"meatloaf" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
I once had a Simple Plan
To bribe a lady for a Kiss
With a Nickleback in my hand
And an Eagle tattoo on my wrist.
I brought her to the Linkin Park
And gave her meatloaf and Bread
But it had Red Hot Chilli Peppers
So she ate the Pearl Jam instead.
My tongue was like a Rolling Stone
As I tell her my Nirvana of love
I made promises with my Pink Floyd finger
As she watched a Led Zepellin flew above.
Her Metallica heart didn’t waste time
And she rejected me within Thirty Seconds to Mars
I treated her like a Queen
But all I got were Iron Maiden scars.
It stung me like the Bee Gees
Or a Scorpion tail’s as fine
The Beatles are all crawling down my skin
When she broke this Heart of mine
Guns N Roses were the choices
That were left for me to Root
But a Cheap Trick with the latter
Ended my romantic Journey afoot.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
My Mama's Cooking Is The Best
She Cooks And Bakes Me
All Kinds Of Delicious Foods
Such As Scalloped Potatoes,
Ground Turkey Meatloaf,
And Even Tuna Pies
She Bakes Me
The Sweetest Cakes
And The Most
Mouth-Watering Pies
She Makes Them All
By Hand, Of Course
She Kneads Her Bread With Ease
Delicate Lily-White Hands Caress
The Bread Dough Laying Before Her
She Makes And Bakes
The Best Meals You've Ever Heard
So Now She Has Less Time
To Make Those Delicious Foods
And I Am Beginning To Miss Them
And So Is My Hungry Stomach
~Marian~
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
A baloney sandwich.
Baloney is hardly meat.
A hardly meat and cheese sandwich.
A hardly meat and American cheese sandwich.
American cheese is hardly cheese.
A hardly meat and hardly cheese sandwich.
A hardly meat and hardly cheese sandwich on white bread.
White bread is hardly bread.
A hardly meat and hardly cheese on hardly bread sandwich.
I wanted meatloaf.
I wanted meatloaf with gravy.
I wanted meatloaf with gravy and a side of potatoes.
Mashed potatoes.
I wanted meatloaf with gravy and a side of mashed potatoes.
Hardly meat and hardly cheese on hardly bread is hardly a meal.
Hardly meat and hardly cheese on hardly bread is hardly a last meal.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
In class the big black and white tick-tock pinched
my mid-morning belly. When everyone else
borrowed numbers, my pencil lead and yellow paint
scratched out hunger. Minutes chugged like school
buses. Even columns of three-numeraled numbers
minused the bottom line, scold of lunch.
A borrowed quarter and dime from the office,
meant a secretary’s red-lipsticked mouth, bent
and accusing. Her coiffed curls shook my dreams.
I would starve before sailing into that office
for my little belly, but forever yearned for the secretary
to pet my hair. Say, “There, there,”like to a character
in a book rosy with girls in gingham dresses.
But, for all those lovely boats of hot lunches: meatloaf
with crusts of catsup like a winter cap, buttered beans,
dinner rolls
and cold-cartoned milk, not watered down--
Missing lunch, I'd hide out in the cold storage
room of sack lunches next to the playground.
While the others ate, I'd escape at the right tick
into the recess of blacktop and tetherball.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Daisies in hair, freckles in laugh,
Summer camp dandelions,
Bubbles in the air.
Cling like a koala to your back
So I can fight off the pirates
And the dinosaurs
And the giant squid
And my mother's meatloaf.
Where do teachers go at night?
Do they sleep in their classrooms?
This caterpillar is my new best friend.
But so is this firefly. But not that moth.
Roll down hill into mud puddles of chocolate goo.
Sing songs and jump on clouds like trampolines.
Mouth like an innocent firecracker; 3-2-1 blast off.
Kissed and tucked and loved into bed.
Dreaming of how good we're going to have it,
Not knowing that we already did.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
"This is a song..."
"This is uhh, This is a new song..."
"It's through the eyes of one of the greatest people alive, I feel..."
"The Lunchlady"
[Laughing]
Woke up in the morning
Put on my new plastic glove
Served some reheated salisbury steak
With a little slice of love
Got no clue what the chicken *** pie is made of
Just know everything's doing fine
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well I wear this net on my head
'Cause my red hair is fallin' out
I wear these brown orthopedic shoes
'Cause I got a bad case of the gout
I know you want seconds on the corndogs
But there's no reason to shout
Everybody gets enough food
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well yesterday's meatloaf is today's sloppy joes
And my breath reeks of tuna
And there's lots of black hairs coming out of my nose
In Lunchlady Land your dreams come true
Clouds made of carrots and peas
Mountains built of shepherds pie
And rivers made of macaroni and cheese
But don't forget to return your trays
And try to ignore my gum disease
No student can escape the magic of Lunchlady Land
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans, navy beans
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans
Meatloaf sandwich
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
Well I dreamt one morning
That I woke up to see
All the pepperoni pizza
Was a-looking at me
It screamed, why do you burn me
And serve me up cold
I said I got the spatula
Just do what you're told
Then the liver & onions
Started joining the fight
And the chocolate pudding
Pushed me with all its might
And the chop suey slapped me
And it kicked me in the head
It's called revenge Lunchlady
Said the garlic bread
I said what did I do
To make you all so mad
They said you got flabby arms
And your breath is bad
Then the green beans said
You better run and hide
But then my friend sloppy joe came
And joined my side
He said if it wasn't for the Lunchlady
The kids wouldn't eatcha
You should be shakin' her hand
And sayin' please to meet ya
She gives you a purpose
And she gives you a goal
You should be kissin' her feet
And kissin' her mole
Now all the angry foods
Just leave me alone
And we all live together
In a happy home
Thanks to
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
[Spoken]
Well me & sloppy joe got married
We got six kids and we're doing' just fine
Down in Lunchlady Land
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
We rage
like hormones
like hyenas in heat
and ruin homes
(not on purpose, just on Fridays)
So grown up,
we're so grown up
with our mature parties
and relationship problems.
Look! I'm pregnant!
I'm oh so grown up!
We puke up jello shooters
and mama's meatloaf,
wipe the whithered corners of pale mouths,
smile
giggle
hazy glazy eyes
in smokey basements and tree houses.
Oh no,
I do not promote it
I only smoke it.
But what can we do?
I must be thin to be ****
drunk to be interesting,
naked to be loved.
We need the skin contact
because God knows we can't communicate by words,
either by tweets
or haphazard ******* in back seats.
We are so grown up
because we accept the filth,
the naughty,
the concepts that un-rad corporate burn outs can't comprehend.
Wisdom in destruction,
life in suicide.
So allow me to fill my nose with shaymen's powders,
so that I may regress
to the days that I was Daddy's ballerina,
and school yard games lacked dark ****** undertones.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 9:51 PM UTC
Hey Mom?
I miss you.
Like a lot.
I miss dancing in the kitchen
To Madonna and Meatloaf.
I remember singing under the paper lantern
From the dollar store.
You bought it just for me.
I miss your strong, muscular embrace
And your scent of cloves and earl grey and earth.
I miss your long, silky hair
Just like mine.
I cut it all off last week.
Some days,
I just wish I could talk to you,
Talk to you about what hurts
But you hurt.
Just to remember hurts.
You're gone.
Hey Mom?
If you're still in there,
Beneath all the alcohol-infused blood
At the bottom of the cavity in your soul maybe,
Could you peek out from behind the curtain?
If only for a moment.
Could you give me some signal
Some kind of hope
That beneath it all
My mother is still here
On this earth
That she isn't lost to me forever.
That the woman who cherished me in her lap
Swaying me back and forth while I cried
From bad dreams or heartache
The woman who taped up my broken arm
And taught me how to make the best spaghetti
My mommy,
Who taught me to sing with beauty
And shared her green thumb secrets.
Please.
Please.
Don't be lost to me entirely.
Please come back.
Hey Mom?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
S3
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
Somewhere in my body,
A bifurcated clock ticks,
Two clock faces,
White on black,
Vice versa.
Mixed media messages,
Crazy train station internal,
Brain activity fevered,
Arrive/depart according to
Somebody else's schedule,
Somebody else occupying,
Every street of my body
Lying asleep,
Typing these words,
It is the middle of the night,
Bright daylight suffuses the room
What part of my metaphysical schema,
Ain't jet lagged legally,
And poetically entitled to be
Stockholm Syndrome Confused?
Times have really changed,
Oh my, when you propose,
Let's go to Stockholm,
Anything goes!
So my schedule reordered
In the land of either all
Light or Dark, twenty hours four,
I turn to my boon companion,
Who soothes at any hour,
My music, my Nano,
And I find myself, musically,
Shuffling in Stockholm.
Meatloaf and Piazzolla,
Muddy Waters and Purple Rain,
Marvin Gaye and Pink Martini,
Beethoven, Straight No Chaser,
Beatles, Stones, Bennett vs. Buble,
The lack of sleep a permanent fixture,
Courtesy of this Bach-us admixture,
So should you see a gappy, khaki, clad tourist,
Meandering o'er the islands of this charming city,
In Ingmar Bergman fashion,
Black and white erratic,
Alternating, swaying and shuffling,
No tongue clucking,
Nah, he's not drunken,
Just dancing while sight seeing,
In a sleep deprived manner,
Someday a movie to be,
Sleepless, Shuffling In Stockholm
A/K/A
S3
June 30 ~ July 2, 2012
Stockholm, Sweden
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
the american dream:
a wistful wanna-be broadway star
dancing dewy-eyed through the streets of
streets
streets of
the street of -
PLANE CRASH
a white picket fence
meatloaf
on the table
in a magazine
the magazine
of a gun
a gun
on the table
locked behind
white picket
white pick
white
picket -
PICKET LINES
how to succeed in business
without entirely lying
american dream
the americans
scream
we want our
american dream
the tv screen
sold us
to walmart
one american dream,
please
american team
all american boys
the boys and girls club of
one nation
under
shallow water
american dream
it is what it seems
americans
dream
dreams
breaking seams
that hold us together
americans dream
americans die
only americans
allowed to dream
only americans
waste it
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Sometimes I wish I were an oven
If I were an oven,
I could not wake for work
I could not wake at all
I would not sleep.
If I were an oven,
I would not pray to God
I would not pray at all,
Nor know what God is,
Nor how tragic that might be.
If I were an oven,
You could not be angry with me ever,
Nor make puddles of my hurt,
Now know that I existed in any other form,
But only that I now exist,
And that I am useful,
And that fact would not make me sad,
Because I would know no facts.
If I were an oven,
I would cook cake and Thanksgiving turkey,
And you would notice my heat
Just as you notice the hum of the refrigerator,
The smell of my meatloaf,
And the glow of the stove as you make breakfast.
If I were an oven,
I could not love you as a person does,
Nor love you at all,
And you could not hurt me as you have before,
Nor hurt me at all,
Though you might break me.
If I were an oven,
I would belong to you completely,
And you would appreciate me as something that you need,
And nothing more,
And you might feel privileged to have me,
Or at least, more than you have.
Sometimes I wish I were an oven,
Because ovens know nothing more than food,
And they do not bother with deadlines,
Or arriving to work on time,
Or how much they are loved.
But mostly I just wish I were an oven
So that you would pay attention to what you put into me
And leave lingering for hours,
And so that you would concern yourself with me when I was broken,
So that I might be made new again.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Meatloaf,
You say.
Why meatloaf?
How could a vegetarian
Possibly taste like
Meatloaf??
Promises made
For when we die.
But why meatloaf?
I scream meatloaf
To you, but
Why meatloaf?
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
My mom had me when she was nineteen years old, but I wasn't an accident.
My mom had surgery the day before yesterday and I wasn't there to kiss her before she went in. She called me before and she left me a voicemail when she got out. She said she loved me and she missed me. I miss her too.
My mom hates washing more dishes than she has to, but she refuses to use the dish washer. We eat on paper plates and we have three sets of salad tongs that we got for free from Dion's Pizza. My mom goes to Sam's Club to buy Charmin and generic paper towels, she likes the hot dogs at Target, and she gets her iced non-fat mochas at McDonalds.
My mom is tiny. She weighs a hundred and ten pounds and is 5 feet 3 inches. She has fake ***** and long black hair down to her waist. She makes me feel safe.
My mom works two jobs, on top of taking care of three kids plus me. She makes Mama Mia mac and cheese, and Mama Mia meatloaf and Mama Mia fajitas, basically she makes food and calls it Mama Mia because she made it.
My mom is beautiful.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
There's a guy dressed up as Freddie Kruger for Halloween
Freddie Kruger can't sing the high part during Eye Of The Tiger
I murmur something to my friend
Me: Freddie Crooner
My friend laughs more than he needs to
We aren't sure whose whiskey sour is whose anymore
My roommate doesn't want to sing in front of people
She'd rather hide in her glass and mingle with the ice
But I make her duet a Nirvana song with me
Which we scream and she starts having fun
The crowd claps with relief when we're done
Freddie Kruger offers me a fist bump
A group of sweet plump ladies takes turns singing love ballads
They all have pretty voices and work at Bubba Gump on the pier
The one that sang the Adele song is studying business
She tells me while we smoke outside during Wonder Wall
I sing nine minutes of Meatloaf
My voice cracks and growls like feedback
This guy buys me a shot afterwards
My throat is so dry that I have to drink it in tiny sips
This guy thinks me and my friends are fun
I duet Desperado with him and we knock over stools and laugh
He has clearly never heard the song Desperado before
Me and my friends invite the whole bar to sing an Aerosmith song together
I think that this may be the only way to really appreciate Aerosmith
I drive my roommate and my self back to our apartment
I'm drunk but I pretend I'm sober so she won't get scared
Then sometimes I laugh bizarrely to scare her a little bit
But always end up lying and reassuring her that I'm sober
We start talking about Lou Reed because he had died that day
I guess Lou Reed didn't like when people said RIP
Which I had written in my facebook status about him dying
I don't really care much because Lou Reed wasn't really a friend of mine
I just liked his music
And he never mentions in any of his songs anything
About people saying RIP
When we got to the bar the first thing I did
Was to look for a Lou Reed song to sing
But there weren't any
So I sang other songs instead
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
warm radiation
of single serve dinners.
clatter of bottle caps,
bouncing off bent metal brothers.
yesterday: b-movies
for hours,
black and white
brains on wires float,
high school students
lost in allegory.
day before: reading
for hours,
shivering
knees making mountain peaks
under the comforter from home,
avalanches of unseen feathers.
hot coffee, showers,
days of avoiding outside.
heating pads,
leftovers of mother's meatloaf
sent over in a cooler.
reminiscing to no one
about how it use to taste.
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 3:30 PM UTC
The Perfect Combination
A-1 on your sirloin
Butter on your bread
Chocolate on your ice cream
Or butterscotch instead
Cream cheese on your bagels
Jelly on your toast
Maybe peanut butter
Which do you like the most
Salsa for tamales
Lemon for your fish
Onion dip for vegetables
Delicious on your dish
Pinto beans in chili
Carrots cooked in stew
Bacon on your meatloaf
Chicken cordon bleu
Chives on your potato
Sugar in your tea
Pickles on your burger
Crackers for your cheese
Garlic for your pasta
Sauce upon it too
Milk poured in your cereal
Slices of fresh fruit
Gravy on your biscuits
Sausage would be nice
Cocktail sauce for jumbo shrimp
In a bowl with ice
Syrup on your pancakes
Frosting on your cake
Cream upon your peaches
A salt and pepper shake
Caramel on your apples
Seafood and white wine
Cottage cheese upon your pears
It’s so much fun to dine
Mayo on your sandwich
Ketchup on your fries
Dressing on your salad
Whipped cream on your pies
So many combinations
That we see each day
When we’re having dinner
Breakfast, lunch or play
To enhance each other
Nothing left to waste
Flavors come together
In the name of taste
There’s one combination
The best one I can see
Not to do with eating
Because it’s you and me
So perfect now together
Like ham on top of cheese
Lettuce and tomato
Onions in your peas
Wonderful together
Sometimes sweet or ****
Soft and always tender
This love inside our hearts
Of all the perfect pairings
Only one will do
This combination built on love
Forever me and you
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
I sometimes feel
My small words
Are just breadcrumbs here
(Compared to yours)
But then I remembered
My breadcrumbs keep
Your meatloaf together
Feb 10, 2023
Feb 10, 2023 at 11:55 AM UTC
Last week I sold a bunch of my memories
to help pay the rent. It was either that or my car.
I gave them 146 rarely used memories, they gave me $40.88…
I thought it was a fair deal. I mean, I wasn’t using them…
A couple weeks later I was curious
to see how they were selling, so I walked to the second-hand shop
that had made the deal with me. I saw an elderly woman looking
at my memories. She picked one up, stared at it disapprovingly, then
tossed it casually back in the pile. She did this a couple more times, then
walked away. I waited until she had left, then walked up and picked
up the one she was looking at. It was a memory of kissing and elbows.
Whispers and smiles.
I stood perplexed with the memory in my hands, wondering to myself what
brought about the look of disapproval. To each their own, I suppose…
I hung around that day, trying to get into the heads of
those who were looking into mine…with little success.
There were laughs, tears, and the occasional snarky comment. I watched a memory of driving
down an empty interstate with the windows down on an exquisite summer day sell
for 28 cents. I saw a memory of climbing trees and rope swings leave with an old man
who wanted to remember youth. A girl with dreadlocks in her twenties took a fuzzy memory
of less than legal implications.
I came by every day until they were all but gone, only a few stragglers here and there; One of a hospital bed,
another of a meatloaf dinner in January.
I really don’t like meatloaf.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
(oh) I stumble wired and thin
You've pinned me under your thumb
To watch me come undone again
(don't) you know you're sewn into my head
Work of a thick, jagged needle
And a rusty, barbed wire thread
Chorus:
I feel her coming
I can hear her screaming
Yeah, I know she's just teasing
And I'm powerless to fight back
(Yeah) I sense her haunting
Engulfed in self-loathing
You know, she's only wanting
Her weary mind to falter back
I wake
To the iridescent cascade
Of pale light
Streaked across your face
I dance, sweet temptress in hand
As I stray out of my mind
And fix myself another line
Chorus (again)
Oh baby don't you see these scars?
Break my neck and spare my heart
Daddy can you spot my tracks?
Daddy when will you face the facts?
Your child has grown
Your baby's moved on
And now your little girl
Is dead and gone
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
The liquor doesn't bite anymore,
it comes over me,
in a flowering,
a thunder-wave.
I have dreams of killing him,
with a chainsaw and a rose,
the rose for you
to place
over the tendrils of his separated neck.
Or smashing his face
into a stone lion's mouth,
then forcing him,
inch by wriggling inch
into a granite maw,
trapped forever
behind the vicious wardens
of stone canines and cement incisors.
I usually dream drunk,
too wild in myself,
to roam the day sober.
So, work is drunk;
eating is drunk;
breathing is drunk;
Orange juice spiked,
ready to go.
Meatloaf dinner; date with milk, ***** and sweating
at five.
Can't you see the carnage?
The flotsam;
The raft of bodies
of stupid, pale men
who give out their positions
to hateful women.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
I hear their voices in my head,
remarks that stab my lungs
stealing my breath with their selfish fingers.
A groggy haze of hatred crowds into my ears,
deafening me to the sweet melodies of the world.
I see their faces in my mind,
their eyes rolling faster than Wal-Mart’s prices
as they discover every imperfection in my soul.
Each harsh smirk that slips in my direction only further blinds me
from the riches that lie beneath the heavens.
I taste them on my tongue,
their toxic flavor erupts in my quiet mouth,
rough as it slowly slides down my throat.
The poison that seasons their bodies seeps deep into my core,
rotting my heart like last week’s meatloaf.
I feel their comments bonding my hands and feet,
tighter with each curse of my name.
I feel their cold touch on my skin,
burning through the line of defense I had mentally prepared
causing damage through my flesh to my veins as it burns without a heated ignition.
I smell the stench of their lies,
the dishonesty of their words stings my nose with each inhalation.
Every breath weakens my heart as their toxins surge
through my body and over take my will to remain pure.
This scent will remain forever in my nostrils.
Through the course of these events they have stolen my senses-
my most valued possessions,
my true wealth that once allowed me to view the world’s beauty.
And sent me into my Great Depression.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC
I like ANYTHING flavored with Onion ...
I like Onion rings ...
I like Onion straws ...
I don't, however, care for them raw.
In powder they're handy ...
On 'taters they're prized ...
And oh that smell ...
As they become caramelized!
I like French Onion Soup ...
I like Onion crisps ...
I like them in doses ...
I like them in wisps ...
On a side note ...
I must be fair ...
I prefer my friends with ...
As many layers ...
For seasoning meat ...
As many have known ...
That flavor infuses ...
Right to the bone ...
I like any type ...
From any ground ...
I've tried so many ...
The world around ...
I like them pureed ...
In macaroni salad ...
Minced in my meatloaf ...
They're definitely valid ...
I like how they smell ...
Even like how they look ...
But for some strange reason ...
They MUST be cooked!
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
How do you think it feels,
To have no friends in school?
It’s a feeling that to very few appeals,
Yet here I am, caught because I’m not “cool”.
The others, oh they laugh, at their tables with their friends,
While I move from seat to seat,
Listening to the laughter that never ends,
Being ignored as I sit and eat.
It is not because I am all too shy,
Or have no wish to talk.
Quite honestly, I don’t know why,
They all ignore me as we walk.
I know it’s not because I’m mean,
As I’ve had many friends before.
Maybe it’s that I’m not interested in their scene,
Or maybe it’s just my eyes are far too interested in the floor.
On the rare winter day,
I’m sitting at lunch with my class,
My eyes from my book occasionally will stray,
But only long enough to roll my eyes at some boy’s comment on passing gas.
Then the other days that I do sit,
With the grade above us,
I notice that even there I don’t fit,
Surrounded by talk of the boys on the bus.
Sometimes when I sit with them,
I try to get a word in.
But because of their constant blabbing, to silence I’m condemned,
Tapping my fingers on my shin.
As the school year goes on and on,
I try less and less to talk.
Until the year is almost gone,
And the one last attempt I make makes them gawk.
I stand by the microwave, cold pizza on my plate laying flat,
When one boy comes up and asks,
“What is that?”
I stare at him for a moment as others go on with their tasks.
Finally I respond sarcastically,
“It’s meatloaf. No, it’s pizza. Haven’t you seen it before?”
Though I think I see a tiny smile, he looks at me as if I’d done something drastically,
And just stares at me oddly while opening the microwave door.
I smile a little, thinking of how,
At my old school those words would be normal for me.
But I cannot say things like that now,
As I am not in words or deeds free.
I cannot joke without a funny look,
Or complain about math without a stare.
Because now I am expected to only read my book,
And my smile is supposedly rare.
As he leaves to go back to his table,
Without another word to me,
I think of how I’m now not able,
Truly to be free.
And then I decide from this day forward,
I will just stop trying,
To show I’m not just some nerd,
Who is perpetually sighing.
In the school I shall live in a world of quiet,
Never really showing them my true self.
While my classmates have a riot,
I will be as silent as a doll on a shelf.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
i want to know if you still call him baby
when he slithers into bed
smelling of channel no.5 and marlboro reds.
it was you that should’ve quit years ago.
sometimes you wait alone on
meatloaf wednesdays
a little longer than on spaghetti saturdays,
because meatloaf is his favorite
and maybe he will show up on time tonight.
i want to know if you still call him baby
when he whimpers her name into your pillow
when he is fast asleep.
so it can haunt you at all hours of the night
so you will hear the three syllables
in everything you do all day.
tiffany
tiffany
tiffany
the *** sings on the stove,
and all you hear is tiffany.
when he is tracing your cheeks with
his fingertips, he is carving her name
into your face.
he is thinking of her skin.
do you still call him baby
when he wont look at you when
you tell him that you miss him?
do you still call him baby
when he flinches away from your kiss?
do you still call him baby
when he ***** you to the thought
of another heartbeat?
do you still call him baby
when he aches to say
i love you, tiffany
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC