"hoarders" poems
So as fate would have it they would have it they would take us from our borders
They brought us in as slaves so that we could toil for the hoarders
They put chains on our wrists til we rose our fists
No longer would this pain make our children slit their wrists
Times have changed but some things stayed the same
Some walk around unaware that they’re just wearing a different chain
We became the entertainers, we became the “ballers”
While our slavemasters became the businessman, still the shot callers
Just a monkey with a ball, On the rise it seems, but still we fall
What more can we be?
Can our eyes still see?
Cause when I look at my people in the eyes
I see souls that are satisfied
I see souls that have been pacified
Dreams once in the air but now on the ground
Look around my people, see who wears the crown
Cause our people continue to die and no one makes a sound
Can you say their names?
Can you feel the pains?
Can you feel the agony of a hundred thousand black souls lost for America’s gain?
Will you stand and fight?
Cause a Black America United oh what a sight!
Imagine the might! That we would wield?
With a fire in our hearts that could bend steel
Only then could our 200 year old wounds heal
Only then could we appeal and be apart of this nation under God.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Dream Catchers, egg hatchers, baby Snatchers, **** wackers, lip smackers, online hackers, ***** slappers, hand clappers, exotic flappers, lazy slackers, suitcase packers, & back stabbers.
Hate & defeated, cheat & feel the heat. Too weak & petite. Tales of hell, wishes on a well, thoughts are things you can't always sell. Sometimes words can be lies liars tell. One day to your death to you fell.
Pass it on. I don't belong. Some people are wrong. Die. I won't cry.
Pakrat hoarders, pro choice aborters, two faced home wreckers, voodoo curses, retired lazy old nurses.
Deaf & Blind, racist & unkind, poor & unemployed. Broke & exploited. Dumb, old, ugly, & fat. ***** stinking rat. Piles & piles of crap.
College professors, real estate investors, coaches, cockaroaches, poachers, perverts & ****** meat eatting caravores. Bums & addicts drunks & fanatics, obsessive compulsive, stalkers too possessive, insane aggressive.
Author Notes :
Partially true, could be your family.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Halls
Kids come roaring out of dark and light dungeons named “classroom;”
Kids scream and push each other out of fun or out of the fear of being late to class.
The halls go from a peaceful forest made of cement and carpet to the war zone of World War Two.
Teachers
They watch with the eye of a hawk never missing students face.
They become walls when running or going rebel from the dark side.
There is one chosen one, he keeps the hall safe his sword made with the dark wood of oak.
Lockers
The slam shut or burst open.
The student has to keep them clean, but some look like a hoarders closet;
Filled with trash and binders that have never seen the light of a florist LED school light.
School
The place where dreams are made and were tears are born;
A place where we come to have fun and come to suffer torture.
School the place we can never escape.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Exclusively molded in the divine image
or egos big enough to declare it so
A dangerous theory
a disastrous belief system
Gardeners of Eden
turned stewards of entropy
Superiority conquest of nature
symbiotic balance forsaken
Jealous hoarders of spirituality,
sentience, self-awareness, intelligence
The irrational glorification of reason
despite a history of upheaval and war
Bullies on the playground of manifest destiny
exploitive excess worshiped as progress
Arrogantly intoxicated on the dregs of Pandora's jar
blindly stumbling toward self-destruction
Welcome to the valley of the shadow of death
Environmental Armageddon
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
*Let SPAM reign supreme
Same as all mediocrities
Hello Poetry*
*Let lame egos win
Peacocks, fops, vacuous thoughts
Hello Poetry*
*Let psychopaths shine
Make all the peacocks *******
Satan ruling hell*
*Hello Poetry
Tireless self promoters
Hoarders of nothing*
*Let the clueless gawk
At the boneyard of Peacocks
Feather blatherings*
*Hello Poetry
******* all life out of it
Allowing lame writers*
*Wolf Spirit blows hard
Clueless rube awful Pontiff
Hello Poetry*
*Stars shining in void
If ever there was lameness
Hello Poetry*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Deare God, preserve the innocent
For they have put their trust in thee
They follow nature without recourse
Thou art their Lord, so protect them
They have not harmed anyone
Their sorrows multiply from the
Minds of Men that thou created
Their inheritance is a portion of thy creation
They suffer now without need
Preserve Them, O God: for in thee
They put their last symbol of faith
They have nothing to bargain with
They cannot pay to escape chaos
They would sell their daughters to
Feed their families, with holy tears
For so little freedom is granted the poor
Therefore my heart would be glad
If you spared a few of the poor
The pure, the self-sacrificed, the down-trodden
Remember them too, while nature inherits
The wicked, the industrious, the hoarders
Those profiteers know nothing about you
God, if there is such a thing as a hell
As a punishment for sin, let it be seen
Let the Nations that do wrong be punished
And let their children bear the weight of the stain.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
having beguiled my Scorpio
the full moons know
what moistens the body
elicits stark truth of feeling
in vehement velocity
racing ahead of thought
and the two argue
not every word is lovely
nor should be spoken
reactions are often
vicious junk yard dogs
protecting piles of *******
only valuable to hoarders
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Isolated faces paradoxically surround
Bound by wants infinity
I strayed away from banks
Cause greed was just to trendy
The idea of friends and numbers
Threw me to the ground
Figured we'd crown 4 quarters instead of 100 pennies
Swede shoes, silk shirts, and bentleys
By some is defined as plenty
While little Lenny with stomach empty dreams of Denny's
Or some water or a Father would help immensely
Afgani blowing and Hennessy gulping MC's
Take their aperture and narrow it densely
Make millions off the Emmys some how erases Memories
Of pennies struggling in this world
Mother fiend'n they're just fending
Against the many
In class they're considered lowers
Below us they just a penny
I say our morals need reordered
cause no doubt that they're all Quarters
And deserve entry into this bank of respect
That has become run by hoarders
Loving to build borders 3 times the size
Of their self righteous shoulders
This is a disassembly of a culture surrounded by sentries.
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 12:32 PM UTC
All intellect is dissected
Through the tunnel visioned perspectives
Stretched thin
In a stream of feed
Producing the illusion of need
Projected from old men
Who grin
Below the suicidal idols
Of the rivals
And glutton in the maniacal sins
Commenced
By brain dead Americans
Painted in the amens of the dense
Commending the hymns
Of spent casings
Atop the blood of babies
And maybe
One day
It can be better
Than the clever endeavours
To sever the head of the predators
Washing our hands of their sedatives
And delivering the skulls to the slavers
But we are pay dirt
Shoveled into trucks to work
For a leafless tree
Ready and wanting to believe
In anything
That doesn't see our deeds
As we
Are manufactured with the greed
Of sleeved wisemen
With five of a kind
In the fight for life
Putting our souls
Upon our rites
We bet
Despite the path of right
Infringing on the height
Of success
In excess
Of the tests message
We are the blessing
Of a warning
Within a forgotten story
Historically denoting its anointing
We are the disappointment
Of the warrior
Defeated in a court
Of corrupted consorts
Sorting out the blueprints
For a new fort
Distorting the borders
Of moral disorders
With orders to ****
The hoarders of will
We are the shrill screech
Of a dying world
And we are alive
But dead
Born to ****
Batteries of a shield
Building hell
To sell heaven pills
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
These people...they're obsessive. Hoarders of memorabilia associating success with handshakes, photographs and play-dates. I'm surrounded by squiggly lines vandalizing art and silhouettes of super-heated sand granules encasing a substance so vile that it permanently damages the frontal lobe of the collective consciousness. Inspirations float helplessly about the sea of underachievers and people-pleasers. What is success? Is it simply to impress the people around you? To instill envy upon your enemy? I won't even begin to dissect the differences. I can't even begin to protect the witnesses. The costumes are insignificant. The same tired, scared, eyes stare blankly at themselves from behind every mask. The ladder needs some broken rungs. The bladder bleeds; soaked in *** People milling about, spilling their sins. Reaching out sure looks a lot like clawing, and what is the difference between pleading and begging? May it be the same difference between dancing and squirming? No matter what we do, we all feel unworthy. So, I guess all that's left is: Learning. Teaching, not preaching. Boy, this place sure is unnerving. A shuffling mass of introverts sent into a downward spiraling life of discomfort, soon to be snuffed out with possessions. The empathy for the undead is utterly apparent, and arguably, inherent. Looking for answers in dusty pages and plastic heroes. Punks, Drunks, Nerds, ***** Women with bright hair and crooked teeth. Men replacing the hair they've lost on their heads with that which sprouts from their chins. I need a drink, I think. But in actuality what I need is a warm bed and a couple centuries of sleep.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
IRIDESCENT CANDIED COMMERCIAL PEASANTS
Showcased from outer space
Robbed of innocence and good taste
A WASTED GRACE
SALVATION'S NEVER TOO LATE!
Keep good faith
You're God sent.
No matter the time,
You're in the right place.
CLOCKS AND QUARTERS
HUMAN BODY HOARDERS
COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS DISORDER!
Are you unaware what is beneath your hair?
I mistook your tongue for a flying saucer
Unbelievable and probably an atmospheric impostor.
DID YOU NOTICE THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE STARS?
DO YOU KNOW THE FRAGILITY OF YOUR BONES?
HAVE YOU REALIZED, THIS EARTH, WE DO NOT OWN?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
One of the best things in life
is getting revenge on someone
by walking in their vicinity
and farting
so it looks like they are the guilty party.
One of the worst things in life
is watching an episode of Hoarders
where everything gets all better in the end.
I didn't watch the show so I could watch you get better.
I watched it so I could see you throw a fit
about having to get rid of the old rotting cat skeleton in your basement
because it's "special" to you.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Don't look at her
She knows you
Sitting in the back of the casino
Where only the **** addicts hide
Like some AOD group
The facilitators crack wise
While the ****** addict with the
Coffee cup in her hand closes her eyes
Never spilling a drop.
Everyone is always "tired".
Vice has an anthem singing until dawn
The private places people go
One more round of chips and dip
Naked bodies on the phone
Chug chug chug
Fasting until spaghetti size
Hoarders howling as the garbage man rolls down the block
Human minds oh so twisted
Try to straighten it all out
The promise of abundance
Pockets full
Ending up in the suicidal parking lot walk when it all becomes too real
Vice is nice, asks you to come right on in, never says no as long as you have the dough re me.
Don't look now
It's looking at you
Knows you far too well.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC
A scurry of munks
Are eating my garden;
To you they're cute,
But my heart's hardened.
They chirp at the trough
Of my labored crop;
Like double-dippers
They pouch and they run,
They sound like they're laughing,
Like they're having some fun.
I curse and complain,
But the munks keep returning,
Like a recurring refrain
Of free loaders and hoarders.
Should I feel such disdain?
After some thought,
We're much the same.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.
I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.
I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.
I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.
Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Abiding in tidy quarters
In which space I will confine
But my life is full of hoarders,
Pack things rashly in my mind
Some more obvious, some more subtle
Seems likely I'll never
See through the rubble.
Rational thought can be transferred
Transplaced
Deterred
Through the nostalgia of a *** once stirred
Finding divets of respect
For those who expect me
To level at their self inflicted debt
Is beyond words that come to be
Break the dams down of succession
Find my daily dosed oppression
Is within the people I reside
I can't run, cause they know where I hide.
Move with me; I've moved with you
Contorted into mentalities by body couldn't do
Just to watch you stay untrue
I can't reflex anymore,
I'm deadened to your dramatic lores.
Done waiting for the progress
For reciprocation past due
Cause I'm waiting to wane this fever,
And the antidote's not you.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
I figure I’ll find out more about myself
the more I break
up myself
into little tiny pieces.
I figure my mother might find herself after she’s cleaned up the house,
but hoarders can only do so much,
and she sought salvation with crystals and books and hiding away our pasts in boxes and boxes that are stacked from floor to ceiling.
I figure my dad has found himself; he used to
eat lunch alone in his car at work,
just so people would stop bothering him and he learned how to fly
but he hasn’t flown away
and I don’t think he ever will.
Annie is simple. Loves to laugh and
wants a white picket fence and all the
easy stuff and I am just
the stubborn kid who still pushes her nose up on car windows and
leaves marks of her face to see later,
the girl who my mother says will make
the worst mother and the girl who mother says
is too driven for her own good.
They know about the every-night
nightmares and the way I make my fingers bleed when I’m bored.
Dad wants me to write and open a restaurant,
I think he knows the most though
he says the least and gets
drunk the most
and loves killin’ those
**** Zombies
or what-have-you.
I figure I’m just some sort of
****** up rich white kid
with too much time on her hands
to let herself feel happy,
because it’s far far easier
to just drift and sink in
something deeper and worse.
One time my teacher told us
to write a poem about anything
but not about our “boring teenage ****
This is the boring teenage **** poem I never got to write,
this is
boring teenage ****
but I’m sorry,
it’s all I’ve got on
a Tuesday
or actually it’s Friday and I’m not very good with
days or
even months and the numbers are getting even worse.
And it’s almost 2 AM so
this is what the fourth in a family writes when
there’s something stuck in her throat
that she can’t quite scream out.
Teacher,
here’s your
“boring teenage poem.”
Eat it.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:18 AM UTC
Tiny silver ***** are strewn across the floor
They roll this way and that, and somehow they meet
Only listen now if you're abhorred
By those with hearts frozen in concrete
You're a snowflake
You're a riverbed, baby
Degraded, serrated
A membrane that's in pursuit
Of nothing trivial
You've got energy
You've got your own order
Nevermind the hoarders
Of organization
You're a tornado
You're lightning, baby
Striking, frightening
A light that can't die
From something miniscule
Stay like an icicle
Frozen in the cave of a volcano
Tiny silver ***** are strewn across the floor
They roll this way and that, and somehow they meet
Only listen now if you're abhorred
By those with hearts frozen in concrete
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
There are words
tucked away
in minds,
to incite,
move forward,
shake cores,
turn hoarders
to minimalists,
create
lists,
tasks,
set to do,
choose for me,
shift between
different places,
draw different
faces,
passing by on
streets
I’ve got a tweet
for each
one of you,
wrapped in
treats,
a delicious bonbon,
desserts of
verbs,
adjectives,
nouns,
and more
words.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
It's so easy to say goodbye
Instead you look me in the eye
Lying your alternative to a much simpler farewell
You want, gimme gimme, always gets...when I love you
The other way around is a whole new double standard yet to be recognized
It's only fair to give what you get
Let's all be stingy and only get from the givers
We're all hoarders in some area, a little sick, a little selfish
Sometimes it hurts just to be selfless
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC