the Garbage Cans!.......
.....................covet the
Garbage Cans!!"

this was my father's
........... ...."grave advice"

and he was
.........................so right!

I

(moving stealthily!)

thru the rich neighborhoods

KNOWING THE BEST UNGUARDED GARBAGE CANS!

shall remain
.................................well fed and healthy

watching all you others
so simply
.........................die
punk rock hippy Jul 2014
I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I swear.

I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.

******.

Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.

I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.

That's not right.
That's wrong.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.

That's what I do,
I fix.
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.

I'm too scared to write anymore.


This is garbage.
Nis Jul 2018
Among the garbage and the flowers,
forgotten between stars,
abandoned by their creator,
who probably didn't even exist;
a poet is born.
They care not much for their life
for they've seen through it, they know.
Not different from their peers,
not new in their painful world,
sometimes garbage, sometimes a flower,
maybe forgotten, maybe a star,
certainly a creator.
They know and are known,
they love and are loved,
they hate and are hated.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a totem is erected, its life decided,
it's grow is determined, forever.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
between the poet and the totem
a poem falls and makes a soundless noise.
Dutiful in its love and hate,
it loves the totem and hates the poet.
It moves, unmoved and unmoving,
away from the poet to the totem,
it races towards an unseen goal line.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a photo is taken,
an image of a poet, a totem, a poem.
Something calls your attention
you look at it, and they are gone.
She kept bringing
abstracts out from
a huge cardboard box
as the next artwork
revealed itself
the box produced another
more bizarre than the last.

Drawn on pizza boxes
maccaroni,glued and painted
kleenex box canvases
and a few done in ketchup.

She kept pulling them out
and she was loaded.

I drank my beer
and I sort of saw
I kinda felt where
they came from.

The Greek laughed
and cursed
I've thrown them away many times
but she keeps digging them out of the trash

I'll throw them away again
into the trash
with her wine bottles
and stripper clothes
he sat down
hit his joint.

Why don't you
let her keep these
I asked the Greek.

Because it's garbage
she too is garbage
her,and her art
both garbage.

She mumbled
something not hearable
while clutching her
baby doll.

I walked to the can
and threw away
my empty bottle.

I wanted to give
this to you and
I handed Frankie
the drawing I had made him.

He seemed pleased
and handed me another beer.

The Greek thought it
was **** I could tell.

He told me my garbage
wasn't any better than
her garbage artwork.

The energy's gotta
go somewhere
might as well be on these
canvases and pizza
boxes I said.

We sat there
for a few more hours
as Frankie finished
my Ruin symbols on
his large,silver grinder.

The Greek and the girl
finally left the
room and i was
relieved and the
room slowly
lost it's superfluous
tension.

I sat there in
Vegas staring
at the box of
GARBAGE
Jack Aug 2014
-

You took out the trash,
I never came in again
William Robinson Jun 2016
oh **** oh **** oh ****!
I missed the garbage truck
I have a bin full of trash
full of people I want to smash.
Pain is the only thing they give
a people plague that pollutes  
the life I live.
But when the garbage truck arrives
and it will tomorrow morning
I will throw these people out
without a single warning.
Sometimes you can't always remove the people that pollutes your life so you have to wait for the right moment.
Aric Wheeler May 2013
The garbage in my room
Smells like embarrassment
It’s the hot Cheetos bag that sits in my desk
It’s the q-tips with earwax
The ideas that float around in my head
And my roommates toenail clippings

The garbage in my room
Clutters the free space
Taking up room that it should not take
The shopping bags and boxes
That held beautiful things
Now empty and cumbersome

The garbage in my room
Takes up my memory
Forgotten blog posts and poems
Fill the hard drive in my brain
Silly thoughts and quips
Only attempt to clear it out

The garbage in my room
Sits in the can
Thinking of ways to grow
Out of proportion
Waiting to spill out onto the floor
And start crawling up the walls

The garbage in my room
Needs to be taken out.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
<•>
4/10/18 10:55pm ~ 4/22/18 2:02 am

Introduction

a simpler than plain fact,  
deserving reflection beyond the obvious,
containing obverse emotional mine field sonar arrays
floating on an ocean unhidden,
listening for the ocean's bleeping hid-dens,
before surrendering to its ****-sinking power of time/gravity
the better life elsewhere is always someone’s misery


<•>
confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage

someone stood on lower Broadway at 5am
watching the sanitation men sweeping up the aftermath of a super bowl  victor’s celebration, with broom heads borrowed from giants’ moustaches

passage of a single thought,
that the victorious celebrated on the parade should
a posteriori be required to participate
in this flip-side experience as
‘active cleaner uppers,’
re-enacting the famous Persian Sufi adage,

“this is too shall pass”

someone whispers we have blessed lives,
rich in the experiential, free of the dragging boredom
of the daily draining of making it, head well above of the
humanizing periodic regularizing water dunkin’ reminder
of just
or

“we too shall pass”

so even the confetti honorees must have too someone whose
life to aspire, the top of the heap, in chained food chain world

assaying perfection and the luck thereof,
picture perfect lives cannot withstand tsunamis of
waves eroding their shapes, wearing boundaries down,
do not forget the invisible invitation from the riptide
just beneath the calm surgical surficial surfacing disguises

if you face my book, will find in a later chapter prior
the fine sorry lines, the pierced titanium bulletproof vest,
the divorces of mistakes remade, the haunted envisioning,
the obligatory items that keep you awake, those awesome
responsibilities that take many small bites of a soul’s coverlet
that cannot be removed isolated jailed or desperate destroyed

confetti rained interspersed with droplets of sand grains,
this man of constant tomorrows, hopeful Mondays, bad Fridays,
is a man of constant sorrows,
pictures and poems life celebrating a never allowed to forget
lucky runs out like the string from packages saved
when no more packages arrive

when the packages no longer get delivered
oh that started years ago, when came the bile instead
of the blood’s replacement clotting factors

passing is a sometime thing
sometime is a most imprecisely defined terminus
sometime means that today’s confetti is a day away
as resurrected garbage
but nonetheless,
you are forever responsible for the cleanup


a picture worth a thousand words
but in me lives
tens of ten thousands words,
including

“this is too shall pass”

<•>
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2467058/writers-block-kick-the-editor-out-of-the-room/
finally finished fin
the garbage truck didn't turn up to-day
and the neighborhood trash stunk all day
a gross smell drifted across the street
it was akin to a rotting pile of peat

the council have heard the odd gripe
they've been told that the ******* is ripe
the residential area is no perfumery
our quarter acre blocks are so stinky

we'll be forced to vacate the neighborhood
as uncollected garbage is far from good
the air is heady with stale fish and curry
vegetable matter and an assortment of slurry

it is hoped that a truck can soon be found
as we'll be decamping the area's bounds
our noses have had a harrowing time
inhaling a stench which isn't sublime
david badgerow Jan 2012
you taste like candy
and i am starving and swallowing your tricks
i dreamt of a greasy hotel and
a box to sleep in.
i am not a cannibal,
i am not a sky diver
& and i am not a pilgrim,
but i hunger for your body
and i'm falling for your holy curves.
i will hang from your window and dance in the sunlight
even though i am not a pink velvet curtain.
i am a garbage-collector poet,
fresh from the allabaster market
who has found the words once lost
in a dark fox hole
near the bend of a lazily flowing river.
all i need is a dime and a glass vase,
a short story and a wet cigarette.
i've come back to town--i climbed right out of that stop sign
standing on a shotgun bullet-holed volkswagon
with a 7 day hangover
holding burning grace in my hands and you say
"lead me to the garbage"
carrying with you a bag of soggy french fries
and i stop to show you a dying tulip,
and we watch as it floats into a cloud.
we'll hide all our money in a glowing furnace
and as i try to write this with a water logged pen
you show me pictures of shirley temple with her head in a noose.
my name is not moses, and i do not want to be remembered.
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you,
something stronger, more intelligent,
more evil, more kind, more durable,
something bigger, something better,
something worse, something with
eyes like the tiger, jaws like the shark,
something crazier than crazy,
saner than sane,
there is always something or somebody
waiting for you
as you put on your shoes
or as you sleep
or as you empty a garbage can
or pet your cat
or brush your teeth
or celebrate a holiday
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you.

keep this fully in mind
so that when it happens
you will be as ready as possible.

meanwhile, a good day to
you
if you are still there.
I think that I am---
I just burnt my fingers on
this
cigarette.
Poetoftheway Aug 2018
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
DC raw love Dec 2014
i'll take you for a ride
in my garbage truck

i'll take you to the dump
because i an't clean

i'll show you my past
from my garbage truck

you see out there
in that pretty dump
thats all of my past

do you like
my garbage truck
SP Blackwell Mar 2013
I am sitting on a broken branch

under the drug addled canopy of insecurities and lies.

I am feeling the steady sway of an oxycontin daze.

Walking slowly through a ketamine daydream that pulls at my core

like a phantom puppet master controlling my limbs.

It crashes into my brain like the breaking waves on the shore.

Breathing in nicotine filtered filth as I wait to catch a breath of fresh air.

Lungs filled with recycled tar that prevents me from gasping.

In darkened corners where lies sleep and rumors are hidden,

I wait.

I dance on a tightrope between conscious and subconscious

that is held by reality and dreams.

Dark sunglasses on to avoid

the blinding stinging light of what is real.

Mirrored glasses are reflecting the reflections back at intruders.

Deflecting glances, shifty eyes, and dilated pupils

searching for a focus point of truth  

in a neon technicoloured blur of hypocrisy.

The background blaring horns blended with a steady bass line

mimics my heartbeat.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

The fading noises pass quickly,

highlighted with insults and curses of hate and gossip

that are forgotten before you can make them out.

Spun truths turned into lies

intermixed with resin

left from yesterday.

The litter paved streets break under my heels.

Click clack. Click clack.

Broken and cracked

like the false promises

And hopes

And dreams

of those who have walked here before.

The monotonous pace is repeated

only pausing to notice the gum under the stiletto

that fails to hold her in place

as she runs towards the wet cement that has replaced

another sheet of cracked concrete.

The wet cement that has covered another lie

in order to show the simplicity of fake appearances.

A reminder of how easy it is to replace and mask

the hate filled holes that get trampled on.

The flicker of hope is suddenly unseen

like the street light lined alley that is now dark.

The stench of garbage, decay, and rotting flesh

is mixed with expensive perfume, sweat, make-up, and spilled *****.

Garbage cans are filled with the leftovers of last night.

A *** stained dress with no owner draws no attention

as the sound of snapping latex is muffled

by the screams of ecstasy that rapidly fade

like the fleeting feeling of MDMA.

Thick white ****** fluid oozes out like human glue

in an attempt to mend the lack of connection.

Strangers intertwined in hasty conversations

waiting for human contact to forget

that they are in dark alleys.

To forget

that they live in dark places

where no one lays down wet cement.

The distorted reality of alleys deceive passer bys

into thinking that they are not menacing

has been weaved like a web by street sweepers and garbage men.

The pressing sense of the need to avoid the sweepers

is unsaid but felt.

They falsely clean what will always be *****.

The *** filled backstreets yearn for love

like the treacherous woman guarding its corner.

Daddy issue lined dresses are asking to be undone

just like her lost innocence that can never be mended.

The issues and clothing that can never be fixed

abandoned on top of garbage cans for someone else to pick up.

Patches of dead grass are left

untended, unwatered, and unwanted

waiting to be replaced by wet cement.

Wet cement that soon enough will crack and break

under the heavy heated pressure of the stomping heels

of lost Girls in a desolate city.

Blood trickled trails are left behind

that have dried into the cigarette lined streets that lead nowhere.

The injured egos of men are left to linger at back doors

that will never be opened.

******* induced insanity whirls around a flurry

of whispers and paranoia wanting to here the Truth

between the spewed anger and rage of the low toned hushed voices

that wish not to be heard.

Whiskey hinted murmurs pressing on the sidewalk cracks

knowing that they will never be heard.

Looking into the dark where

Truth will never be seen.

The constant beat of narcotic users searching

for salvation in pre-packed bags of white powder,

digging for redemption in empty bottles of multi-colored pills.

Screaming through the silence,

They are not heard.

The desperation can be heard through the whining moans

of the junkies that are tethered to addiction.

The over whelming sound of

Want and Need and Lust

move through the streets like the overflowing gutter water.

Heartbeats are replaced with the impatient pacing of

her stilettos waiting for her pain to cease.

Stilettos stomping on broken dreams

waiting to cross broken streets.

She gazes at the other side as if it is different.

Stilettos tapping on the street

waiting for the firm grasp of a sweaty hand to distract her from reality.

Waiting to be touched

And grabbed

And ******

                                              In hopes that love will arise from ****** ****** encounter with

strange men in uncomfortable places.

Clothes are feverishly removed with the promise of

flesh on flesh enveloped in a hazy cloud of body heat

that warns off the internal coldness.

Heavy breath and touch and kiss release chemicals

to replace the drug depleted emptiness.

The rhythmic sound of rubbing flesh mingles with

the moaning of the streets.

It fuses with the short lived pleasure laden moans of

lonely people and un-climatic *******.

Awkward silences are brief as the sound of her heels owns the street.

Click clack. Click clack.

The sound of stilettos on cement hurriedly walking away when there is

no longer a need for his body heat.

That unmistakable click clack click clack

on uneven, *****, dangerous streets.

Red lipstick smeared stains are the only trace of her that is.

That is the only trace of me that is left.

Click clack steady on the street.

Steady like mimicking bass line

Click clack heartbeat.

The crunch of broken glass under the stiletto

echoes her broken dreams.

Click clack.

Head held high never looking at the ground as she walks forward.

Click clack. Click clack.

Click clack.

The urban mud of

Wet cement goes

Squish!

under her stiletto.



V.Mata
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2015
Dumpsters rain on lots,
Seagulls fly over asphalt,
  .  .  .  Ocean food waiting.
Marigolds Fever Oct 2018
Night at the garbage dump
Sparkle starlight night
Leaves room for little delight
Speedy legs
Out for a spin
Adventure begs
Drags the wind
Follow a leader
To a place one longs to linger
A flight that’s eerie
What’s in store
Darkness galore
Only four hilltops more
Up up up
Around the bend
Climb to come back again
Clouds through moonlight
Old concrete pebbled on the side
Glow with strange historic pride
Field grasses slow to bend
Smells you would not befriend
Below dark field
A collective treasure of human endeavor
One would not dream whatsoever
Crunchy soil
A perfect spot for the voile
Sit below the grassy line
Take in the oddity with too much wine
Head on a swivel
Watch your back
Never know what’s lurking to attack
Time is up
Must not leave the cup
Only once a garbage dump  
Watch the stump
Fly down in pitch dark
Not mistaken for the park
Former mans duty
Listen closely
To the beckoning tutti
It sings in rare night beauty
sarah minks Dec 2011
The floor was strewn all over
With children’s toys and books
With ***** clothes and rotting food
And sticky disgusting Popsicle wrappers
With shoes and socks and dishes
And garbage
With cat hair and dog ****
And dead plants that never had a chance
Splats of ketchup and mustard adorned the counter tops
And smears of chocolate and grease covered the refrigerator door  
Inside the sink the roaches crawled freely over the never washed dishes
The air was filled with the toxic ammonia of cat **** and spoiled left overs
A layer of dust covered every book and nick knack never touched on the shelves
Every place to sit was sticky and hairy
And your shoes became trapped to an increasingly vile floor
The garbage can filled to over flowing
With more bags of garbage sitting waiting to be taken elsewhere and two grown adults never bothering to take them
And quite seriously the mother of this outfit dares scold the little boys and bellows at them to clean their rooms
Seriously!  What the hell!
The air so filled with dust and hair and cigarette smoke is a nightmare even for those not suffering of asthma or allergies
I think I now know what is meant by “We were all yellow”
And the bathroom
Oh my god the bathroom
It might have surpassed the filth of the worst road trip gas station bathroom
A gross grey film covering every inch of every surface rings of repulsive ghastly filth covered over in endless dust and grime and drips and drops and hair and *** and blood
And still more garbage stinking putrid garbage
Never removed
And all household members sitting staring blankly at the filthy television screen or mindlessly surfing the net at the half broken computer
Except the children who got no attention
No love
And had no hope of positive reinforcement
One lighting the tacky and ratty cotton curtains on fire
the other standing on a chair in the middle of the room and peeing on the floor
as the baby sister sat fat and screaming in her own filth
hair matted by chocolate fudge pop
she was too young to have been given
all the children’s clothing was soiled and covered in food
Presumably from days of wearing the same clothing
Because no one cared for them
Or for themselves
What was the point of giving these children life?
Or toys or pets to play with
If only to ruin all they had
Which was meager to begin with
What is the point of setting up house
If only to fail to keep it clean
And to yell and fight constantly  
Relying only on the past experiences of your own childhood and never to even try
To rise above it
Living life in your imagined trauma
And creating for your family very real and lasting trauma
But you’ll never give a ****,
You’ll never grow up,
You’ll never see the consequences of your actions just barley scraping by the law
Someone called me worthless once
And many people think I am barley adequate
But I would rather be adequate
Then be genuinely worthless and horrid
I would rather be caring and honest
Then a pig headed ***** constantly screaming at my children but doing absolutely nothing myself
Living my life with no empathy and no emotions but my own thinking only of myself and what I want
Thinking about ways to make others do for me giving nothing in return
So I will forget about you wasted people and your unfortunate children
I will tend to my house, my family, and my work
And I will not let my past become my future
I will improve myself and my life
Being grateful for the things I have
And learn not to covet what others have
I will be stronger then the pigs I suffered through living with
And I will be happy to be adequate
Happy to be free of swinish people
And be the me that I have become
this is a real family i really lived with i could say more but i don't want to reveal too much
Z Aug 2018
Too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many faces

Yea, what’s the feeling of success?
Achieved so many things, but all I feel is regret,
I feel alone inside my head what don’t you get?
Wake up every morning like it’s still my set,
Reminisce on where I come from so I don’t forget,
Been to rehab a dozen times, they called me a vet,
You thought you knew me, I haven’t opened the curtains yet

Alcohol destroyed all my relationships
Forgot most of my life - except for the video clips,
Poisoned my brain to forget the pain, on the daily I feel insane
I’m above the ground though I can’t complain, god relieve this pain
I feel like I drank the blood of Cain,

Every day is a surprise, my brain tells me I’m so wise,
But he’s a master in disguise, while I’m the one who cries,
He’s the one who lies,
To me in my own voice watching my demise,
When he’s in in control anything flies,
It scares me, I built a fortress to disguise,
This out of control mind, I want to cut the ties
A Broad perception, in a beautiful world, through these eyes,

Try to express my feelings, no one can understand
**** it no one can, this experience is mine god had it planned
Just hope I can grow up to be the man,
The one he created to do whatever he can,
Yea, whatever he wants, his drive his will he can make a stand,
A visionary, Socrates his thoughts are grand,

Who do I trust, who I am or who I want to be,
It’s confusing with a devil living inside of me,
Loving spouse, family man what I try to be,
This bipolar got a hold of me,
Blindfolding me I can’t see,
Please doctor doctor set my mind free,
I thought I knew everything with my degree,
The lessons I learned from the things I failed to see,

Mommy and daddy got divorced when I was a kid,
I think I was 8, I can’t remember, who am I to kid,
My first blackout in life, daddy’s about to lose his wife,
So much anger, “he’s” telling me to find the knife,
Take it to the artery just a little slice,
Life’s not as nice, as people make it seem,
No one hears me scream, from the pain,
Inside this brain, some days I feel insane,
110 on the freeway trying to stay in my lane,
Drunk driving no I’m not sane,
Getting high to alleviate the pain

One day I can be the man, goals, driven, and full of will,
The next be full of sadness, regret, life stands still,
I can remember anger that drove me to ****,
You don’t know how I feel,
People probably thought I made a deal,
With the devil to have all this skill,
I write all these thoughts, hoping there’s a heart to fill,

Hope someone can relate,
I hope my pain makes you elate,
My perceptions not up for debate,
Here is my life there’s no room to understate,
The reality of my life and the things on my plate,
Strive to be in a mentally stable state,
Sometimes life’s not so great,
My minds locked in a crate, and he is the key holder of my fate,

My life feels like an afterthought,
Stepdad thought love was something that could be bought,
Used to get in trouble every time I got caught,
Only if they knew the realism of what I did, or maybe they ought
Not to know, but for the sake of the flow, I’m going to let go,
Put on a show so they finally understand what they missed long ago,

Let’s start as a little boy, all the love you showed was a decoy,
For the truth that mommy and daddy were ready to destroy,
Split us up, brown moving boxes was it all momma’s ploy?
I still don’t know the truth, I don’t want to ask or annoy

They say they fell out of love, how can you fall out of love,
Unless you gave up? Don’t you realize who’s above,
Poor American white family, three kids and divorced, man the stereo type fits like a glove,
Never got physically, but always received a verbal shove,
Psychologically I wish I could dispose of,
This garbage that’s left behind, in this mind how am I supposed to give away free love,


One day at a time, one fight, I’m going to give it all my might,
Serenity prayer please give me the light,
To accept my life and guide me right,
Some days things are out of sight,
God comfort me so I feel alright,
I’m shrouded in darkness, call me the dark knight,
Noble I’m my cause, daily life’s a plight,

As a teenager I survived off my drive,
Then there was the day I didn’t want to be alive,
Locked those feelings deep in the archive,
Padlocked in the deep parts of the brain so they don’t thrive,
Questioning the purpose of life when I was five,
Asked about space and God, curiosity already took a dive,
Most people and me don’t really jive,
One instinct on my mind is to survive,
Mania kicking in putting me in overdrive,
Found out when I was twenty-five,
I’m mentally ill, my life took a nose dive,
Time to wake up and revive,
It’s time to deprive,
The addiction and the **** I do to connive,
God im going to work on my life until arrive,
To the kingdom, hopefully I live to see thirty-five,

Todays a new day, no telling what I might do,
Try to hold my family together, backbone and the glue,
Just accept my view, everything’s not about you,
Been self-reflecting, I’m having a break through,
This story is contagious, call it reality flu,
Knocked on deaths door, Alcohol blood volume .492,

What was I thinking? Pores stinking, breath wreaking,
Family and friends shrieking, at all my drinking,
Woke up surrounded by the medical team,
Asked me if I was suicidal, I said what do you mean?
I’m a genius, with a good job, had one since fourteen,
Worked hard my whole life, why am I here confused as hell - creating a scene,
Needle in my arm, threatening to restrain me,
God please set me free, right now you’re the only one that can help me,
Ready to fight the doctors and nurses, now they’re going to petition me,

When I opened up my eyes,
Seen my momma with tears in her eyes,
Most painful look I’ve ever seen on her face,
Now I feel like a huge disgrace, wish she knew gods grace,
My hearts racing at a fast pace, anxiety took over freaking out in this place,
The realest hug ive ever felt was from momma while I was in that room,
Time to clean up my life, time to clear my mind and get out of the back room,
Where my thoughts are locked, time to forgive and bury the in their own tomb,
Most think they know me, and its dangerous to assume,
Most my life you seen me in my costume, hiding behind the monster of doom,
Spent so many hours in my bedroom, drinking so much leaving behind an ethanol fume,
Days later it’s still hanging around, how the poison turns everything into a darkroom.

12 days locked in the psych ward, hopefully I can move my life forward,
Dr. says I had an episode of major depression, I forgot to tell them about my secret obsession,
These words are the closest thing I have to a confession,
When I die take my brain for a case study dissection,
Don’t let my evil said lead you to mis-direction,
When im aware I can make the correction,
What an elusive lie, chasing perfection,
Life is about love and a real connection,
God im tired, give me a symbol give me direction,

Therapy sessions for years, did nothing to help these tears,
Still react with impulsion and anger, watch out for the danger,
the biggest fear ive ever had was the fear of myself,
and the things I was capable of to destroy myself or secure the wealth.
So many secrets it’s a masquerade, im hidden behind my stealth,
The lies created to maintain this alter-ego destroying my mental health,

My biggest pains in life are when I had it all and left it all,
My depression after mania was the biggest fall,
I felt like I was the king of the world, king of the jungle; hear my call,
My ego inflated from my achievements, made me feel tall,
Daddys dream was his oldest boy would play college ball,
Just like the song boys of fall,

Daddys dream wasn’t mine to live,
But that wont stop me from giving all I can give,
Im sorry for the night I was drunk and we got combative,
I shut that night out its not something I want to relive,
Please daddy forgive, now you’re so corroborative.

Now momma I know we do not speak,
The real issue is we don’t want to feel weak,
Why are we so strong, the ones who cant take critique,
Maybe we are so unique, and live life with such technique,
The type of thoughts people think are antique,
Their arguments bleak, our common point is its our mind we speak,

Im ready for the conversation, a common destination,
Where we live in harmony, and actions don’t lead to causation,
I hope my dictation, and the acceptance of your creation,
Allows you to accept me and the ground I call my foundation,
Rebuild our family, together we can create a formation,
Our time and love the only donation, mix em together titration,
It’s a ruination of the family, its everything I wanted it to be,

Ive struggled with every relationship,
With anyone I let close I seem to lose myself and flip the script,
Those evil days I hide in my mind, security equipped and encrypt,
I feel like im writing a manuscript, a story of a man who slipped,
On the struggles of life, and opportunities that have been stripped,

Went to college on a full ride, paid for room and board seen the debt and just about cried,
350 a month to the government talk about a life hurdle that broke my stride,
Since graduation I noticed im the new dr. jekyl and mr hyde,
Success in my life was implied, mental health hit me on my broadside,
Missed my grad school opportunity, I should have applied,
Had love going for me, turned into a landslide,
All I want to do is have a good job and be able to provide,
Im not the only one suffering this epidemic is worldwide,
I just want to sit by the lake side, retire and reside,
Somewhere peaceful where a simple life is implied,
The only downside, is the demon inside me that takes me on the regular for a joyride.

Worked 80 hours a week, drinking a fifth a day,
Most people don’t even know what to say,
To me it was just another day,
Its about to get nasty watch out for the word play,
Life not black and white live in the grey,
Area, mass hysteria, my mind runs astray,
Enough liquor in my blood to make me sway,
One wrong move may be my doomsday,
I write about my life like a final exam essay,
Giving it my all no halfway,
Yea, im making headway, opening the doorway,
For all to enter; serve up my experience like a fine dining entrée,
Living check to check, cant wait for payday,
Maybe someday, ill be on the golden walkway,
To the kingdom of god then ill be okay,
Impulses so strong its hard not to obey,
The other side of me that’s so hard to portray,
When hes manic I get risqué,
Let me paint a picture, get your tickets to the screenplay.

They say its not what you go through, but what you became of it,
My lifes not a stereotype, those stipulations don’t fit,
I seem to get back up after every hit, I couldn’t write this skit,
Im trying to use my ****, my mind feels split, I cant take this ****,
I just want to quit, go to therapy to learn skills and what to omit,
From my life, its hard ill have to admit,
Elementary school I realized I was a misfit,
Dreams in the stars, illuminated and moonlit,
Building a legacy without a permit,
Try to live life so im not a hypocrite.

Shocked by the responses to voice and gods word,
You can say in high school I was a nerd,
Football MVP and valedictorian man that’s absurd,
Wanna know my secret, ask me the password,
Stand on my own, not a part of the heard,
Forgive me for all my problems and troubles that have occurred.

The darkest secret you don’t know,
Is that im not motivated by the dough,
It’s the times where Im feeling high and low,
Sometimes it feels like time is slow,
The biggest crush to my ego,
Was when I had a 20-gauge ready to pull the trigger and blow,
Racking the shells, playing with the ammo,
The rest of my life I was about to forego,
I wanted to let go, because I wanna know
I write to share my story of experience, strength and hope.
In Recovery mentally and Recovering from substance abuse
M G Hsieh May 2016
Munting hiram na buhay,                             When will this rented
kelan pa yayaon?                                            lifetime pass?
Pina-walang kabuluhan                                Time has taken  
ang oras na lumipas.                                      the sense of things.
Panahon na sinaksi                                         I have witnessed
pawang di akin sarili.                                    what is not mine.

Kelan ang katapusan?                                    When will this end?
Sa oras ng pagtanggap                                   In accepting
ng tinig mo? Irog,                                            your voice? My dear,
ika'y aking kamatayan.                                   you are my death.

Ano ang pinangakong                                    Where is
payapa at galak,                                               peace and joy
kung puso'y sumisikap                                   if the heart still toils
sa inaasahang pangarap?                                towards it's endeavors?

Kelan mabubuksan                                          When will I unlock
ang pagkakataon ng pangakong                    the promise
ligaya mula sa kamay mo?                              from your hands?
Di pa sapat ang pagsunod?                             Is compliance not enough?

Asan na ang hinanap pangarap na ligaya,      Where is happiness
mula sa pawis, pagnanasa?                               sought with sweat and desire
Gawin ang lahat                                                  of risking all                
sa anumang konsekwnsya?                               no matter what?

Sino ako? Taong                                               Who am I? so presumptive
mapangahas sa sariling kalooban,                 of my own will,
ligaw sa ilang,                                                   lost in the wild,
lasing sa layaw,                                                  drunk for indulgence,
lulon sa kadiliman at kawalan.                        drowned into its depths.

ano ako sa Yo?                                                   what am i to You?
yapak.                                                      ­           footprints.
alabok.                                              ­                  dust.
pinag-duraang basura ng lansangan.            garbage spit in the street.

Ginawa mo aking kapalaran,                           You made me thus,
palayok at pinggan.                                           as a clay ***.
Sa yong kagustuhan                                          Transformed and used
tadhanang pupuntahan.                                    for what you forge.

Aking tanggap                                                    I accept
kawalan ng karapatan,                                      lost of rights,
pagsuko ng kalayaan,                                       surrendered freedom,
layag sa kagustuhan,                                         adrift from wants,

yaong kababaan.                                                and lowly.
Paglisan ng sarili, bihag                                    when i abandon myself, as Your
at lingkod mo,                                                      captive and servant
nawa'y malaya sa mundo.                                  may i be free of this world.
Becca Lansman May 2017
Give it back.
I did not build myself from paper mache only to wooed by a man undeserving of everything that makes me powerful.
I know I should not cry.
God—I know I should not ******* cry.
You are undeserving of the ocean that swells inside me— I will not spill for you.
I will not let you lick up the salt.
You have taken enough. Built this storm inside my chest only for it wrap itself around my lungs.
To the **** boy that stole my heart and threw it in the garbage as if it was leftovers: I am still searching through plastic bottles and used tissues.  
Trying to dust myself off
but i am still  the **** of your sick joke. The ***** newspaper. Yesterdays comic.
“Just another *** that wants your ****.” They scoff. As if I am nothing more than a carcass.

Burn me to ashes. Dust to dust.

Hollow me out. Chop off my *******. **** everything beautiful out of me until I am a shell of a woman. Sticking pins and needles in myself to keep from falling apart.
Wipe your feet on me. Twirl my hair in your fingers. Grab my ***. Anything. This is your world. Choke the feminist right out of me.

I’ll scream your name.

To the **** boy that stole my heart: I hope you fall in love with a powerful woman.  A woman who demands the respect I never could.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
The HUM-BUZZIN' 0f a newspaper flywheel-press
What jarred up BUZZIN' slanders will these stories hold?
On Newspaper traps where tortured minds are stuck and sold!
Where lowered human beings are treated less

On almost every city corner news is sought
Those ugly outhouse lookin' shacks disperse,
Smelly rotten things not found in beauty verse
The sensation of broken wing-ged offical caught

Garbage boy, toss my garbage at my door,
maggot level I will bend,
And claw-fetch the news of bitter end
And saaaavoooor the nasty things in store
A salute to my newspaper's sensationalism
And to myself for falling into their sticky
trap about Clinton but it didn't stick too long
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
poems like these are difficult to revise let alone convene over drunk once more, but in my own interpretation, the whole understanding of it begins with a joke: what do i care if a portent was given to him, did he think he could do anything he wanted after? it’s like me caring for albert fish sticking needles into his pelvis for that extra conductivity frying in the electric chair. but the main interpretation is as follows:

well you know how the *debye length
equation reads

  λ subscript D = 1 / F x √(RT ε subscript R ε subscript 0 / 2000I)

given that F is faraday’s constant and R is the molar gas constant and I is ionic strength,

well that got me thinking in the humanities - where are the equations for the garbage heap of phonetics when κολοκύθι looses ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota to simply say pumpkin? kolokythi? i see, ‘ above upsilon produces the kolokythi hence not kolokuthi; but still, where’s the phonetic garbage heap of ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota? it’s in equations like the debye length, the sheer complication of losing the strict individuation of the letters... unlike in latin's do re mi fa so la a b c singalong, but with that come spelling mistakes and overly eloquent spelling of words and spelling mistakes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

but i lament the fact the one of the woods i used to frequent
at night was stolen by an irish cerberus
one headed shoulder height hinger than an alsatian
chasing a rabbit one night,
and the other wood was stolen by a satanic mass
of the shrieking druid.
i miss those woods with my walk of pulverisation eyed
of faked hallucinogens of the night,
i miss them and therefore i confess like edward prior harold:
the sun will not rise from the west,
but the moon will be taken from the belly of the desert
from the realm of arabia
taken as the emblem of islam and be like the sun to japan,
the moon will be that - in the west and the north -
while the crucifix imported into the northern lands
will be sent back to those thieves of the moon
in the twinned linear parallel of the sun’s antonym
with the blood eagle stongehenge -
and i’ll not be weary to say:
a king is before a prophet’s honour in his homeland
an outcast and must remain so in order
that he might not invoke a prophet's honourable
wrath in his homeland -
but should a paul come unto a matthew
then the king's wrath is invoked!
so while a prophet’s honour is sacrificed like
isaiah’s with some king and with john the baptist
decapitated with the second king’s insurrection
so too the king’s honour is taken into consideration,
that a king hoped for keeping the egyptians cosmopolitan
with greek philosophy was what moved the nation of israel,
then too a second nation shall move
should a king's honour not profit standing still of the people.
but i too wish for a favour: i forgot what it was,
but it reminded me of something that could have been
a working household with screaming children aching for
a screening of the tate gallery in a slideshow -
but to prove god all men asked one man to renounce such
guises of the futures kept with the army of bothersome parentages.
hence i to the graveyard of the place where the 18th century
met the 20th century: as they say, they were kind to the 20th century youth,
they sent them packaged to death’s clot of chatter,
and midway, in the same century, platonism was usurped
with a care for poets! imagine it! midway they asked for the poets
to come back and arrange all the grecian lettering enigmas of the
sciences and snigger and smile at the romanic fakes of the once held by troy.
but many spoke of yod alef he waw ayin he - because so much of eve
once was that no more could be of the adam who abstracted himself
into her who once possessed him, and who unto being harmed
re-attached himself to his mother with the due humiliation she invoked in him:
but once you go back you’ll forever remain a child.
this is coming from a russian girl studying in scotland...
foreigner’s fees... cheap ***** -
my only chance of a steady income was with my father roofing!
why did you leave?
why were you rich and feared the bolsheviks by not turning into a philanthropist for a bit?!
Emma Johnson Dec 2012
The garbage man came
as I drank my coffee, flavors mixing
with my cigarette and
The Great Gatsby.
I watched him pick up the dumpster,
overturn it in his truck
and I thought of asking
what he could do about
my garbage, my treasures;
a torn bumper on
the corner of 11th and Montana Avenue,
a broken lucky cigarette,
proving my superstitions to be false, maybe,
and a half-full soul
trying to find its way
back into my heart,
that I gave to her
many years ago
but it wasn't my heart I wanted back,
just her, because
she at the time, was elsewhere
and that I couldn't handle.
I stayed silent as
he drove away
with things unwanted
wishing he could too
pick up the things
I so greatly miss
and return them to me.
C S Cizek Nov 2014
Wireshell trash can sweep-brushed
by Fusion, Alero, Chrysler Something.
They’re filled to the brim like sepia-stained
skyscrapers with swivel chairs and water cooler
pow-wows. Boss’ talking fax machines
and projections for the second fiscal quarter,
flipping a stock EKG reading on its ***. We’re
all millionaires. All up like the NYSE at seven o’clock
in our living rooms watching the fireplace
playfully threaten our investments while CNN
sends money through the VCR slot. Cars, no
garbage trucks, cars, cars, scraping hubcaps off
the high sidewalks like beautiful harpsichords.
Neighbors. Suitcases and dresser drawers
packed tight with meat tape, paper towels,
and coffee mugs/fine China make heaped trash bags
seem obsolete. There’s no garbage here.
Downtown’s neon district makes enough
that they could afford a glowsign on every window,
every square inch of every lunch special, gallery opening,
or Salvation Army bell-ringer.

Forget New York,
we're the city that never sleeps.
A poem I wrote for a film Lycoming's Crossing the Frames Productions is working on.
Bad Jokes Inc Jun 2014
I was packing some snus
when I got up from a snooze
to put a ****
In a boiling vat of hotdog juice.

She was screaming and yelling
as I poured in the salt
and the cops busted my door
as my meal came to a halt.

I said "whats the rush?"
He said "***** hush"
As he sipped very angrily
at his watermelon slush.

I am black
yes very black
so they put me in the back
of their ****** cop van.

I went to jail again
For trying to cook a ****
in a boiling vat of hotdog juice
as I watched espn.

I got out of jail
Cause my drug money was bail
went back home
to see a fresh cooked **** in my garbage pail.

I was so happy
that I took a break to fappy
on my nice leather couch
while my girlfriend was napping.

Today was a good day.
Ice cube agreed.
I smoked all of my ****
and gave into my greed.

***** don't **** my vibe.
Poetry ***** *****.

— The End —