"lumps" poems
*****
I like ***** I like ****
before you touch, you must get permits.
Nothing like a nice pair of assets,
oh how puppies make nice pets.
Bazongas are ***** that are large,
strippers and hookers, will always charge.
Nothing like the perfect *****
but only on the perfect woman.
******* are yummy dark or white,
but first you must wait for an invite.
Some girls even have a third ******
do not squeeze says Mr. Whipple.
I don't mind girls on the itty, bitty, ***** committee,
on a carpenters dream, I show no pity.
They could be called a bust, some call them cans,
a woman's squeeze box, all men are fans.
Chesticles is a term I have never heard,
but everyday, I learn a new word.
I like cones, I like jugs,
girls with big ones, I give hugs.
Al Bundy loved calling them *******
at the restaurant, I wish I was one of the recruiters.
A girl with a nice set of knockers,
might find herself with unwanted stalkers.
Fergie sang about her lovely lady lumps,
a good set of melons, still give me goose bumps.
***** always come in a pair,
why do bra's, they have to wear.
Even men who smoke lots of crack,
still can appreciate a good sized rack.
I don't care if there fake or real.
in a crowded room, I always cop a feel.
Girls love showing off some cleavage,
I wish I lived in a ***** village.
Babies need breast milk to make them stronger,
if the mom is hot, they may do it longer.
In conclusion, I love *****
with whipped cream or melting ice cubes.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 9:43 AM UTC
my bampa was a minergrafting down a piti recall his chesty cough black lumps in his spitdust of death for pittancelined a throat so dry filthy lungs but clean heartwith love you cannot buytwelve hours down a holetin tub for a bathprepared with love and care nan placed by the hearthbraving winds and weatherto reach the outside loousing daily newspaperto wipe away the pooso sometimes when i'm downand life gets on my **** remember bampa's life...andwhere he worked, washed, and ****
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
"The first step is always the hardest." I've recited this over and over in my consciousness.
"Grip the rail, tight. "
Pursed with dried paint to smooth over the lumps of people gone before you.
" You're never the first one to go. "
Eyes forward and chin up I gather myself.
" It's only stairs, " I say over and over.
" It's only stairs," they say.
Now, faced with only upward motion.
Now, faced with only moving forward.
I look out the window to see the moon waning, waxing strong with my ascent.
4x32 are tiles on the floor.
6x15x18 is the case.
Hold my hand.
Guide me.
Guard me through this night.
By morning I will have reach this light.
"It's only stairs." We say.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Her hair flows like ripples in a lake,
She walks so elegantly,
brown eyes that turn almost to honey in the light,
A smile stretches from ear to ear, pearly whites as they call them.
Womanly curves and lumps that every girl wishes she had.
Lips soft and plump,
Cheeks made of strawberries.
But she is an ugly girl.
She flaunts around with her physical beauty.
From her perfect lips she hisses like a snake ready to attack.
her attitude is one of a rabid dog,
Out of control, and dangerous.
She is: selfish,
self absorbed,
ungrateful,
******
ignorant,
Disrespectful,
and never pleased.
She climbs a mountain of people stepping on everyone's face.
She is an ugly girl, hidden behind a beautiful mask
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
5.4k
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.
Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.
Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
Mirrors are all traitors
As in them I can see
Just what a monster I am;
That I will always be.
I have lumps and and spots
That make me unloveable.
And everything I eat is
Another bite of trouble.
Why can’t I ever look
Like the models in the book?
Why is it that I
Can’t look myself in the eye?
No one will look longingly
At the gorgon I turned out to be.
I don’t watch cartoons
Because what I see is me
What did I do to deserve
To become so **** ugly?
Did I cross the path of a cat
That was an omen meant to warn
And I ignored it so now
I inherited this awful form?
Why can’t I be the kind
With a beautifully formed behind?
I wish it was my history
To stimulate evil jealousy.
I want to look like a dream,
But instead I must surrender
A fragile wish, as it seems
An unfilled hope altogether.
Some friends are sweet to me
They say I look fine to them,
But I know what I can see
And I deserve no diadem.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
She puts on a sun dress
Trying to emphasize the lumps on her chest
But no amount of makeup or even a bow
Can distract from the fact that her self esteem's low
She's ugly and she knows it
She's bitter and she shows it
Keep writing your chicken scratch and waving it high
As all of the people keep passing you by
You crave their attention and desire their praise
But they just keep on walking, ignoring you for days.
So she pulls down her collar to an all new low
Trying to put on a better show
They have no more pity for the girl with short hair
They just can't seem to muster a single care
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
the tune had been haunting
london for weeks past,
but when the lights went out,
they went out fast.
none of us thought
those days would end.
the music would always be there
anytime we needed a friend.
the sweetness of the soprano;
sprinkled over a sultry saxophone;
the steady heartbeat of an upright bass;
titillating trumpets tooting a tune.
the raven-haired lady: the envy of the room;
the men could only dream
of being so lucky.
the ladies could only scream,
hoping to catch the tall dark stranger's eye.
at the end of the night,
we all sang a whiskey lullaby.
but the wind blew cold-
it made us shiver.
the band packed up their magic.
the soprano ran off with the tall dark stranger.
all alone and without home,
the raven-haired lady blew her mind out,
nowhere left to roam.
nights became weeks and weeks became months.
our throats were perpetually plugged with lumps.
it's hard to say how meaningful it can be-
the touch something can have,
no matter how seemingly arbitrary-
until it is gone with the wind.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
I used to love my curves.
My plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest,
My chubby cheeks.
All the curves, stretch marks, and the lumps,
Especially my lumps,
Made me.
And I loved me.
Until I met you.
When we first met, you worshiped my curves.
Kissed on my chest,
Gripped my thighs.
You used to say,
“I love my baby’s fat ***
As you would squeeze my thighs
and I would laugh.
But then reality decided;
“Babe you should really workout some”
*** I really think you should lose some weight”
Or you would talk of other girls,
Thinner girls.
“Country girls are so hot”
“I saw this girl today at work and she was ****
So now I’m looking in a mirror.
In my black sports bra
And my mixed match pink underwear.
All I see looking back,
is not
my plump hips,
My thick thighs,
My ***** chest
Or my chubby cheeks,
Not even my lumps,
Hell, especially my lumps.
I see my belly overflow the hem of my underwear,
I see my ******* resting on my stomach,
I see the extra skin around my neck,
And I notice the way my stomach jiggles when I walk.
The sound of my feet hitting the ground,
The way things vibrate around me when I walk,
My shortness of breath uphill,
And the way my thighs touch each other instead of having that gap.
That cute gap.
That gap that skinny girls have.
But now,
I cover myself more.
The curvy girl who used to wear crop tops confidently,
Now wears a hoodie to hide.
Secretly apologizing to everyone who ever saw her curves.
Her plump hips.
Her thick thighs.
Her ***** chest.
Apologizing to everyone whoever saw,
Her.
And I compare myself to every girl around me.
‘If I had her legs’
‘Her stomach’
‘Her face’
Maybe,
Just maybe,
You would be saying,
“Nerdy girls are hot”
Or bragging to your friends
“I have this girl and she’s so ****
And maybe,
Just maybe,
You would still be here.
And I would laugh,
Smile,
And blush
And we would be happy.
Together.
But instead,
I’m looking at this mirror,
And all I see
Is a fat girl
Looking back at me.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
Black velvet hat on the snowy ground.
The world is quiet, cold and round.
I pick cold powder up and roll.
Resulting snowman? Cold and still.
A carrot shall his nose comprise,
Two lumps of coal shall make his eyes,
The sparkling-dusted velvet hat
Shall top his head just so, like that.
I look away, the snowman smiles.
Or is it just a trick of the eyes?
I step away, the snowman moves.
Though he was just snow beneath my gloves.
I turn around, he greets me kind.
The will to move I cannot find.
How could it be, this snowman walks,
And thinks, and breathes, and loves, and talks?
His coal-mouth smiles, “Come, laugh and play.
Come dawn, we go to greet the day.”
I think about it, shake my head.
“A human sleeps. I must to bed.”
He laughs and smiles and takes my hand.
We run across the cold, soft land.
Come morning, “It is time,” says he.
“The day is warm, too warm for me.”
So Mister Snowman says good-by
A frozen tear forms in his eye,
And I embrace my brand new friend,
Hard-pressed to watch as he meets his end.
Black velvet hat on the snowy ground,
The world is bustling, warm and round.
I visit Mister Snowman’s hill.
Resulting puddle? Cold and still.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Nails in pocket
For future fastening
Of repellence on wood
Legs twisted, stiff, that
Forgot how to follow
In any other way than
Swaying in the wind
Hay hair shining in
Sunlight less every time
The dustbowl hits
Rags around lumps,
Stakes, rakes
Make for inadequate
Facade of waking
From afar well placed,
At ease, maybe
Somewhat untidy,
But balanced, stable
At a distance, listening
One might even hear
A raspy voice whispering
Wind to wood,
Promises of movement
Mistake a hollow stare
For vigilance
But with senses obsolete
Inertia well-rewarded
Mere being never sufficed
But for here and now
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Islamist Extremists. Boat Capsized.
Obama and Nelson Mandela. Celebrity Lies.
Plane Crash. Forest Fires.
Missing Girl. Handgun-buyers.
Amazon Lawsuit. ANT-MAN. Low Supplies!
Walmart Empty Shelves. Chinese Food Scandal.
Microsoft Layoffs. Heat and Gasoline. Oil.
Mad Max! Comic Book Convention Drama.
Breast Lumps and Swelling.
Television. Veteran's Hospitals.
Israel and Gaza Fight On.
Beachgoers Hit by Lightning.
Baseball Drinking Songs.
Sci-fi, Wi-fi, Ebola, and Libya.
Ukraine. Venezuela. Marriage. Liver failure.
Allen Webster. USA. RACE CARS.
Global Catastrophe Down to Warming of the Earth.
Dinosaurs Had Feathers. MH17. Profits.
Desert Bakery. Syria. We Must be Mad.
Philippines: 100 Million People on an Island.
Salmonella Lawsuit. Cheeseburger Diet.
Twinkies Never Going Bad.
Putin, Palin, and the Tour de France.
Fracking. Cats and Dogs.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
There is dirt all over my face
Dirt in my hair down to the floor
Big pieces and lumps of dirt
Floating through the space and air
I never have to do the cleaning
I got dirt piled up everywhere
And it crawls out of the woodworks
Like ***** words in ***** laundries
Dirt is dead ***** serious to me
**** makes me ***** happy and free
Like ***** waste and ***** waste of time
Clean dirt makes me want to cry
I got dirt in my liver
And dirt in my brain
I eat dirt for dinner
And I'm ***** insane
Dirt is dirt ***** beautiful to me
Dirt is the fuel and dirt is the light
Stained and sprayed with dirt
I live my ***** life
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
And as he leaves me with his words of wisdom
His blessing
I am expelling every sound he utters away from myself
I flinch from his touch
A pat on the back is like acid on my skin
In his presence I am forced to tape myself up
Whether it is to keep myself from exploding or from falling apart I still don't know
But there are times when my pieces begin to shake and quiver so violently that I start to leak and a storm rages in my head while the rain escapes through my eyes
It is in that moment that I scream at him to leave, without making a sound
And it scares me that he knows what I look like naked
because he has stared at women with my same body on the internet and has drooled over the same curves and lumps that I have
And it scares me how he can sound so sane. So sane that he convinces himself that he is stable
And it scares me that no one but me and my mother will ever truly understand how distorted his thought process is
All this fear and anger sit, rotting inside my stomach and at the center of the mass of hate, there is a spot of sadness for the good dad that left when I began to understand the things a young child should not be able to understand
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass—
And hop. eless grist enough it looks
Ever to grind to soil for grass.
(The way it is will do for moss.)
There he had built his stolen shack.
It had to be a stolen shack
Because of the fears of fire and logs
That trouble the sleep of lumber folk:
Visions of half the world burned black
And the sun shrunken yellow in smoke.
We know who when they come to town
Bring berries under the wagon seat,
Or a basket of eggs between their feet;
What this man brought in a cotton sack
Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce.
He showed me lumps of the scented stuff
Like uncut jewels, dull and rough
It comes to market golden brown;
But turns to pink between the teeth.
I told him this is a pleasant life
To set your breast to the bark of trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin and take it down
And bring it to market when you please
3.1k
Two goats
Push their heads
Through the gate –
Daintiness
Huffs in the mist.
Chickens march
Pausing to mourn over lumps.
Why don’t they straighten out
Those stones? I said.
I’ll do it myself.
One day I’ll come here
And I’ll do it my ******* self.
The goats race away,
Tripping into each other's backs -
Chasing a happiness
That comes for them every day.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
I don't love my body.
I don't love the curls on my head,
the way they become frizzy at the drop of a hat.
The way they get in the way when I do my dishes.
The way that they have a mind of their own in the morning.
You call me 'curly sue'.
You pull on my brown ringlets and smile when they bounce back into place.
You like the way my curls smell when I get out of the shower.
I don't love my body.
My *******
The way the hang from my chest like sandbags.
The way they restrict me from buying the clothes I like.
You named them.
Alessa and Alexis.
The way a little girl names the dolls that she loves so much.
Desire flashes in your eyes when I take off my shirt.
I don't love my body.
The first time you saw me naked
I wrapped my arms around my tummy
so that you couldn't see my belly.
You grabbed my arms and put them by my side,
and smirked
and said "beautiful".
I never hid myself from you again.
I don't love my body.
I hate the way my sides roll when I move.
You came home from practice,
bruised and bloodied.
You told me that your friend
tackled you to the ground
and you saw your life flash before your eyes;
you said
that my **** body
was the last thing you saw
before you momentarily blacked out.
I don't love my body.
I hate it.
I look in the mirror and see the most pathetic pile of
flesh, fat, muscle, bone and hair
that ever lived on this earth.
I waited so long to share it with another,
because I thought that this body,
this vessel,
was not worthy of appreciation.
You look at me the way a starving child looks at a five course meal.
You touch me like a homeless man sleeping on Egyptian cotton sheets
for the first time.
I don't love my body.
But the way you love my body,
the way you love my lumps and bumps and scars and flesh,
gives me hope that some day soon
I could grow to love it as well.
You make me feel things that I never thought I deserved to feel.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Skinny.
I want to be skinny.
Skin and bones,
No awkward lumps,
No pudgy cheeks.
Just beauty.
Perfect.
How am supposed to be perfect?
With societies expectations.
No more pain,
No more sorrow.
Just serenity.
Loved.
I just want to be loved.
By someone who cares.
No more loneliness.
No more tears.
Just love.
Unattainable wanting.
The only thing I feel.
Things I can never have.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
I can see you
Sneaking into the kitchen at midnight
Turning on the light as if
It is the only cure to your problems
Just to waft through
The shelves and shelves of self hatred
I can see you
Hiding behind a baggy t-shirt
That is supposed to be baggier than it actually is
I can see you
Not wanting to get too close to anyone
Because the way that their hands
Traipse over the
Mountains and lumps that are
Your body
Makes you feel all sorts of uncomfortable
I can see you
Because
I am you
I can see how we've lived our entire lives
In fear
Of ourselves
People tell you that "It's just food"
No.
It is a comforting hand when no one is there
It is a way to feel good and bad simultaneously
It is a way to survive
Only it would be a lot easier to survive
If you didn't hate yourself whilst doing it
Right?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Pulling lumps
Out of my neck
Like a knackered
Teddy bear
In the teeth
Of a puppy.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 4:26 PM UTC