"grouch" poems
He lived under his mother roof, and
every morning he gobbled down her food
until his stomach was sickly full.
He smelled like **** and cheese
sweating bits of fish and chips,
light years ago he used to be the biggest tease.
He spent most of the time on the couch
day in, day out.
he morphed into such a grouch.
Gravity was strong with his mass,
his huge *** made a huge stamp
day after day watching the same crap.
Countless hours watching TV,
reality shows, **** and glee
************ his only ecstasy.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
The Helos hovered silently
as the Seals roped to the ground.
They touched down on Sesame Street
where the “Big Bird” could be found.
The C.I.A. had tracked him
Using feed from P.B.S.
President Mitt o.k’d the hit
when we tracked him to his nest.
A blue grouch in a garbage can
liay bleeding on the floor.
That **** named Cookie Monster
won’t eat cookies anymore.
Ernie, Bert and rubber ducky
Were in the bath they say
When Seal team six broke through the door
and blew them both away.
Big Bird hid in Hooper’s store
While all this had transpired.
Then he laid down suppressing fire
With a weapon he’d acquired
Several Seals lay silent
in that sleep that isn’t sweet.
Snuffleupagus opened up
and forced a Seal retreat.
A stealth Helo exploded
raining wreckage on the street.
Maddened Muppets hurling Bricks
compounded Mitt’s defeat.
As of today Big Bird’s at large.
Him we couldn’t whack.
The briefing failed to tell us
That a Liberal Bird fights back.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
He yells at his neighbors
and sometimes my friends
his hygiene is horrible
his breath smells like flem
when I ask him to come over, it turns into a huge affair,
cause he just sits in his lazy-boy chair and stares off into the air
he refuses to cuddle with me on the couch
but suddenly, when in bed, he is not such a grouch
his domestic habits do not exist
if they did, I would not be so ******
but for some reason
I still love him
I have no idea why
that little rat-
terrier, pug mix
**** dog of mine
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 9:59 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
I waited in time
And time was not kind
It asked me to find
My whole heart and my mind
I layed on my bed
And my bed said "get out!"
It said to collect whole self and my doubt
I layed on the couch
And the couch was a grouch
So I sat in my car
I sat and went far
I drove and I fled
Hit a tree, I was dead.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
i'm in a psychology class
and all i've done is take too many tests
about my personality
and grouch over partner work
but i can't help but love it
the human mind works in any ways we think
if we can think it
i could split my brain in half
and still be fine
i learned too much about anxiety
and now i think everyone has it
most of us sure as hell do
i've seen the subtle human power moves
all it takes is standing up
standing while everyone else is seated
creates such power
everyone in the room has to literally
look up to you
yet i've still taken too many personality tests
been too afraid to score my IQ
been too
anxious
to see how anxious i really am
oops
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Would you care to know...
that my favorite color is green?
that good music sends a tingle up my spine?
that I love the ocean passionately?
that I always take cold showers and I love them?
that I collect mugs of all shapes and sizes and
that my recent favorite says "grouch" on it?
that I am loving and caring?
that stepping on crunchy leaves makes me smile?
that looking at my toes does too?
that my favorite places to get kissed are on my cheek, nose, and forehead?
that I sing and play the ukulele?
that I love to cuddle?
that I write poetry?
that my cookies and pancakes are the bomb diggety?
that I say bomb diggety?
the word "pudding" makes me laugh?
that I write quotes on my bathroom mirror?
that I sleep with a teddy I've had for 16 years?
that I'm stronger than you think I am?
that you don't know me in the least?
Or, would you rather care to know...
that I am vulnerable?
that I'm a great kisser?
that I have "experience"?
that I can make your night?
or would you rather not?
And just take me
No questions asked,
No exchange but that of the body
Then none forever after?
If those are your wishes, then you don't deserve me in the least.
And I am not making you pancakes.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
Been in a great mood washed the car
Hung with my cousin and his girlfriend
Had the last to days off
Got my workout done
I like to read and do cardio
Taking care of myself I got my brows waxed
Now I dont look like oscar the grouch
Loud music blasting in my ears
Driving feels right the road is home
Not getting involved with others drama
Minding my business laughing and joking with my cousin who has the same sense of humor
Not dating anymore not seeking love or approval of others
Not writing dark or falling into bad habits
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
Hi my name is KB,
I'm not an active lady.
I'm happy when I'm on the couch,
But if I get up I will turn into a grouch.
I sit around and watch much TV
And oh the joy it brings to me.
My eyes do not need a rest ,
For when the screen is on they work best.
I read books to ease my time,
In my head the wonders you would find.
I wrote this poem for class you know,
And oh the writing it goes so slow.
These will be the lines,
Now go away, it's TV time.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
Im a Grouch. On the inside
I try to be a lot of things, I try to be a good friends, a good, listener
To be generous and forgiving, try to be a, man of my word
I try to be all these things.
That would be easy if I wasn't so angry
"Your a grouch, go live in a trash can"
Nothing could be more accurate eh?
A receptacle for the worst of people
A place for them to discard the spent little pieces of themselves
Crumpled up and thrown away.
You become filled with that. The wrong stuff
You become a discarded napkin on the inside
Coffee and lipstick stains the echoes of rough mornings and old heartache.
Other people throw those things away and move on.
But you, their ******* bin are forced to hold on to those past aggressions
Is it any wonder I'm so angry?
Were all like that, memory is garbage.
A festering old sandwich in a bin that clearly reads, paper only, recycle please.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
ARROW
I am as a slave
To an errand I cannot wave
Where I go, I cannot say
But where I am, I cannot stay
There is a face behind this string
And even he I cannot see
But once he pulls, I obey
For then I am finally free
First they lay me down for years
Amongst steel that is sharp and thick
But then the day draws near
Bearing foes with stones and sticks
Though I am small, I am fast and sleek
I don't fray my path is strict
At first sight, I am nothing to fear
At first strike, I am a lot to bear
Without a doubt I bring despair
Often leave them deep in grouch
Pain I caused, beyond repair
I felt his rage by how he pouts
We both clinging to his life
See him fight with all his might
As he drips onto my head
I fade away at my journey's end
SEYI KING
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
When I step into the lift
What Americans call the elevator
I can feel my center shift
As I notice how inanimate her…
Expression is
I’m thinking ‘What wizardry… what sort of depression is this?’
I left my ‘happy’ in the lobby
Now I’m stuck here… with a stunningly attractive robot
That looks like it needs a ****** hobby
And thinking about my poor ‘happy’ that I abandoned in the lobby
We haven’t spoken yet, the robot and I
I’m kind of glad I left my ‘happy’ behind though… because beside this grouch, my ‘happy’ would surely die
She turns and throws a glance my way
And now I see something else, hesitation
‘Could we have been wrong about her?’ I hear my ‘happy’ say
Right by my side again, now that’s pure dedication
‘I’m not sure…’ I reply ‘I’m just not sure…’
And the awkwardness seems to make this lift climb slower
Talk about ‘the elephant in the room’
She doesn't seem so bad now, a little defensive
But I can definitely see the ‘sweet’ here
Clenched jaw, straight posture… and still she starts to glow prettier
So I’m deep inside her by now, into her eyes
She gasps in suppressed surprise
And just as I channel my inner Titanic… about to break the ice
Take a step through this open door
‘Ding!’
The lift decides that this is the perfect moment to arrive at my ****** floor.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 5:26 AM UTC
You are that person everyone knows
Who ******* almost constantly
About everything that ever goes
Away from how you think it should be.
You have it worked out in your head
Who should get what and when
And how much is right or wrong
And exactly what kind of men
Should have luck and who should
Suffer a miserable fate.
And which people are no good
And which race is truly great.
Why do you take such joy
In making folks around you cry?
So much so that the best thing
They hear you say is goodbye.
Why do you choose hurtful way
To get yourself some attention?
Isn’t there something you can say,
Something nice you can mention
That will make people smile
And not run so quickly away
Then stay with you a little while;
Enjoy some of the things you say?
When did all this all nastiness start?
Is it something from your childhood
Made you take pleasure breaking hearts
Every single chance you could;
And if people are having fun
Makes you jump in and stop
The frivolity and joyousness
Like some kind of buzzkill cop.
Life might change for the better
If you returned the smiles you get.
You’re a big grump now, for sure
Be nice and people will soon forget.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
I’m not going crazy.
I’m not being lazy.
Please don’t be a grouch
If I want to lie on the couch
And do nothing much today.
Believe me when I say
It’s not what you think
It’s not from drugs or drink.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
I may seem to stagger
I can no longer swagger.
So, understand this please
I can’t command my knees.
I’m fighting back day and night
And I won’t give up the fight.
What looks like one thing
Can be a much worse thing.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
Life is so full of challenges.
The list of what the damage is
Sometimes seems to outweigh
The cost of living life today.
But, I will not ever surrender.
I must be my best defender
As nobody pays my body bill.
I fight despair and always will.
It’s not a neurosis
It’s Multiple Sclerosis.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
doesn't
much care
for
Christmas
anymore
go ahead
try to spread
your holiday
cheese ball cheer
wrap me up
in flashy lights
roll me down
candy cane lane
there still
ain’t enough
tinsel
in the world
to cover up
this
yuletide
grouch
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Garbage Can
there once was a man
lived in a garbage can
could not see
could not talk
could not ***
could not walk
his ***** was sewn shut
wrapped his body like King Tut
had no eyes
had no nose
had no fingers
had no toes
lost his job in the city
**** his life was pretty ******
had no blood
had no brain
he was dead
and insane
is he zombie
is he ghost
or just a mummy
eating old toast
had a friend
name was Oscar
he was a grouch
and a boxer
they both died
in a dumpster
they choked of cheese
made of munster
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
Bellicose beer-belled bad-asses
Bawdily belting down brewskies
Usually, boozily, bruisily beating
On weaker, sleeker funseekers
In the bar where they are, far
From anything like maturity
Hip hip hooray for unhip USA.
Ballyhooing big screen viewing
Myopic eyes watch others exercise
Freedom-hating grouch on a couch
Itching, ******** psoriasis and sloth
Unread armchair Brother of the Cloth.
One of the minions of opinions,
Hardened against morality, reality.
Saying it every day: USA, USA, USA!
Hating, bating, aggravating, skating
Right past solutions, conclusions
Preferring propaganda, ***** Miranda,
Stop mollycoddling, bottling up anger
Christ in the manger should be law
But they guffaw at reading The Book;
They took their religion from TV.
Freedom for me, not thee, in my USA.
Got mine, ***** yours, rights immune;
That tune don’t play here. No queers
No browns, yellows, Hindus or Jews.
I’ve got news you can use, I abuse
And oppress guys in a dress, yes!
Even if he’s white, it still ain’t right.
The Constitution is old, it just teases.
Mine is Republican Jesus for the USA.
A pigeon for old time religion and God
Everyone else is odd. I saw the movie.
It was groovy and pretty. Went to the city
Saw it in Imax, no blacks in the theater
Thanks to The Creator that gave us all
The intelligence to call things right.
Hip hip hooray for being lily white.
Hip hip hooray for the KKK USA.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
The children of today befoul
Their grandparents with disrespect
And nurture their own children
With television shows and neglect.
They don’t teach children to be kind
And fail to teach them not to cheat.
So they grow up morally blind
Expecting to be paid to be sweet.
These kids were raised defectively
That hits it on the nose.
When you treat them so neglectfully
That’s just the way it goes.
They grow thinking they can get
Everything they desire.
And when they fail to get their way
They set the place on fire.
Now we have generations of them
Like hogs on the living room couch
Shoving their faces greedily
Like they’re a royal grouch.
They ***** if they think someone
Is getting more than they do.
But ask them to vote differently
And they whine they don’t want to.
They never notice that they dress
Like they did as in their teens.
Football jersies, shoes untied
Baseball caps and old jeans.
They say the same old crap
They used to say, not much new
About girls, and the car they drive
And what they’d like to do.
These kids were raised defectively
That hits it on the nose.
When you treat them so neglectfully
That’s just the way it goes.
They grow thinking they can have
A life of nothing but fun.
And when they fail to get their way
They go and get a gun.
Ask them names of those people
Got elected to represent.
Most of them barely know
The name of the President.
They don’t vote, they don’t go
Even so far as the local PTA.
This is the American voter
The kind we put up with today.
These kids were raised defectively
That hits it on the nose.
When you treat them so neglectfully
That’s just the way it goes.
They grow thinking they can get
What other people own.
It’s like these losers found a way
To live in the Twilight Zone
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Gruff grouch griping
His words say bags
But his tone says blacks-
I'm a piece of slate covered up by white
Bars that shimmer in fluorescent lights -
He's just doing his job.
I went to a wedding
And now I'm having my bag checked
Just me, no one else,
For "contraband."
That white boy over there,
Yeah the one with blue eyes, eyes that make you
Comfortable,
He left his passport at home.
You smile at him, it's okay you say,
Today is not your day, you bark at me.
It never is.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
He lives under my bed
And he sleeps on the couch
Even when he's fed
He's still kind of a grouch
He'll take one at a time
Or maybe two or three
He won't pay a dime
He thinks they're free
He hasn't a name
But I call him Bob
He thinks it's a game
When my pens he does rob
He hasn't any manners
He doesn't say please
He takes my pens from my planners
And then he flees
What does he look like
If only he would ask
I wish he would go on strike
And take off that mask
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
gaga and gall are walking down the street
gaga sees some bling, gall goes in and steals
they end up in the slammer and gansta's
there to greet
gall punches gangsta and naturally gore appeals
gaga wakes from the dream, guts tries to console
he offers her an option and they both get outa' da hole
now gall, gangsta and gore while in solitary
meet with goner and good ol' grouch
glory hallelujah comes up with the key
all escaping sideways from sleeping gangeree
they keep running into gutter, introduced to giddy
all on this gollywoggle jolly hallow night
all whipped up and painted by yours truly
gimmicky.
(halloween 2016)
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
I feel a vibration, deep in my bones
as if my being was composed
of coiled metal springs;
pushed down,
and down,
and down,
compressed to an unnatural flatness
an undesirable rigidity
an unhealthy madness
and a post-poned delivery
but, under all the pressure
all the weight
under all the stressors;
I still vibrate.
a buzzing, whirring, and building imbalance
is this because of caffeine?
or time spent as an E fiend?
I must ask myself,
what does this buzzing mean?
is it hyperactivity,
a blocked chakra, or three
did I choose this energy
or did it choose me?
so I write to release,
to find inner peace
this pen my therapist
this page the couch
with each stroke I care less
and let go that inner grouch
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
What is a poet?
A poet is able to capture a feeling with words.
To adeptly potray one. single. instance.
with words.
With scribbled, illegible
Or cleansingly, typed
clear, crystal, words.
I,
am not a poet.
I am a monkey,
deftly punching on a typewriter,
finger smashing keys,
expecting Shakespeare
to appear on a backlit screen
or a pure white notepad.
I am,
not a poet.
I am the grouch,
in a trash can.
Yellow moss on a rock,
pointing south. South.
I am not,
a poet.
I thought I dripped words
like blood out of my veins.
I thought my muse,
was darkness.
Then the sun came out.
So,
I am not a,
poet.
I am a high school English paper.
I am the run-ons,
too many ands,
too many commas.
Not even a proper sentence.
I am the red-marked essay.
I am not a poet.
And I have nothing else to say.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC