"pestering" poems
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
If you were reincarnated as an animal
Knowing everything you do now
Would you treat humans differently than animals already do?
Or would you bite the hand that beats?
Or would you bite the mouth that eats?
Would you treat humans kindly?
That could be a bullet finding
I come across a shivering raccoon
Stuck inside a winter monsoon
It's too young to survive
I could help I surmise
Its coat can't protect its form
In my car it's nice and warm
But I don't understand the raccoon
And I fear it doesn't understand me
Though I'm not proud of it
I travelled around it
Mosquitoes want your blood to survive
The same way I want your love to arrive
There's a pestering orbit
Your teeth grind and grit
I feel the need to feed
I am overcome by greed
I want you inside me
So I insert my proboscis
And you turn into colossus
It's an animal process
When you squash us
So animals grow stingers
And poison that lingers
When we use our fingers
To smash them
And detach them
From our humanistic existence
They have a reproductive resistance
So we keep fighting
And they keep biting
Because there's no end in sight
When we see animals take flight
We define anything different as animal
This is our excuse to act tyrannical
They feel our wrath
When they're in our path
We turn them into roadkill
This world becomes a landfill
Our hollowed humanity on the shelf
We treat animals as we treat ourself
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
Six weeks strong
Wounds have healed
Tried to stop an addiction
But became so unhappy
Thoughts became worse
More pessimistic
Demons won't stop pestering
Self hatred grew stronger
Turned to the pain
Knowing that it is just an illusion
Thinking it would help escape
The struggles of life
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Rarely had my vision been focused in the past
and maybe for this reason the passage of time
felt as if it was little more than a forgotten dream.
I often found my eyes on an icy reflection
of a naked man standing before a fogged mirror,
fresh with the haze of a hot shower.
I would gaze upon him and he back into me,
pondering to myself "who are you stranger?"
I could only assume he thought the same of me.
I would wonder when he walked away
from that tooth paste stained portrait
if he ventured into the world with that familiar vigor,
that naive sensibility to battle
the demons,
the contradictors
and the liars.
If he too would laugh at these same fallacies in himself
with a certain kind of madness that could only touch
the ears of the few free men among us.
Those tragic spirits who dared to dance,
to transcend ancient genetics and modern culture
in hopes of touching a god they had long forsaken.
We may have given it a different name
but we were no better then the theologians before us,
we clung to our most primal desire.
It weighed upon us with such force
that hunger,
thirst
or even lust
felt like a pestering annoyance in the shadow of its glory.
Our appetite for connection far surpassed our need
to facilitate our biological deficiencies
and in those moments of understanding we reveled in the irony
of being minds trapped in fleshy bodies.
A smile crept across my face and one grew upon him.
I knew this man who stand before me,
unafraid,
bare in body
with a dastardly grin.
He was my oldest friend,
the ghost who spoke to me
in my most vulnerable moments
when no others did.
He cried for me when I could not,
would not cry for myself.
He had always been there
for me and for the first time
when I turned away from his reflection
I felt him follow too.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
Desperate claws towards the fading sunset, wishing for one last duet.
Pestering pleas towards the fading trees, withering leaves as I can never please.
Inevitable tears as I accept this is the end, as I see you float away from our riverbend.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC
I am Hephaestus,
Festering,
Alone in my home
Of infidelity. Pestering,
My goddess, my queen,
With pleas, that I may reach
And touch her beauty,
That my ears may hear her sing.
Hoping I could snake my way
Around her olive tree,
With the courage of Athene.
She's the amor in the air,
Armored by her disgusted stare.
And I'm ensnared. Tangled,
In her hair. Amongst dead roses,
And broken mirrors, I repair.
Mending what was never there.
Convincing myself I'm not impaired.
I am Hephaestus,
Festering,
In this forge.
I'm scorched,
By my heart's
Endless scourge.
-SLuR
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
S tronger than myself,
You chain me to your wrist and
Narrow my vision
Until all I see is your sadistic face through the tunnel and
Those malicious brown eyes
Above thin, chapped, upturned lips.
T ainting my face, you do,
Painting with tears of both
Joy from your eyes and
The frustrated loss of hope that claims to be mine,
Which I proceed to rub with a scalding cloth
Until raw, I become
So I can claim to be blonde when people question if they saw and
Make a narrow escape from shame.
R un, I cannot; and
However cunning I may be,
You will still be on my tail,
Nose to the ground and posterior in the air,
Gaining speed at an unnerving pace,
Until my skinny knees clatter and
I violently shake,
Vomiting on myself,
Either from exhaustion or fear,
However, the later holds more ground.
E ven my breath becomes yours and
My dreams are at your mercy.
Consider my plea,
Lucky are thee to have me beg,
Thrown to the ground where dirt may stain my face,
An honor rarely reserved for anyone, but
You hold over me all I wish to have.
S neaking past all my guards
In elaborate disguises,
Thrown around in white and
Handed out with smiles,
I run like a fool into you,
Wrapping my arms in a tight embrace,
Greeting you like a friend who hides a knife.
S uffocating under your pressure,
I find myself screaming out.
In the darkest corner, I wish to hide,
Buried in words that cannot hurt,
Contrary to your bitter whispers and
Pestering bites.
Like a wound you fester
Deep beneath my skin.
Yes, I cannot take it.
Under your pressure,
I make myself mute.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
Good morning, boy
coffee and chemistry -
your ***** thick as a girl's wrist
pestering my ****
as I twist
forgetting to yawn
with your dreams rubbed into me.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Up went the roar of the crowd,
Ascending, volumes above, beyond
The everyday murmur of pestering silence.
A futile struggle to withstand its force,
Like a vast wave, rogue and raging,
Slamming nature, a slap in the face of feebleness,
This crowd roars…
Not anger, not anguish, or grief,
But a prideful scream of declaration;
The masses make it known, and known again,
Fists raised, pulverizing the air to a beat
Of human design, of togetherness, of solidarity
In the fight for those like us, a howl,
This crowd roars…
Stampeding feet berate the beaten earth,
Invigorated legs supporting pounding hearts,
To a beat, rolling with the flow,
Energy infusing the soul, encased in flesh, bone, and blood;
Marching onward, forward, processional strides
Declaring and making it known with battle cries,
This crowd roars…
Shouts of proclamation echo the strident resistance
With thunder, earth-quaking, walls crumbling, chains shattering
With thunder, dancing against the discordant system;
Proud warriors raising flags of protest
Amidst the roar, roister, and riots, rising reactionaries
Refusing submission, declining resignation,
This crowd roars…
Bounded together, by blood, by common cause,
Mingling masses of forgotten arise with a vocal
Outcry, intense, pulsing from the core (of us)
Like an infestation, infuriated, a torrent swarm (of us)
Flowing upwards, eroding all obstructions.
Declare, proclaim, announce, request, demand,
This crowd roars…
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
Exhausted
from feeling
reeling
peeling away my exoskeleton
of mossy vehemence
Disgusted
from festering
pestering bacteria
leeching my energy
depleting my senses
Desensitized
towards romance
no chance
for me
Sinking
in a swamp
instead of grasping
for relief
Ashamed
for allowing
disavowing
natural instincts
Crying
dying
internally invaded
by poisonous neglect
Suicide
by choking on
your spoken words
I kept
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
You think no one would care if you died? no one would notice. well you’re wrong. i would. and so would so many other people.
Okay listen here, even though this won’t matter in a week or even tomorrow I just want you to know that:
You are worth so much more than you think.
You were placed on this earth for a reason, everyone has a reason to live no matter how small it may be. There is always hope, there is always help. There is always something better to do than **** yourself.
If you died tonight by taking your own life you would affect so many. No don’t just say “Pfft, yeah right” because someone will.
What if tomorrow your best friend wakes up and you’re not there? Do you know how devastated they will be. They will blame themselves. What if they had talked to you a little longer that night? or finally told you that they love you? A million questions will race though their mind. They will blame themselves for therest of their life.
Your family don’t care either? They do. What happens when they find your body? They will shake your trying the wake you, but you never will. They will cry out for you, tell you to come back. They need you here, without you here? They are missing half of themselves. Their own blood dead. They also will blame it on themselves. What if I woke up earlier to get them out of bed? What did I do wrong as a parent? Why couldn’t they talk to me? The same million questions pestering them for the rest of their lives. How about burying their child before them, that is one of the worst things, out living your own child.
You probably think killing yourself is easy? It’s not. Bleeding out takes hours and it’s excruciating painful. Overdosing, if you don’t do it right you could mess up your organs forever. All the ways of killing yourself have a chance that they will not work and if they don’t you will live with those scars forever.
You’re probably going to blow this off and forget about it but can you at least remember that you are beautiful and you are worth so much more. please don’t take your life tonight or tomorrow or next week because if you survive this monster that eats away your mind everyday you will be able to tell your children and their children that..
You survived.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:45 AM UTC
I aimed the old car
south and
ran as many red
lights as my luck
would allow.
Kept my sunglasses
on as I
listened to Frusciante
singing
nothing but the
truth all through
the magic of
my radio.
Left the madness of
the city and
entered the
land where
atomic bombs
and peoples sanity
have both
been tested.
Desert roads
littered
with desert lies,
like oasis and
promises made
in Vegas.
I took a toot
off the side of
my hand like
I seen them do in
the movies.
Wasted the better
part of my stash
on this foolish
trick.
This ride I'm
taking is real.
On my way
I'll be looking for a
wild young girl
to roll my joints
and laugh at my
jokes,give my eyes
a place to rest in.
I'm looking for
a lovely from the
low side of town.
Whose spirit has
yet to be broken
and whose mind
isn't already
filled with their
lies.
Watched as the
California landscape
turned from
beaches and tropical
palms to
cactus taller than
most men
and dry forgotten
land that
most come to
die in.
From congested
freeways that hold
the drivers hostage.
To wide open
desert highways
where its safe to
drink straight from
the bottle without
that pestering public
servant there to
ruin your ride.
If I make it out of
this dam
desert alive
with my wallet
and my sanity still
intact.
I'll look back
at it all
as just another
memory.
And try
not to give
in to
ever going
back.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
When she says she hears voices rattling and battling in the deepest recesses of her mind, then it's time to beware, take care, and make choices saddling you and leave her behind.
Shes a case study of its kind. That even Freud would throw up his hands, make a grand stand in his frustrations and demand a vacation to unwind.
She's all that and more.
She'll wrap a man around her fingers make him putty in her hands,
leave him babbling in his mirror
trying so much to understand.
He should feel something, but just can't comprehend,
left a mute, numb, mumbling...
carcass, of a man.
She's like an itch that becomes a
scratch that's becomes a pestering,
festering **** till you look down
horror bound as the ****** swollen
thing has taken on a life of its own...
then it starts maxing out your cards,
throwing your clothes out on the yard,
yelling hard. Snooping on your phone. Won't go home. Won't leave you alone.
Is it a wound or a woman or a woman or a wound or both simultaneously, concurrently? Yes and no.
Oh the trials and tribulations I've known!
You can really pick em.
Daddy used to say, in his haphazard way, and really lay it on me in the harshest of phrases, meant to dazzle and daze me, rile and faze me, knock me a kilter off my normal day.
Son, you stimulate and exhilarate the
spirit of an untamed, pained, wild
child woman and it'll be the same, and here this,
as an insane drain on the brain most personally and certainly and most notably and you can quote me. It'll leave you feeling like the beach storming at Normandy.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
Where Is Shelter?
depends on the location of the storm…
so oft have I queried the gods and you?
Where is Shelter?
*to which, my response, while surrounded so well (!)
within
my moated island circumferences redoubt,
always was a simple:
“Here, Here is shelter!
But so human, thus so prone to delimited vision,
always, we scan the skies outward, fearful of
the hurricane and storm that approach,
from without, appearing, and the brewing
sky’s danger is visceral~visible to the naked eyes,
when,
it is disguised within the chambers of the
body, festering, until it is pestering, and
shelter, sadly, is not injectable, transferable,
easy remedial, and the hunkering down
with four walls not the solution, for the walls
themselves are damaged by decades of
waves of innocuous gently lapping that* still
*erode igneous granite(1) and fissure the self,
this secretive, enemy insidious…*
so it comes to be, that my own daggers have
pivoted, the pointy dangers pointed outwards,
well entrenched in their own defenses, now targeting
the whole of me, my outer walls breached, and
fired upon by cannons of cells, a treacherous
attack, bombardement par l'artillerie et les drones,
of the Fifth Column (2)…
so once more, say no more, but ask the brief of demand,
Where is Shelter?
the answer is as of yet to be decided,
but the forces
arrayed for and against
are equally determined!
W.S.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 3:30 PM UTC
why is it when?
you tell me you love me
i feel utter happiness
warmth floods me
yet an unbearable sadness
pulls and picks
like a seagull on the beach
pestering a crab
waiting for it to give up
i don't want to
but i feel like its correct
meant to happen
maybe just giving up
isn't as bad as they say
maybe its time
to give up
. . . . . . .
give up on the sadness
that i held like a blanket
as if it keeps me warm
i realize now, that it didn't
never did, never will
though i continue to clutch it
a child, frightened of letting go
loosing my strong grasp on
past feelings and fake safeties
to be completely happy
could i maybe find another
a blanket of thicker wool?
one that does hold me
tight in its embrace
keeping me warm
giving me love
maybe it's time
to take more
and let you
love me
fully
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
A solemn wasp invades personal space
It’s buzzing – annoyance in stereo.
Trapped, alone, impending death confronted
It’s passing – a just journey.
Bonds are formed, the wasp’s brothers and
Feelings of naïve permanence
Fill the air.
Lost.
Unjust.
Perhaps dearest wasp truly travels alone.
Why is it this pestering beast?
Itself not a compelling creation
Creates hate with an air of such ease
And when gone, vacuums ensue
To extreme, unexpected sadness
The next life will see done, on equal footings made.
The wasp will be a true friend with a
buzzing friend buzzing relative buzzing girlfriend
buzzing boyfriend buzzing son buzzing daughter
buzzing home buzzing you
Oh dearest buzzing life please release me too.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
For I did not come here in hopes of a hello
Of a simple stroll down our village
Or an acknowledgement of my existence
I came here because I care
I care
I see in your eyes the difference
Cover up with words soothing to the ear
But actions onset on hindrance
I did not come for a duet
Or a memory that we’d never regret
A heart to heart throughout the night
I did not come for my own benefit
I come because I care
I care
I worry, in fact
That you do not realize
How much you are
Who you are
Or your worth
Because the things you do show otherwise
But see in my eyes, and the eyes of others
Too concerned while we watch the beautiful eagle continue to believe he’s just a worm
You’re too distraught by the blindfold in front of yours
To realize the cries for help
Drowned out with insanity
Because the world is stealing your flame
While you continue to be baffled by the pickpocket’s show
"Do not take it!" I scream
“Do not let it take you!”
but those eyes
So precious, full and alive
are
still
blindfolded.
The procession goes on while the main attraction continues to burp out synthetic love and false hopes
Temporary
enjoyment
And you have become the fool of the show
With that blindfold
Darned, pestering blindfold.
I will still scream for its demise!
I will still plead for the final scene!
I will rip away the curtains held up with burgundy lies!
I will still care.
The show must eventually stop!
For actors must be given a break and plays must be forgotten
To not be cliche
There will be a time when there are no more encores
An end to the grand show
scattered flowers on the first row
And utter silence in an empty space
A dangerously
Dark
Desolate
Stage
But I will still be there
Holding a match for a new flame
And a warmer smile
For I care
I truly care
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
Dreams aren't real, right?
They're just figments of a rampant mind
Anxiously piecing together the world that surrounds, right?
Why do I see you at morning noon and night,
Disrupting the schedules of trains in my mind,
You bring forth questions to a heart yet undefined.
I miss you.
That much I know.
At least...
That much
I can admit.
Oct 14, 2023
Oct 14, 2023 at 2:20 AM UTC
An ode to my father,
for whatever reason.
The father who seems to find
great joy in the fights.
The father who never
tells me goodnight.
To the father who loves,
to the father who hates.
To the father who stands there
guarding the gates.
To the father who's sweet,
to the father who's sour.
To the father whose glare
makes me sink down and cower.
To the years of the silence,
to the years of crushed dreams,
the years of good memories
ripped down the seams.
To the years of the love
you showed to my sisters,
while I annoy you
like a pestering blister.
To all the time crying
spent alone in my bed.
To the feelings of loneliness
you've ingrained in my head.
An ode to you, Father,
For whatever reason.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Old Harold lived on the second floor
In a darkened room with an old locked door.
My cousins and I used to tease him there,
And he’d chase us out, give us a scare.
I didn’t know exactly who he was,
“He’s a mean old man,” said my favorite cos’.
“Grandma let him live here after Grandpa died.
She doesn’t even like him and we don’t know why.”
When he was out we would take a peek.
Around the ocher walls and his bed we’d sneak.
There was nothing but an iron bunk
And a glass-front chest filled with lots of junk.
One day Old Harold must have complained
About our pestering…we really were pains!
But no parent’s lecture could keep us away.
And Grandma’s yelling at him not to stay.
Old Uncle Harold disappeared for years.
We would make up stories for littler ears.
But one day my father had news of him.
He lived with “a harlot” and his checks she’d skim.
I was old enough to know what it meant
And asked Dad why uncle Harold seemed bent.
“He was gassed in the War in a field at Verdun.”
Dad told me in a tone that left me stunned;
“And was then sent around to pick up the dead.
With the gas and the horror, his mind just went.”
Now I recalled all the times we had teased
And agonized him when we should have pleased.
But now it was too late to apologize,
He was so lost, he wouldn’t recognize
His grown tormentors, when he hardly
Knew my father, the kindly mentor,
Who visited him every week,
Who paid for anything to make him last,
And reminded him of better times past;
Telling him of the time he caught a butterfly
And brought it to show the girls and guys.
How he wanted to let it fly away,
But when the boys had killed it anyway.
He cried and was called a coward then,
And as my father spoke and wept again.
Old Uncle Harold died alone
In a sterile, cold-floored nursing home.
None but Dad came to grieve
And I, only an hour away, shunned
the feeling and just felt numb,
Until Dad called and told me the story
Of Harold’s death and only then
Could I say, “I’m sorry!” to his ghost.
I should have said it long ago; the one who
Maddened him least repented the most.
If I could say “Sorry” for the times we made him shout.
I realised he’d just have yelled, “Get the hell out!”
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
<>
***"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^***
the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please, somebody help us, almost
an inevitability
the possibility of a realizable event,
as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability, right ready for scheduling
offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?
as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part
my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness
but
not to me
for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer
find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected
no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale
I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up
but seriously,
don't
I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck
I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous
this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor
so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:
6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late
confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery. and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Tonight I feel like my bones and organs have dissolved into my bloodstream and are pestering underneath the skin. I've never once released them, I think it's safe to say they're my demons that I keep locked up. I can't quite recall what made me so ******* sad so long ago I guess it'd have to be several things that are irrelevant singular but together they create a massive force to be reckoned with and they've made a home inside my bones.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
The depthness of the soul manages to reach
A richness that breathes something good.
That is when the hurt seems to run away.
The soul must just constantly quiet the mind.
Quiet, quiet - my shield. Everything is alright.
You must stop pestering the heart for you are not being rational
And that is driving the heart to dysfunction beyond repair.
Take my pain up to the heavens above and let it flee to nonexistence.
Place the coldness of my thoughts.
How have we all come to this point where we all are full of pain.
Crying only seems to relieve the hurt
But the depthness of the crisis is only widening.
Sometimes separation and isolation
Is the best strategy for a stronger resolution
To such matters as the ruptured, wounded heart.
There is no reconciliation between
What has happened and what it no longer is.
Stepping out of the soul is the only way.
Aug 18, 2011
Aug 18, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
I am far too tired:
No time for foolishness now,
Stop pestering me.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Someday love,
We'll live down by the sea,
Together for all of eternity.
Someday love,
We'll be away from pestering eyes,
Making a life for you and I.
Someday love,
We'll grow old with our son and daughter,
Joyously watching as they grow.
Someday. . .
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 10:07 PM UTC