"pinata" poems
At birthday parties, we didn’t like to imagine
What the paper donkey felt like
Being knocked around
By our wooden bats
Swinging blindly, alone
Until it bled beautiful colors
Until it gushed sweet things
And the sweet things told our mouths
“Thank you for releasing us.”
If my heart was a piñata, I would give you a blindfold
And hand you a baseball bat
Spin you around three times
And close my eyes
And we’d swing blindly, together
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 12:06 PM UTC
1. the pH in my stomach has plummeted
to an all time low. as a defense mechanism,
my stomach clenches.
2. my jaw is extremely sore from grinding
my teeth while i was sleeping (and having
the regular nightmares.)
3. sometimes, my joints decide to act like they
are eighty years old instead of twenty.
4. that's what i get for burying the acidity of
the self loathing.
5. now i am a pinata except i'm hallow.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
It's nice to remember
who I am, ever since
Eros shot a quiver
of arrows into my chest
and spun me around
sending me aimlessly
towards the first
man shaped pinata.
Swinging blindly
into the darkness
of my blind fold
waiting for the thud
of hearts hitting the ground
and shattering into hundreds
of tiny sweets
begging, to be cherished
and gobbled up
by a school yard
kind of love.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
I am wisened by my wounds.
My thirst is sated by monsoons.
Scars teach me lessons.
Fighting for peace is my weapon.
Every memory changes a sliver of me.
Through time, i've turned into a motley pinata.
Pieced together haphazardly.
But i know what its like not to be afraid of taking a swing
and i know what its like to fly
because baseball bats give me wings.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I can't dream if it's from this closet
Every thing I want to do just sounds so god **** pompous
I talk about what I want to do and everybody thinks I've lost it
I'm on the radar, but I'm the darkest blip
Walking the plank on purpose, S.S. **** you, I'm off this ship
I feel like I've finally got it, and of course then I've lost it
I write a masterpiece, "hey where's the follow up?"
Like me and my girl jinxin the future with a prenup
'Oh you know we just trying to be safe,' right ***** let's marry up this **** then
You can take it all just split them assets
Get me bent with no price or rent
See I ain't tryna get around just tryna win this
Can't seem to get to the top when I'm the only one in the bracket
Try to be a team player, but my teams full of *******
I'm Harry Potter ***** imma smash that *** like quidditch
I gonna hit that pinata, till the cash flow get me riches
I talk ***** but I miss the way you talk
British, you a fit birdy, girl
I eat my grits, but I ain't really eating till after we're flirty, girl
Take you to the back room, pour some wine and then some feelings, watch some mad men and tell you bout my last girl
I said I like the way you talk to me but I think I just like how I can talk to you
You're an outlet, and I'm plugging, your sticking around, but you should know I'm just thuggin
And maybe I just say the ***** things I say to mask my potential under promiscuity cause I got a real problem promising myself I'll solve my problems too
(I'd never admit it though)
See that's just something me and my crew do
I guess it masks all the little ***** blues 'fake cries'
During this poem I think I grew three inches for you
In my heart
See it's so easy to gravitate to you like your the sun and I'm Mercury, I'm too close and you're burning me alive, but I can't pull myself apart, girl it'll never work
We can't stop Miley, that's melancholy for sure (but keep the twerk)
You make me feel like Frank Sinatra, and I can't even sing
So **** confident, you let me discover myself, I'm deep, I can feel, I'm Mike Tyson, Kung Pao chicken, I bring it all to the ring
All these little kids on the streets learning how to *** from me 'like fricken'
The thought of you got me sick to the stomach, it's sticking
..
Too bad you're just a god **** fling
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I can't heal the deaf or blind,
I can’t turn water into wine,
But give me a glass, and I can turn it into kool-aid
Maybe if I were more like Jesus I could get laid
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon
And I’ll be leaving this place soon
And if you have any sense, you’ll decide not to follow
As I’ve told you before, my chest is hollow
Smoke me up before I go
Here’s a tattoo of a rainbow
I found it at the bottom of a box of ******* jacks
Put it on, and when it's gone, never look back
One last kiss upon the cheek
We'll both have moved on in a week
So walk me to the bus stop and say “adios”
You think you love me, but I know you can’t love a ghost.
Adios
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
driving on an electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
white, green in a bottle or a machine.
foul breath creams
out words that i hold dear.
holding up a candle
by its burning wick
while a sea breeze slaps me
with a salty sting.
fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last,
the artichoke heart pumps out a beat.
one foot in front of the other,
another swing, the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home,
to be stretched out and hung
along side of the truths.
© 2005
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
I put my heart on a string
and gave it to you
as a necklace
You hung it from the ceiling
and beat it half to death
like a ****** pinata
Wrapped it around your finger
and yanked it up and down
like a macabre yo-yo
I swallowed all of the pain and
it tasted like hairspray
like chewing up eggshells
like biting aluminum foil
like licking pennies
I don't even want my heart back
please just please **** it now
step on it wearing stilettos
I just want to be whispers in your mind
I want to be a spider on the back of your skull
I want the curse of remembrance upon your soul
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish
This pant dries slower
Around this canvas
That curses my name,
Every drag of smoke
That reaches into my subconscious
Meets my hand
To pen
To ink
To this blank idea,
I guess this is all i got
I curse the lords name
Throwing the pen
Against this yellow wallpaper,
Depression is only called
To the ones who can see
The writing on the walls,
Left in blood red,
Words that make me a victim
Of labeling what it means
To be a victim.
This pen sounds like my mother,
White powder filled with innocent memories
Stick to the keys
She could always conduct
The simplest symphonies
The sting to her words
Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck.
Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities
Swing at me like a pinata,
Crucified to my old drafts
Of this blank canvas,
I scream enough I say,
My words cast a light
Through the pen
Shattering this oddly warmer room
I pick up the pen
And write on this canvas
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
I'm driving down the back roads, back home in Virginia.
I drive past that field,
The one where you parked your truck,
Where we sat in the backseat and shared our first kiss,
And I think of you.
I hear that song on the radio,
That Drake song,
The one that you dedicated to my dog, ha,
The dog that we had to give away when we moved,
The song that later made you cry when you heard it, because you missed my dog,
And I think of you.
Your mom calls me tonight,
She tells me that story about the pinata and the bunny rabbit,
The story shes already told me three times,
Because she thinks its so funny,
Because what are the chances that would happen to anyone but you,
And I think of you.
I drive past one of those roadside cross memorials,
And I think of the one we made for you,
The one I went to the craft store to buy stuff to decorate it,
And bawled my eyes out in the sticker aisle,
Barely beginning to grasp the idea I would never see you again,
And I think of you.
I look into our daughters eyes,
The daughter you never got to meet,
The one with the big blue eyes that look just like yours,
With the dimple in her cheek just like yours,
And I think of you.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
If someone were to bash in my head, the way a child smashes a colorful pinata, candy would not spill out. Blood, brains, chunks of bone, this is what you are expecting? Down right logical... But not entirely correct. What would fall into that scattered pile, to be dug through and have the best treats taken first, would be an assortment of many things. Books, art, poetry, precious memories, pointless trivia, a lifetime of collected information so painstakingly remembered. But there in the chaotic midst of what used to be organically organized neurons, would be countless thoughts of you. These of course would be the sweetest tidbits, the tasty treasure gathered greedily by the party guests. Countless thoughts of you... And yes... Also, blood, brains, and chunks of bone.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Loose congregation of words ,mixed syllables,sounds ascending to an annunciation made upon announcement
Clashing conundrums of verbs accented with adjectives ,while crashing and dashing looking for a place to stay
Confections with conflictions searching for reasons to become more easily resounded
Papier-mâché used as the blind box waiting to reveal its hidden appeal ,will we use sticks for new words fray.
Teachers use their rulers to help crack the skin or layer of drooling uninterested information gatherers
Finding synonyms is easier with a hungrier fool ,yet opposites distract if paying pledges to the papers
Finding the unknown fabulous riches still hiding inside is best without the blindfold ,hearing proper direction is what matters
Cracking the outer code ,scattering packages of messages is titillating especially if involved as crossword players
Clarification containers from Macmillan help refine an ongoing array of writing gone astray
Pulling new or familiar sounds to another level ,hollow waiting to filled with tasty sweets
True copy that has been pasted,not wasted gathered into changing shapes in a new way
Can make our day, just right for many to explore the contents, blindly poking formulating new treats
Thesaurus as a party tool could it be taking on the shape of a walrus
Antonyms with many wrappings ,nuggets or nougats of wisdom
Wordy party favors masked new flavors seeking to be savored ,hidden like walnuts
Players programmed with reading ritual learn to approach life with new optimism.
R.C.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
Mamma's Boy
There was a man, his name was Tom,
forty five and still lives with mom.
I guess you can say, he's a mamma's boy,
morning, noon and night, plays with his favorite toy.
Mom don't let him go out on dates,
Rosie and her sisters, are his only mates.
Has naked posters on his bedroom wall,
stares at under age girls at the mall.
Loves movies that are ****
been that way, since he was born.
Hangs out at every school park,
targeting his next victims every mark.
Tried it once or twice in his cellar,
tied them to an old plane propeller.
He buried them after he had his fun,
only girls between ten to twelve,
made him shoot his favorite gun.
Missing person posters turned him on,
he considered himself the preteen Don Juan.
Then one day his mamma died,
Jekyll is gone, it's now only Hyde.
He went on local web chat sites,
all young girls got wanted invites.
With no mom, things got easy,
my stomach is getting a bit queasy.
In a months time, maybe twenty girls,
promised them dolls with clothes and pearls.
This small town was in an uproar,
if you needed girl parts, he had the store.
Near by neighbors noticed an ungodly smell,
police came and found and an under ground hell.
Everyone thought this man was strange,
after his mom died, they noticed a change.
They strung him on a giant pole,
while parents played Whac-A-Mole.
They hit that human pinata till it exploded,
his blood and guts became unloaded.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
A backward smile
Smiling backwards
A frown turned up
And the up part turned down
A Mexicali turnaround:
Festive pinata
With one stick for a try
Birthday time!
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
By: David W. Clare
She told me her family was well-off,
then she started to cough...
To me, putting on the dog was never impressive!
I could tell she had plans for me that didn't include me at all...
I was her pinata for the weekend!
Drinks, dinner and a lobotomy were in store...
Her place was in the city where I would be beaten up with kisses!
Her wishes were venomous, yet I was at her command...
Along for the ride!
She drank heavily; especially before work as a stock broker!
Seemed the joke was on me...
She tried to fashion me into her dancing-monkey while she would grind the *****
She liked to slap me around with her scotch and sofa slaps...
Only to watch me pull myself up by her bra-straps!
I pretended all was great...
Tainted love, violent date!
Her high-heels stabbed my sense of pride!
I was only... along for the ride!
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
love
with
her red umbrella
dangled in the air
like a red pinata
balanced herself
and
walked across
the
thin spaghetti tight-rope
with
her frighten soul
suspended in the air
upon
her
tiny tippy toes
high in the sky
like a slippery slope
unready for death
where
love at her best
is
a
different breed of cat
i
must say
with
her
nine lives to spare
but
still
she survived
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
As a child I had a perfect red balloon.
I took delicate strips of crepe paper,
dipped them with paste, and formed a fragile shell around it.
Growing up, crepe paper turned to newspaper, smudged with ink from words marking time.
Paste was no longer strong enough, so I found glue, and occasional stickers to strategically place over gaps.
Aged on and weathered, the strips of newspaper presented carelessly crumpled and shredded.
Glue was replaced by mud of my tears and settling dust from constant construction. Random gems occupy minor dents to deter the eye.
I've built a paper mache heart, strengthening it as life's hardships pay their respects.
Layers upon layers hardened it to be sturdy and solid.
The balloon deflated long ago, but the structure remains. It's cracked, has holes, but holds a nostalgic beauty like that of a well loved antique rocking horse .
I fear though, my demons look up with hallow eyes from down in the depths,
and see a pinata...eager to beat it for the treasures collected inside.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
It is a lake, no, pray, a balloon. Pinata can burst, and turn into something quite different. Mark these eyes, believe anything can happen. Hope behind such eyes, broken cages, broken hearts. We sit alone, bars freeze, please... help. No help for us. Lucky? Doubt it. Wish for just simple mental trust, unfortunate, cannot be that, that close.
Assistance needed.
Going to go, going to stay. Were told to stay, but they never came. Still waiting, but lost hope, lost life. Shy, traumatized, just need soft stream of dew. Just want to be home, but cannot be, cannot stand living. Only belief is belief in a lake. Round, depth defying eyes stare at you to be gentle. And then the bubbles turn into broken, shivering, ***** of mortality.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
a rhino wobble
dance the token noon
pinata Connecticut
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 11:33 AM UTC
A memory suppressed by thirty years
A face stained with biting tears
A life so full of irrational fears
I need you by my side
Like a pinata, I was a toy
Only to be broken, not to show joy
As quiet as a mouse, I was coy
I need you by my side
This all happened in my youth
As no one around me knew my truth
Like a fox "they" thought they were smooth
I need you by my side
They say I have a heart of gold
Despite the story I've never told
Forget all the drama that would unfold
I now can stand alone.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
pinata spring
of hatchling gallops
dandelion spear
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
EMOTIONAL CONFETTI
Fluctuating feelings,endless raindrops flowing freely in our minds beginning with weeping...
Simple expressions smirking, smiling never beguiling picking up perceived perceptions...
Gradually graduating, waiting to be defined curiosity as a helper.
Adding to a emotional list,simple samples to leave us smiling, storing fledgling perceptions.
Growth of anonymous senses without pretenses layering in levels loosely stacked.
Unknown actions can create new consciousness clear paths rapidly become another titillation,unfocused, acquiring new knowledge of our senses.
Fables or cut & dried on a table, reminders of danger, more learning is required, to be careful, actions have reactions.
Middle aged resilience leans towards laziness , simple lessons idly waiting, rising or raging hormones...
Maybe now reverting back to to an open minded teenage mess.
Stop,think, forward with learned caution ,processing procedures or fall into flagrant mating.
The lessons learned thrown aside, spontaneity instead of logic, not reasoning for future distress.
Friendly, finicky, joyful, jovial, anxious, regressing, positive, become life shaping a personality.
Lessons falling from skies ,bubbling from underneath, like it or not always along the pathway
Absorbing through language, actions, maybe lineal, inherited...then sharpened to become more an internal part of our individuality.
In stages - never really understanding the gauges - a deeper spirit ,developing whit clamoring, climbing up a bit.
Finding feelings, new intensities, finding with more fervour, progressing with new sentimentality...
Fluctuating with a daily play, goodness with glee, sadness with wrath, passion with affection...
Sensibility - gifted through experiences - leading to instinct, forming, acquiring apathy.
Flowing like chad, ribbons of color, grandiose glitter - as if from an exploding pinata. A distraction or attraction...
Do we learn to love or live to love?
Left with only what we've lived...
The feeling; our only collection. R.C.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
Driving on this electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
White, green, in a bottle or a machine.
Foul breath screams out
words that I hold dear.
Holding up a candle
by its burning wick,
while a sea breeze
slaps me with a salty sting.
Fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last
the artichoke heart pumps out the beat.
One foot in front of the other,
another swing and the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home
to be stretched out and hung
alongside the truths.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
as a child they told me sadness
would come in waves like the ocean,
but all i ever got
was the occasional trickle of rain
from the holes in the ceiling.
it wasn’t until i grew up and learned
that sometimes sadness would hit me like a tsunami when i least expected it,
when i had responsibilities to take care of,
when i needed my emotional stability the most.
like a wave pool
sadness tossed me around
until i couldn’t see my feet through the water anymore,
until water filled my lungs like a pinata,
until it felt like everything i ever knew was drowning.
nobody warned me as a child
that sadness was not constant,
rather fluctuating like the rise and fall of the tides.
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC