"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.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
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.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
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.
3.4k
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?
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 5:33 AM UTC
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.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
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
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
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
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
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.
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 9:45 AM UTC
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.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
"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.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
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.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
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
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 1:58 PM UTC
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.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
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.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:32 PM UTC
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.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC