"plumper" poems
Hi, my name is female.
I might not fold my hands the way she does
Or flip my hair the way that girl does.
Hi, my name is female.
The width and length I am shouldnt define if I'm qualified for Vogue.
The way I lick my lips may not be as attractive as the next female,
How my eyelashes flutter may not appeal to you.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
They say “eat less, its prettier. Where this, it shows more.”
Why?
I shouldn't have to balance myself on misleading scales that does nothing but swallow my pride up.
Hi my name is female.
Because one chicken breast is smaller than the other….it's not the same?
Because another person's peach is plumper than mine….its better?
They're still the same and we should treat them the same.
Words get thrown at us everyday and its expected of us to pick them up and change the way we are.
No.
Hi, my name is female and I shouldn't be talking this way just for a guy.
I shouldn't be crying for this guy,
I shouldn't be kissing up to this guy,
I shouldn't be changing for a guy,
I wasn't made for a guy.
Because I can't reach my toes like the next female, shouldn't mean a thing. Because my palms may ash more or my bones may creek more, shouldn't define how pretty I am.
Her hair may reach her elbows, her hair may touch her neck.
Her skin might love the sun, her skin might hate it.
Its still beautiful.
Hi, my name is female and I like mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Just because you may not like it, doesn't mean Its gross or Im repulsive..
One female can say, “I am” while the other girl across the street can say, “I is.”
“No I won't”
Or
“No I ain't”
I can still smile just like the next female,
I can hold a laugh,
Cough,
Sneeze,
Wink,
Eat like the next female.
We're all one conjoined masterpiece.
One cannot make me feel low of myself.
One will not tell me she's better than me.
One will not let me cry my eyes out.
Hi, my name is female and I have a name.
My name defines me.
I am beautiful just like the next girl who likes mashed potatoes and Thai coconut.
Embrace your beauty, honey. You're gonna have it forever.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
12
The morns are meeker than they were—
The nuts are getting brown—
The berry’s cheek is plumper—
The Rose is out of town.
The Maple wears a gayer scarf—
The field a scarlet gown—
Lest I should be old fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.
3.3k
The peach was soft and fuzzy, bruise less and juicy, waiting to be tasted.
Yet no one would touch it.
Maybe it was because it was the last peach left in the ceramic fruit bowl.
Or maybe no one craved peaches anymore.
It sat in the sun for weeks, getting softer and changing it's pale peach colour to a sandy burnt orange.
No one ate it or threw it away.
It just became part of the bowl, hidden by new, plumper fruit.
Kiwis, oranges, lemons.
Yet no one touched the peach.
Eventually it was noticed, decaying next to a pear.
It was tossed into the compost where it decayed even further, becoming a slushy brown slime.
The peach was forgotten so easily and noticed too late.
It could have been the best peach anyone had ever tasted.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
if i was an artist,
i would have painted myself a set of beautiful eyes,
a glowing skin,
hair of a princess,
an hourglass looking body,
a pretty version of me.
if i was an artist,
i would have drawn myself with plumper lips,
a pair of longer legs,
a better version of what i saw in the magazines
but i am not,
so i will just settle with
this
with who i am
instead of who i wanted to be
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise
How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail
The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 11:59 AM UTC
*I don't like what I see
when I look in the mirror
I stand there holding myself*
*Sometimes I'll place my hands on my hips
and move from side to side
turning this way or that
grabbing at my behind
pulling it up
seeing how it'd look
if it were plumper
like them girl's in the videos*
*Sometimes I grab a handful of my belly
or **** it in and see how I'd look
if I could just get over this 14 year baby weight
and all the pounds
I've gained from my last few miscarriages.*
*I know stress plays a role
I eat when stressed
I eat my depression and eat when sad or on my cycle
I love to eat and love food
but it's truly never been my reason for this weight
burdening me down*
*I lost my will to move
to walk or work out
lost my drive to fight or even speak out
I went from working and going to school
staying busy
to doing only bits here and there that I have to do*
*I can't be bothered
don't even want to
I'll lay here and not move
long as I can*
*I've stayed in a runt for so long
I'm talking years felt so low
and haven't dug our yet
and I know for me
this depressions a killer
it's got me defeated
beaten down
so low I never wanna be loved again...*
*As I stand in front of this mirror
I hate what's become of me
my pessimistic behavior
and ideology of what love should be
seems like its not meant for me
I hate looking at myself
I hate seeing my luscious curves
my ample succulent *******
*I only currently
like my long hair
that goes to my shoulders
for this chocolate cocoa skin
it seems so out of place
people wonder if its a weave
and not my own
but this is all home grown
yet and still*
*I just like who I am as a person & represent
not my physical appearance
not only because I have a "good hair"
for a black girl
I'm ONLY black
yet
I'm proud of my heritage
I'm black and Puerto Rican
but who cares*
*Funny how my shape for others
is just right
&
for me it isn't
I don't have that j.lo figured*
*I don't look like a Nicki Minaj
how do I look?
I um well I look just like me
but seems I can't find someone who'd
conquered my heart
and own it
take care of it as they should....*
***One day I'll get tired of my self loathing
work out
and the World
will be impressed
but not
as much as ME!***
*Copyright ©
Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present
All right reserved*
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
What does it feel like to be oddly unaware of the proportions of your body?
When all you imagine yourself to be is a distorted figure
Forever shifting shapes and lengths
Like in a fun house mirror at the carnival.
But this is no illusion, my friend.
You open your eyes
Stretch out your legs
And it looks to you as though
You are two feet longer
Than you were an hour ago.
You close your eyes
And your cheeks have grown plumper
And the ground feels almost reachable
Without kneeling.
You curl up into a ball in fear
And realize the sensation has stopped.
You can only be as Down to Earth
And as High in the Heavens
As you feel.
But who says you have to pick one?
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
Times between night and mornin,
Just when the chill about sets in,
Limbs frantically search for that crumpled quilt
Increasing warmth and ahh sweet grogginess.
A dream floats in my blank sleep
You and me tootling along a forgotten, familiar street
In a battered old Hyundai Santro?? it is.
Twenty years of acquired cobwebs melt
Evoke fond memories and unexplored possibilities
Overlaid with a wild imagination, the images move in slow motion
Me driving, your gaze surveying the landscape
You are older and plumper, I have a beer belly and a bald patch
There is not much to say, or too much to say but no time.
Four Eyes frequently lock and search for something
Knowing it but daring not to say.
Your sultry liquid voice breaks into a song, an old Urdu ghazal,
Of obscure origin and meaning,
The notes glide and acquire shapes in your husky abused throat,
Silvery quicksilver, flowing, and always round at the edges
Unfettered and undisturbed by the bumpy ride and noisy springs
Brings whole of creation in the Battered old Hyundai Santro Still.
The vocal vibrates and resonates in my bones and skull and in my soul
Stimulates humours I didn’t know exist
Eyes lock again, a mild smile is exchanged,
We understand each other
Know the limits and improbabilities
Its not going to be in this life time dear.
Let’s seal it with a kiss
An embrace exchanged over the gear levers and handbrakes
Oblivious to the barreling old Hyundai Santro
Your tiny ******* and Pantene scented hair
Your lips still perfect, soft, warm, moist and downy at the corners,.
Unfamiliar yet so familiar.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
Under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street,
Benedict met his cousin
who said: your mum’s home
with your twin sisters,
best get home quick.
So he did and when he
got to the flat where
they lived he found
his mother holding
one of the babies
in an armchair,
breast feeding her.
His mother said his
other sister was in
the cot in her bedroom.
He entered the bedroom quietly.
He approached the cot
and looked over. There she was
his youngest sister, asleep.
Now he had to share
his mother with two more;
his other sister and brother
and he made five.
A five way split.
Less shares.
But not necessarily
less love or attention.
His mother had
a unique way
of stretching love
and attention
like a magican.
He smiled down
at the baby, touched
the dark curly hair
with a finger.
The baby stirred.
He withdrew his finger
and stood and stared.
After a few minutes
he returned to his mother
and the other sister.
The other baby was plumper,
more rounded,
chubby cheeks and such.
His mother looked tired,
drained. He hadn’t seen her
for a few weeks, except
short hospital visits, once
he remembered he stood
outside in the evening air,
staring up at the sky
with moon and stars.
His mother laid the baby
in the cot with the other.
They lay there together
in separate sleeps,
occupying their own
new dreams, hands
tight in tiny fists.
He watched while his mother
went off to prepare tea.
After a short while he left
the room and drew
the door shut
with a gentle click.
One hand on the door,
the other on the handle,
drawn towards him
did the trick.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
Because my kiss is like frequency and measure as the waves
My lips stays Plumper as a ripe cherry on a hot day
Just waiting to be kiss, in the moonlight:
The littlest things we dream about, that is so dear
Can be detrimental, because of modern technology
The lack of touch, the loss of sound, gone forever:
Shall we continued to forget the walks in the park
Making love in the dark, under the starry sky
Just to be trade in by the late nights video chatting?
Being an advocate of love, a unmasked spiritual intruder:
I enter the winging maypole of merry gestor: In my mind
because, my kiss is like frequency and measure as the waves
my opinion on the subject matter, never matters
P.S
*Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.” Dr Suess
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
Floptin sits outside
the cafe on the mall
and watches the three
plump dames sitting nearby
one slightly plumper
than the others
and as he stares
it reminds him
of his first lady
the one who showed him
the ropes of sexuality
who ****** away
his innocence one night
and he recalls
how liberated
he felt back then
how her plump flesh
flapped against him
and the sound was like
nothing he had heard before
and she said to him
sweet boy
you’re a man now
you can tell your friends
you have made the grade
and now sitting at the cafe
on the mall
watching the plump dames
feeding her mouths
their chins moving
their eyes excited
their voices booming
and their laughter
****** and loud
and looking at
the plumpest dame
how her hair
was pulled back
so and so
he smiles to himself
and wonders how
she’d make him feel
with her flesh flapping
and her eyes aglow.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC
what is wrong with image
what happened to healthy girls
plump and good natured
once adored by a world
that turns weight into hatred
why can't we have thigh gaps
why can't we be thin
why must we aspire
to love the skin we're in
everyone has a preference
everybody a taste
but in no shape or form
are your likes a disgrace
keep your bones showing
keep yourself round
keep your chin up
and your eyes off the ground
aspire to health
aspire to knowledge
dont aspire to looks
that should be avoided
these girls in the sun and the star
they're not real
they're changed and endorsed
by photoshop deals
be plumper or smaller
whatever your wealth
but dont let your look
take its toll on your health
if you want to be ripped
sweat more and ***** less
if you want to be rounder
get some weight on your chest
dont comfort eat or starve yourself
or look up to the unrealistic
because having good image instead of good health
does not make you happy or gifted
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
after dinner on the porch
was the best time, he and grandpa watching,
waiting for the storms--a thunderclap
the sweetest note to both of them
sheets of rain rolled across
the big pasture, downdrafts made the boy shiver,
even cradled in the old man's arms
neither would speak, grandpa's good arm
would point, or wave, these movements a code
between generations, theirs at least
finally a twister appeared in the west
growing plumper as it spun across the fields,
spitting gray dirt from its base, a zigzagging
dancer without a care in the world
grandma and Aunt Helen
fled to the cellar, imploring the pair
to follow
though they didn't, for all their hours
gazing at the heaving heavens would have been
profligate had they hid in the ground,
missing creation's greatest crescendo
the angry funnel ate a section of fence
wide as a football field, and felled a tree
not a quarter mile from the house--its roots
too shallow, grandpa thought
when the tempest passed, the sun made
an appearance, slipping between the cloud bank
that birthed the tornado, and the silent soil
in the devil's wake
in its final moments,
it glared at the interlopers on the porch,
perchance admonishing them the promise
of its golden rays was no sacred contract
but a fickle gift
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Miss Pinkie
(she had dropped
the Mrs
after her divorce)
undressed slowly
she was an older
and plumper version
of Marie Antoinette
I lay on her bed
looking at her disrobe
so why
did you leave
the convent?
I asked
things happen
she said
you realize
what you are missing
or will miss
the moon was held
in the corner
of her bedroom window
like a fresh minted coin
and what was that?
what was what?
what was it
you were missing
or feared
you might miss?
children
marriage
***
she said
plunging
on her side
of the bed
and I have my son
and maybe
a grandchild one day
she turned towards me
her big blue eyes
searching me
I smiled
she had a similarity
to a hippo sunbathing
on a river bank
Mahler was playing
from her Hi-Fi
in the lounge
she put a hand
on her hip
her ******* moved
like piglets at play
sure you don't want
another drink?
she asked
no I’m fine
she ran a finger
along my thigh
my pecker stirred
from its slumber
her fingers walked
along my groin
her nails
were bright red
she had
the kind of touch
that could have
raised Lazarus
from the dead.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
Look I know
that the voices in my mind make me sound crazy
hey let's go
it's just the voices in my mind makin' me hazy
Come on and show
me that you don't mind all these actions getting lazy
'cause I'm sitting on my couch scratching my arms and only wasting
away
been here a while and I still **** at getting you to like me
I'm sinking down I ******* **** at getting you to touch me
god **** I seem to **** so much that all I don't is ****
and I've just been daydreaming that maybe you and I will stick
not like the last one, I hope you still don't think about her
my self-worth goes down the drain when she's brought up, whenever
I've got no problem with her lips except I think they're plumper
and I'm pretty sure they still wish they had your tongue all wrapped around her
I'm insecure, there's no other way to ******* say it
life is blunt, but don't pass me one, I've always known I can't ******* take it
repeating words repeating thoughts repeats everything that comes undone
unraveled and unsettling like the feeling of a setting sun
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
The sheep at the ranch were all in a dither.
They had to decide on a leader, and two
Candidates who stood before them
Worked on persuading each ram and ewe
To vote for them to serve as leader.
Working together, succeed they would,
Said one. The other said that if any-
Body could save them, he alone could.
For some odd reason, the second sheep
Won to all the animals' surprise.
The wool was pulled right over their heads
As he continued to propagandize.
"Do not listen to what others say,"
The newly-elected leader declared.
"Evil wolves are out there to **** you."
He was able to keep the sheep scared.
Some atypical sheep were skeptics
And didn't believe the leader's baloney.
They more they heard the leader speak,
The more they thought the leader was phony.
"Something is terribly wrong," they said.
"The leader's garb seems off-kilter.
He cares NOT a jot about us;
What's more, he speaks without a filter."
Gradually, sheep disappeared.
Their whereabouts was a stumper.
Meanwhile, their leader became
Louder, bolder, meaner, and plumper.
The sheep then chose one of their own
To see if the leader had major flaws.
He noticed that under the leader's clothing,
The leader had not hooves but claws!
Many sheep refused to believe
Their ruler was phony and not on the level
And blindly followed the leader's commands,
Basically signing a pact with the devil.
Too late they learned the problem of choosing
A leader filled with distrust and loathing
Who didn’t have their best interests
At heart--in short, a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Ah, poor sheep, if you had been
Careful not to have taken the bait,
You could have spared yourselves much trouble
Long before it became too late.
-by Bob B (12-18-17)
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
We ran in circles,
panting & out of breath,
but never tired,
never giving up.
I try to hunt down
your weakest spot -
an Achilles' heel,
but plumper,
softer...
reserved to be exploited
exclusively by me.
Frantic & slipping
way past the edge of lunacy,
I spear you on repeat.
Plunge on the gore and the mess -
Again.
Again.
Again.
With a borrowed sickle
buried deep somewhere
between you ***** -
we lock horns in agony,
in pleasure & in pain.
But before the fog dissipates,
and the sunlight of reasoning
falls ever so delicately
on our bare backs,
or the tips of our ******* -
I would've devoured you.
Eaten out your heart,
through & through.
Eaten out your parts,
through & through.
Left no stone unturned,
no toe uncurled,
no flesh untouched.
Rising from my slippery temple,
I take time to look at the window crack -
The sunlight is too late,
but why do I care?
Your screams are always on Time.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
She’s a red, hot energy coursing through me
Awakening in my heart
She’s daring and unruly,
Truly wild, and set apart
She’s a blue flame
Dancing fluidly with the wind
Her blue courses through my veins
And washes through my beating heart
I thought maybe, I had to be different
To have her live in me
But that belief made her enraged,
She absolutely disagreed
But this belief was ingrained in me by the people who make the beauty magazines,
And all the flashy displays of ‘this is what a woman ought to be’
Even the men have picked me apart
Scrutinizing my features as if I’m not a work of divine art
They program us women this way so that we don’t feel good enough,
And when we don’t feel good enough we’re more likely to hand over our money
To be injected into and pumped up
With plumper lips, thicker hips, bigger ****
But when is it ever enough?
We end up like fattened cows stationary, hooked into a milking machine
We lose the meaning to life
Because plastic can’t let life in
I don’t want plastic
I want real
I want Her
To take me over
And bring me to life
I don’t want to compare myself to other girls
And believe the lack of love in my life is because of my ordinary looks
Or because they is something wrong with me
That I’m not feminine enough,
Attractive enough to men, put together enough, smart enough, wifey-material enough
And this is why I’m on my own
But it’s not true
It’s a lie
I am lovable and I am kind
I have a lot to offer
And I’m going to give it all to me
I’m not going to mold myself
Into what I think men want me to be.
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 9:16 PM UTC