"hoarder" poems
We live in a world, that's loaded down with greed. Man will do anything for money, falling to do a good deed.
Man will take a chance, to traffic people across the boarder. They pack them in like sardines, and like a selfish hoarder.
We will never stop allowing drugs, from entering our land. Men thinks that they are cleaver, by planting drugs, within the body of man.
With the technology we have, something need to be done. The slavery of woman who 's brought to our country, to them, it's not fun.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
**My daily activities range between avoiding most things
to avoiding all things.**
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
I've now coined the diagnosis "Portable Hoarder" - Carrying my life in bags and duffles, pockets and sleeves.
Accumulating more baggage than would fit in a **** terminal.
But now, I am home. Me, and my ***** laundry. And I don't fit anymore. Crammed amidst my past. Falling out the door; Spilling across my floor.
Me, myself, and Marshall.
**So, TONIGHT
I'm cleaning out my closet.**
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
I'm no comedian,
but to see you smile
I become funny.
I'm not rich
but I will hustle
to get you money.
I'm no chef
but your taste, I savor
I desire your flavor.
I'm no freak
but new lovers,
I love to meet.
I'm no hoarder
but admirers
I love to keep.
**I AM A POET
A LIBRA
A PEOPLE PLEASER**
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
You bought the dawn paying such a high price,
Spending the darkness like fake money,
Saving up your hopes like a hoarder;
Looking for someone else to bring your joy
Wading through the denseness to you.
Throw open the windows, the doors;
The light was out there, waiting, all along
For your open eyes.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
The first thing that you forget, when you stop talking to someone is the sound of their voice.
So I suggest with every voicemail you receive, save it.
Whether it be from your grandma or your aunt or your boyfriend
You'll miss them sooner or later if they leave you.
When It's a healthy time for you, and you miss them a lot,
You'll still have their voice.
The way they spoke, every lisp every stutter
You'll hear it in that old voicemail.
I once loved a boy.
Some know most of the story, some only know half
But only he and I know every end and out of that year and a half.
I still have his voicemails,
but they aren't only the happy ones.
Matter of fact, he only left me a voicemail when he was angry or when he had news he couldn't keep to himself long enough.
I deleted the happy ones after we broke up.
But I didn't do it because I was angry,
I did it because I wasn't worthy.
And yet, they're still in my trash bin waiting, ready to be recovered.
Because some days, I wonder if he's happy.
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he got his GED.
And it was because of me.
Because some days I wonder if he misses me
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he loves me and always will
See, I have a problem: I'm a hoarder
I horde voices.
I horde the sound of laughs and cries,
I horde the angry and the happy times.
I take them all and keep them close.
And I try and keep phones for as long as I can.
Because when the phone goes,
So do the voices that I hold dear.
So darling if you wonder if I still have every old voicemail you've ever sent me the answer is clear.
If I miss you, I press my phone to my ear.
But now it's been so long that your voice scares me.
The old voicemails sit and take up my data since I'm too afraid to delete them.
That means your gone forever
And while I may have broken your heart I hope you forgive me
And I hope this voicemail makes you smile.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
i’m sorry your love does not fit into my junk mail
and that i will not become a hoarder for you
you say you’re disgusting
but i think you’ve rubbed yourself raw against my skin
until your bones have become protruding branches from your body
the blood that used to circulate through me
has now turned into sand
you punctured my lungs and i started leaking beaches
there are no sandcastles, just chunks of broken seaglass
just pebbles and bugs and dirt
you can’t shield me from the sun, i’ve already been burnt
so now when people step on me
i burn back
(a.m.c.)
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
It all started out so innocently
A thrift store here, a garage sale there
Anyways, Lord knows how bad I needed
The chartreuse rug of that polyester bear
It goes perfect in my kitchen
Though I can barely see the floor
Just need to move a few piles that grew
From me buying trinkets by the score
Some say I'm a crazy hoarder
I've seen the show and I'm not that bad
Anyway who doesn't need
A stuffed albino Siamese cat
Then there's all the broken plates of china
That I got for a steal
If I ever do find my stove again
I'll use them for my next meal
Why ask why I save all these milk jugs
You never do know when
A herd of cattle will be passing through
The middle of my den
You may say crazy hoarder
I may say I think not
When I look at pile after pile
Of all the treasures that I've got
If you ever care to visit
Just step over this, crawl over that
Till you come to that little itty bitty empty spot
Where we can sit back and relax
And have a little chat,
over this this and that,
maybe why it is ducks quack,
is it brains that they lack,
that my friend is whack...
Crazy Hoarder?!?
Don't make me laugh...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
My questions go unanswered.
My words ignored.
My presence overlooked.
Myself invisible to the eyes of others.
In a sty of stench.
In her own ***** she is drenched.
The reason I crossed two states borders.
Pack rat hoarder.
Without organization of order.
Out lived my heart hesitated.
My life dictated.
By a **** "mom" who dominates.
Controlling with my child as leverage.
She holds us hostage.
In her cobwebbed hellhole of dust.
Mold, ***** stench, mildew, & rust.
She is no one to ever trust.
I have alot to complain about & fuss.
Neglected, unprotected,& disrespected.
Taken for granted & unappreciated.
Unknown but senselessly hated.
For love or friendship I waited.
No one ever asked me to be dated.
My life I lived & created.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
I am a hoarder
You may not see it at first sight.
My clothes, pressed and wrinkle-free
My shoes, freshly polished
Not a single hair misplaced
but I am a hoarder
My room, though, is spotless
Not a book out of place
Every little thing in its own little case
but I am a hoarder
No, I do not collect used up shoes and stack them in a pile
nor do I have a hard time throwing out broken down furniture
Nothing around me sitting for more than awhile
No, I am a special kind of hoarder
The lack of mess you see on the outside
has been compensated by the mess I sleep in every night
I collect dust-filled memories and broken down dreams
some, too broken to be recognised
I stack expectation upon shattered expectation in a pile too high for me to move without it falling
I have tried countless of times to move out the pieces of what used to be plans and pictures of the future,
The storybook fairytale love stories have lost its luster,
now they sit next to overused ideas I still try to play once in a while,
but it seems to get stuck on repeat all the time,
and I try to explain that hoarding isn't just on the outside, but something worse when it's within
The inability to let go of the past, so I keep them hidden
and no one would notice, not one bit what I am
I am a hoarder
of the worst kind
I do not hoard things,
but something far much more unkind
Pages upon pages of sleepless nights
trying to make my burnt up mind and second-hand run down heart to work alright,
Cause I know I've tossed too many out on the bed
to even try to count how many are still left unread,
I am a hoarder
compulsive, emotional, restless.
and much more than I'm willing to confess.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Thoughts, ideas and words
Have always been corporeal objects in my life -
Things, with weight and volume.
If you could see them, stacked precariously one atop another
Pile after pile and stack after stack,
threatening to bury me alive, when the balance is destroyed someday
when I try to remove the wrong item at the wrong time -
Well, If you saw them like that -
The way I see them –
You would, no doubt call me a hoarder,
A hoarder of ideas, thoughts and words,
Living safely in my own little world
Surrounded by the waste products
Of an over active mind,
Unwilling to part with even the most useless thought -
Secure that someday they will all fit together into in a grand poem
That will free me at last.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
My uncle slit a man's throat with a box cutter in my childhood home and didn't apologize.
Sitting in a circle filled with crack smoke and stale beer breath.
This is a shining example of what I've lived with
and the lengths I've had to go to escape the thing people call "destiny".
Thievery, lies, pressure, and violence
has been calling my name for the longest.
But I know the voice too well to be taunted.
Words are my freedom and words are my piece of mind.
There is not a single substitute.
Whether poem, prose, or paragraph,
This is the only calling I've ever had.
I've lived with a hoarder, addicts, senility, and ignorance
in a variety of different combinations and forms.
At times, power, water, freedom, money, necessities, have all been an unachievable thing to me.
Lost to the vile goals of those folk I love.
I am the only one who sees the beauty in the fragile and odd.
The others see only a mess on a paper, and move their eyes to the nearest glowing box.
My father drowned when I was six.
My grandfather followed soon after.
My mother felt the stab of this and caved so many times.
I witnessed and shared the burden of her pain and grief.
My grandmother forgot everything she ever loved or knew, and short after passed as well.
Pets and possessions,
friends and followers.
All gone with a drastic breeze.
I am the one with the vision, but I am trapped in a shell of a city,
covered with that wretched stink of refined soy.
Will I be able to unburden the world from myself?
You all give me such great courage and allow me to share the beauty as I see it.
You all have such great skill with symbols and it makes me feel like home isn't far.
I want this. I want this.
If I keep breathing like the rest of the world
I feel I may miss the sound of the world's heartbeat.
But my death would not bring a solution for the ones I love.
Only a warrant for more death.
I need this. I need this.
With my words, I conjure up hell.
And hell brings with it the familiar.
Run little kitties, run.
The Doubling House and The Sequential Church will not hold forever.
My havens are temporary, but the craters are forever.
I will struggle till the pain becomes all I am
and I buckle under the weight of what I shouldn't have taken
from the mighty Atlas.
I do this for me.
I do this for you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Right around the corner,
there's a hoarder of liquor.
He wants to put it down,
but he needs it quicker.
The problems that he solves-
they don't mean a thing.
He needs everything with everything.
With a sober-straight face
and hands with nothing,
I try to lay it out to explain something.
But, he doesn't have an ear,
at least not for reason.
The bottle that he spins
doesn't land on anything.
I'm the kind of friend
that won't ever listen
and I don't ever mind it,
because I'm open-minded.
I don't need friends
that can eat their feet.
With that foot in your mouth,
where do you keep your teeth?
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:13 AM UTC
Incorrigible hoarder of the useless and perishables
Fridge full of forgotten decay and unfinishing leftovers
A comforting illusion of plenty and unending riches
To which she nibble away, always leaving behind ten percent
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 12:42 AM UTC
tell me what you need
and when I cannot find
one of your necessities
I'll reach inside myself
search around corners and under beds
and offer what I've found
you're free to take any part of me
I've meant to declutter anyway
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
I keep old movie stubs in my pockets
Polaroids
Concert tickets
Loose mints
Half pieces of gum
And the fortunes from cookies I ate at my favorite chinese restaurant
The one nestled between a church and a thrift shop
I keep an abundance
Of miscellaneous items
I like the reminders
Remembering
What was important to me at the time
And even though
I keep these things
I am not a hoarder
I am a collector
Of memories
Of moments
Of past that I refuse to let go of
I hold on
Much longer than I should
Fold every sweet second
Into the palm of my hand
And save them for later
Saving the sun for overcast days
Saving light
For nights when the darkness is too much
It is my memories
That keep me alive
But the same ones
Could very well
Be the death of me
I am a collector
Of both things good and bad
I hold on
Much longer than I should
But happiness
Does not have an expiration date
And there is always reason
To reflect
To smile
At a piece of paper
A picture
A note
Something
Anything
That once held significance
People change
Locations change
Life
Changes
But inanimate objects
Stand still even when time does not
I am a collector
And I am attempting to preserve
The fading.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
I will re-decorate
the space in my mind
for you;
the space that cries
save
and the chains that scream
h o a r d
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
When you are a mother..
You talk but don't listen
You spew hate and but dislike haters
You want to be loved but don't love
You listen to sermons on compassion then you scream at your kid when they tell you they're depressed
....or is that just my mother?
My mother loves to cry but lacks empathy
She quotes this book of life and almost let me take mine.....
She mocks happy couples but is clinging to her broken marriage
She wants respect but doesn't respect others
She hates judgy people but calls women ******
She hates a messy house but is a hoarder
She thinks she's dying but is in perfect physical health
My mother......
Drives down a one way road and think everyone else is going the wrong way
One day her mental illness will run everyone away...
leaving her not be able to make excuses for her actions.
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 2:41 AM UTC
Tim sounds nice. I mean reads nice. By what you described, he seems like he treats you alright. Rock n' roll. Movin' on. Proud of you.
Sorry he found that letter I wrote you a few weeks ago. Though it means a lot you kept it. Aren't remnants of past lovers interesting? It's not enough for us to take pieces of each other as we press forward, but we also have to leave little trinkets to remind of the good, the bad, and indifferent times.
Tara left her favorite burnt, metallic necklace with a blue buddha charm embedded in the carpet when I lived at 2307. Thousands of hairpins were hidden throughout the place when Sam and I split. You threw that gypsy bracelet in the grass by the streetlight -- the one I got you in Colorado.
Karen didn't leave much with me. Instead certain shirts and pajama pants of mine -- became hers. She put a smell on them. I still can't wear the clothes; though I also can't get rid of them. I'm a hoarder. Keep all the memories for myself.
Do you ever dream of me?
No, I haven't seen Easter Island again. I looked Sunday night at O'Brien's. I imagine she was in one of those modern restaurants -- Japanese trees, Muzak -- with her white napkin folded neatly in her lap, drinking ice water, and humoring some fast-talking crazer who has a snowball's chance in hell with her. If I ever find the energy, I'd like to be that crazer.
Yes, I'm still night driving. I've got a big adventure planned for tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it. Tell me something honest in your next letter. Something you're afraid to tell me.
I'll learn to accept Tim. I promise.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
What happens when a hoarder marries a minimalist
I'll tell you what happens, chaos, pure chaos
One tries to hang onto everything, Everything!
The other secretly removing items from their home keeping order
Old copies of The National Enquirer where the truth can be told,
not like the hundreds of Rolling Stone Magazines passing for news and entertainment did they ever change from a one-time underground press they started as.
The minimalist is always throwing stuff out and this purge is not taken well by the one wanting to hold on to everything, and not things that serve a purpose, she is like a magpie collecting shinning little bits as well as old and worn vehicles, cluttering up the yard surely making the neighbours smile... yeah right.
I can't keep doing this, he says, not only to himself but also to her.
Was God a hoarder. I think not. Everyday things go away. Species die none stop, Stars explode releasing boundless energy.
Space expands, more room, the sky looks cluttered but is so vast.
The hoarder and the minimalist. They oh so love each other nothing will tear them apart, they stand their ground, they love each other to the end of time, time and space. This life isn't a race it's a challenge. So they continue to give and to take. Love, it's love.
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
Gather nuts.
Grasp for the lean times.
Rotting potatoes
lie blandly in dark corners.
Silently stare at me with many eyes.
Find bright baubles.
Keep pretty playthings.
Trinkets and knick knacks
Ornaments on grimy shelves.
Idiotic faces chipped teeth and paint.
Saved paper
Stacked to the ceiling
Overflowing words
Seem to whisper as I pass.
Dangerous towers of unheeded news.
Faded petals
Pressed between pages.
Vacuous promises
carefree inane memories
Dreadful hopeless dreams nourishment for worms.
copyright protected Ramona Hughes
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
**An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.
Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"
I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"**
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC