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"housemate" poems
The professor said "Family therapy is like a Pie Graph Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie. When people leave there's a chunk of pie missing and the other members of the family have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie." Here's my theory: Everyone in the family has their own whole pie. Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it. how they view them in their family. how they relate to them, Imagine a home Mom and her four daughters. Step dad, his daughter and son. imagine three bedrooms. The adults taking up one of them. let's look at the Mother, Her four daughters all with different fathers she knows how to raise children. The daughters all know how to Be Children, be Sisters, be older or younger than each other. The step-father knows how to have A Wife, One Daughter, A Son. Well Step-brother leaves the house. Susie has a child at fifteen. what does her pie look like now? She used to have a boyfriend, four sisters, a mother, father. Now lost a brother gained a baby. She only knows how to be a child. let's look at the mother. She hasn't learned: Grandchild but she knows how to raise a baby. lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters, what's another one? The sisters, lost their brother, a role model. Exchanged for this this new baby. another sister? everyone's pie is empty in some parts. judging by some other dead white guys theory when who you are doesn't line up with who you see yourself as, that's when people develop Mental illness Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises. That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister. Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men. Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie and Big Sis. like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death. The farther we go back in each family member's backstory the more slivers of pie we find Georgia has autism, Carley diagnosed depression, Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years. Clover is quiet. The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar. Any number of names they can slap on him. He doesn't live there anyhow. isn't human. Muffle the sister that says she miss him. hit her, cut her, lock her up. This was a case study. I lived with this family for four years. unintentionally filled up parts of their pie. I was Son. Older brother. Boyfriend. Father. When I stopped being a fly on the wall Stopped seeing how their story was developing. I didn't have any pie left.
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Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Family Therapy
The professor said "Family therapy is like a Pie Graph Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie. When people leave there's a chunk of pie missing and the other members of the family have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie." Here's my theory: Everyone in the family has their own whole pie. Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it. how they view them in their family. how they relate to them, Imagine a home Mom and her four daughters. Step dad, his daughter and son. imagine three bedrooms. The adults taking up one of them. let's look at the Mother, Her four daughters all with different fathers she knows how to raise children. The daughters all know how to Be Children, be Sisters, be older or younger than each other. The step-father knows how to have A Wife, One Daughter, A Son. Well Step-brother leaves the house. Susie has a child at fifteen. what does her pie look like now? She used to have a boyfriend, four sisters, a mother, father. Now lost a brother gained a baby. She only knows how to be a child. let's look at the mother. She hasn't learned: Grandchild but she knows how to raise a baby. lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters, what's another one? The sisters, lost their brother, a role model. Exchanged for this this new baby. another sister? everyone's pie is empty in some parts. judging by some other dead white guys theory when who you are doesn't line up with who you see yourself as, that's when people develop Mental illness Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises. That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister. Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men. Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie and Big Sis. like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death. The farther we go back in each family member's backstory the more slivers of pie we find Georgia has autism, Carley diagnosed depression, Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years. Clover is quiet. The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar. Any number of names they can slap on him. He doesn't live there anyhow. isn't human. Muffle the sister that says she miss him. hit her, cut her, lock her up. This was a case study. I lived with this family for four years. unintentionally filled up parts of their pie. I was Son. Older brother. Boyfriend. Father. When I stopped being a fly on the wall Stopped seeing how their story was developing. I didn't have any pie left.
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83
He was never my classmate, Neither was he my schoolmate, As we have met on OkCupid, Which is where we got suited. He soon became my tablemate, Then got promoted to bedmate, Ranging from late-night nosh To some naughty oh-my-gosh. He was my almost-roommate, Now, a hopeful housemate, Since he would visit me daily And keep me company gaily. He was frequently my seatmate, As well as invaluable playmate, For we traveled places together And cloyingly wrestled each other. He has always been my helpmate, And is presently my best teammate, As he has cheered me up from afar, As we chat as if there is no au revoir. He will one day become my inmate, Plus my hard-working workmate, Since we will both have mini-me’s Forcing us to slog away on our knees. He is undoubtedly my soulmate, One who is to become my lifemate, For he is a romantic yet **** geek, A keeper with charms all too unique.
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Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
He Is My “Mate”
Pet was never mourned as you, Purrer of the spotless hue, Plumy tail, and wistful gaze While you humoured our queer ways, Or outshrilled your morning call Up the stairs and through the hall— Foot suspended in its fall— While, expectant, you would stand Arched, to meet the stroking hand; Till your way you chose to wend Yonder, to your tragic end. Never another pet for me! Let your place all vacant be; Better blankness day by day Than companion torn away. Better bid his memory fade, Better blot each mark he made, Selfishly escape distress By contrived forgetfulness, Than preserve his prints to make Every morn and eve an ache. From the chair whereon he sat Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat; Rake his little pathways out Mid the bushes roundabout; Smooth away his talons’ mark From the claw-worn pine-tree bark, Where he climbed as dusk embrowned, Waiting us who loitered round. Strange it is this speechless thing, Subject to our mastering, Subject for his life and food To our gift, and time, and mood; Timid pensioner of us Powers, His existence ruled by ours, Should - by crossing at a breath Into safe and shielded death, By the merely taking hence Of his insignificance— Loom as largened to the sense, Shape as part, above man’s will, Of the Imperturbable. As a prisoner, flight debarred, Exercising in a yard, Still retain I, troubled, shaken, Mean estate, by him forsaken; And this home, which scarcely took Impress from his little look, By his faring to the Dim Grows all eloquent of him. Housemate, I can think you still Bounding to the window-sill, Over which I vaguely see Your small mound beneath the tree, Showing in the autumn shade That you moulder where you played.
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3.4k
Last Words To A Dumb Friend
Pet was never mourned as you, Purrer of the spotless hue, Plumy tail, and wistful gaze While you humoured our queer ways, Or outshrilled your morning call Up the stairs and through the hall— Foot suspended in its fall— While, expectant, you would stand Arched, to meet the stroking hand; Till your way you chose to wend Yonder, to your tragic end. Never another pet for me! Let your place all vacant be; Better blankness day by day Than companion torn away. Better bid his memory fade, Better blot each mark he made, Selfishly escape distress By contrived forgetfulness, Than preserve his prints to make Every morn and eve an ache. From the chair whereon he sat Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat; Rake his little pathways out Mid the bushes roundabout; Smooth away his talons’ mark From the claw-worn pine-tree bark, Where he climbed as dusk embrowned, Waiting us who loitered round. Strange it is this speechless thing, Subject to our mastering, Subject for his life and food To our gift, and time, and mood; Timid pensioner of us Powers, His existence ruled by ours, Should - by crossing at a breath Into safe and shielded death, By the merely taking hence Of his insignificance— Loom as largened to the sense, Shape as part, above man’s will, Of the Imperturbable. As a prisoner, flight debarred, Exercising in a yard, Still retain I, troubled, shaken, Mean estate, by him forsaken; And this home, which scarcely took Impress from his little look, By his faring to the Dim Grows all eloquent of him. Housemate, I can think you still Bounding to the window-sill, Over which I vaguely see Your small mound beneath the tree, Showing in the autumn shade That you moulder where you played.
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56
Hey Siri, Which suits me better - the red, or the blue? Hey Siri, Where did I leave my keys? Hey Siri, Why doesn't she love me? Hey Siri, Who cares? Hey Siri, Did my housemate use my coffee mug? Hey Siri, Will I enjoy that new Woody Allen movie? Hey Siri, Do I look tired? Hey Siri, Am I crazy? Hey Siri, Do you think I'll ever truly be happy? Hey Siri, If you don't answer me, how will I know?
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May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Hey Siri
I like you, you feel the same Right? Ok. So we date. You move on and expect Me to learn from my mistakes. I’m not willing to satisfy You treat me roughly Tell me I’m too young. I cry, move on and Learn from my mistakes. Still not experienced I’m not detached enough A disappointed utter You move on and expect Me to learn from my mistakes. My friends ex, A permanent heart throb. Old feelings surface I cry, move on and Learn from my mistakes. You meet my **** housemate A tall, lean ***** You wake in her bed You move on and expect Me to learn from my mistakes. A long standing flame I never demand full attention You fall for a pretty doctor I cry, move on and Learn from my mistakes. *How many more times How many faults to correct Again Right?* I like you, you feel the same Right? Ok. So we date. You move on and expect Me to learn from my mistakes.
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Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 5:33 AM UTC
Again, Right?
almost everyone had left by the time the clock struck midnight. you kissed me at the top of the stairs, then, after getting more wine, announced to the room, i’m staying here, by the way. my housemate offered you blankets — bless him, so unaware. you said you’d take over my bed, and i could sleep wherever i wanted. that was the night i realised i was madly in love. i knew it may hurt, but i couldn’t refuse signing up.
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Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
guest privileges.
Dear Roaches, Please stay out of my coffee mug In the mornings, I'll leave you bread crumbs Or whatever it is you eat on the floor When I make my sandwiches in the morn. ( I'm sure we can come to some Sort of agreement) And perhaps I will forget to wash a dish Or two and leave it out with just enough To taste and delight yourselves in. But if I find you in my mug Or my coffee machine, I will break Out the Raid and other chemical Weapons at my disposal, and sure I know You will procreate faster than I can Buy poison so let's make some kind Of deal? Though it may not be a banquet, I'm sure I can leave the occasional mess, So how bout it? Your housemate, Dedpoet
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May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
To The Roaches
If I were a sound I would be the sound of wind forgotten amidst the cacophony of life but ever present whipping through the trees surrounding you in the distant sound of far away places If I were an animal I would be a mouse quiet so as not to be found but living with you in the wall the floor anywhere you won't look I don't wish to be seen so I scurry living off the scraps of my housemate If I were a number I would be the number eleven two thin lines that are ignored when factoring lost in the scramble to scribble down notes two lines that are separate but the same and sometimes distant If I were a person I would be the person in the back head down hair in my eyes so no one sees the truth that lies in them That I am the wind I am a mouse the number eleven that I would be in the back But I'm not because you put a hand up to block the wind bought a cat to **** the mouse were dividing by two so didn't need eleven and looked back in class and sneered at the person there
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Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
If I were there
it’s only i get a little scratchy across my shins at 1:33 forehead against work desk leant down to run a track on my legs phone untouched, shortcuts retraced HTT ..PS// ishouldntcheckyoursocials. us. couldn’t make me an addict of loss which really is the untapped potential for the future internet of things safari, waystone. safari, favourer of webpage rerunners, safari, guide me back to a bookmarked cliff-edge of ache. cookies know me better than my housemate who’s sweetness blocked his accounts before something broke and we’d have to talk about it. once the whiter lines appear on shinskin like my algorithm I can sit back up if not satiated at least appeased the sound my lungs make isn’t really laughing or crying but a wheeze.
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Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 9:45 AM UTC
I couldn’t overstay
We rode home One rubber wheel after another Drenched to the liver in rain and alcohol. "Right family, wrong housemate" I said as your calloused finger Ran long the sharp edge of my shivering jaw. Your hands, rough, from digging holes And coming home at 5 am With ****** and swollen knuckles Are the hands, that wash my hair And hold mine, step in step And lift me onto kitchen counters So that our lips can greet and meet And pull apart, only to reunite Like us lovers, who long to never be too Far away from one another. One block and half, around the corner or one street and two buildings away We are never too far apart. "I'm never going to die" which is why I only called the hospital and the jail that night you went missing for twelve hours And left the morgue out of it. If you're never going to die Then I am determined to live forever So that I can wake up everyday To the way you look at me Even though I hate Ska music.
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May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Twenty Days
"One is the loneliest number," but I like being alone - sometimes. I don't like being home alone, too jumpy for complete solitude, would prefer to spend time with someone when we're in separate rooms because distant sounds of life are more comforting than no sounds at all. Music is good at filling in the gaps, it twists up the stairs and under doors until the house bursts (into song). It's like colours for your ears, not quite your housemate coughing downstairs, but it fits in with being alone being alone fits in with music being alone doesn't fit in with people.
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Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
1/365
You're wondering what's happened lately Are we okay? Is something wrong? No, continue on in your ignorance You didn't care last month, why bother now? You seem irked when you question me I want to laugh in your face, don't tempt me All my unanswered questions and you expect No fight when you suddenly have "inquiries" If you so desperately want to know Let me explain that it's simple: I don't care. Who are you aside from what you think? What's a person with no personality? I have no clue what goes on in your head I have no clue who you are. You find a million words to say to everyone but me If I push, beg you to think, you get aggravated with me If I'm mad you get mad as well and still won't speak If I bring up my real worries- job school money us- you get angry So **** it. I'm tired of being angry and lonely and depressed So instead of expecting a relationship I started expecting to occasionally speak to my housemate I don't feel disappointed that way. Honestly, whatever at this point I love you, sure, but ain't no love on earth gonna break me So I don't need to know what you're thinking I honestly can't be ****** to care I don't need to know how you're doing I don't want to speak with you Don't give a **** who you're talking to Don't wanna go outside and explore with you I don't want to put in effort I'm never going to get back I'm selfish like that. I honestly don't know what a relationship feels like. But hell if I'm not beginning to understand what it feels like to be a mother. I've never been on a date. Thought that'd change with you. I've never once felt appreciated in a relationship. I've never really felt loved either. There were moments where you almost fixed that. I've never been surprised in a relationship. Always me planning, doing, pour my soul into-ing... I've never been treated like I'm worth anything. Period. By anyone, really. And I expected so much of that from you. Of course I'm angry with my expectations that high You're a kid. You don't have the means or the want to do any of that yet. But I can't not expect it if I care about you romantically. So I don't. This is a platonic relationship. You're a friend I'm helping with rent. All of rent. Without your help. You're a kid. (I'm a kid) So I expect nothing of you. So I give nothing to you. I hope you enjoyed what I gave. It's all you're gonna get.
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Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
What I Gave
You're wondering what's happened lately Are we okay? Is something wrong? No, continue on in your ignorance You didn't care last month, why bother now? You seem irked when you question me I want to laugh in your face, don't tempt me All my unanswered questions and you expect No fight when you suddenly have "inquiries" If you so desperately want to know Let me explain that it's simple: I don't care. Who are you aside from what you think? What's a person with no personality? I have no clue what goes on in your head I have no clue who you are. You find a million words to say to everyone but me If I push, beg you to think, you get aggravated with me If I'm mad you get mad as well and still won't speak If I bring up my real worries- job school money us- you get angry So **** it. I'm tired of being angry and lonely and depressed So instead of expecting a relationship I started expecting to occasionally speak to my housemate I don't feel disappointed that way. Honestly, whatever at this point I love you, sure, but ain't no love on earth gonna break me So I don't need to know what you're thinking I honestly can't be ****** to care I don't need to know how you're doing I don't want to speak with you Don't give a **** who you're talking to Don't wanna go outside and explore with you I don't want to put in effort I'm never going to get back I'm selfish like that. I honestly don't know what a relationship feels like. But hell if I'm not beginning to understand what it feels like to be a mother. I've never been on a date. Thought that'd change with you. I've never once felt appreciated in a relationship. I've never really felt loved either. There were moments where you almost fixed that. I've never been surprised in a relationship. Always me planning, doing, pour my soul into-ing... I've never been treated like I'm worth anything. Period. By anyone, really. And I expected so much of that from you. Of course I'm angry with my expectations that high You're a kid. You don't have the means or the want to do any of that yet. But I can't not expect it if I care about you romantically. So I don't. This is a platonic relationship. You're a friend I'm helping with rent. All of rent. Without your help. You're a kid. (I'm a kid) So I expect nothing of you. So I give nothing to you. I hope you enjoyed what I gave. It's all you're gonna get.
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58
Sounds, how strange Great and small Struggling to pinpoint them all As they surround Each making itself known Clacking of fingers across a keyboard Near silent whir of the air conditioner Hum of the refrigerator Chatter and occasional cry of a housemate Thundering of small paws above Clicking and clacking of dog nails against hard wood floors Voices from a computer screen The occasional car whizzing past the street The brief notes of a viola a room over The flapping of the dog door Creak of a door Adjusting in the chair Sighs of the dogs and people alike Tired eyes blink slowly Hands ever so stiff Back aching, begging for movement Feet and legs long since numb Nothing is silent Not in this time Nor in this place - Jay M December 7th, 2020
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Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 1:58 PM UTC
That Which Surrounds
I do not love you like the ocean, I’m much too scared of drowning. Instead I love you like a battered paperback, small enough to pocket on walks from dorm rooms to lecture halls. I love like the blanket my housemate bought me, too pink to be polite but a soft cucoon against my skin warm on cold winter nights. I love you like anything that can be forgotten tucked away or to one side, but hangs around in the quiet moments still very much alive. I do not love you like life itself, but I love you a little like breath. In the same way that I do not think about it, in the same way that to not would be nonsense in the same way that I don’t know how to stop without the pressure in my chest building to a point where I think I might shatter me pieces. I suppose I love you a little like breathing. I do not love you like the ocean though. With you I have never been afraid of drowning.
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Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
Love Song
I have heard about your time in Viet Nam, operating on wounded soldiers. About your hearing loss due to the bombs. About your then husbands abuse that left your unborn child dead. Your feelings of worthlessness. And you're angry, and you should be - it wasn't fair. Now when I feel irritated because your TV is so loud, I try to remember all of this - I remember my dark times too - so tonight I close my door against the noise, and let you be.
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Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:32 PM UTC
To My New Housemate
I was twenty-five and suicidal, barreling down 35W, the accelerator, pushed to the floor, weaving in and out of traffic. I heard the siren and paid no attention until I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, I slowed to a stop. The officer approached my window and motioned for me to roll it down. "Mam, you were going ninety-seven miles an hour." He looked at my tearstained face. "Are you all right?" "Offices, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking." "Can I call someone for you?" I shook my head. "Ok, I'll let you off with a warning. Please drive carefully." He pulled away as I sat shaking, realizing what I had done. Now I am writing this memory, knowing I could have killed someone, and acutely aware it was white privilege which allowed me to escape without roadside consequences. Now when my housemate hurls racial slurs, I tell her to stop.
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Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
Memory, 1988