"poofy" poems
What a pleasure it is
to be alive
at the same time as you
I could be lost in the 50s
swirling in a poodle skirt
and singing to frank sinatra
or the 60s
painting peace signs on my cheeks
thriving in a cultural decade
or i could be making my way
in the 70s or 80s
pretending i like disco
with poofy hair
i have teased my mother about.
but i am here
in the present
which is truly a gift
as im spending the golden ages
of my life
with you
when i could be
an entirely different person
in an entirely different millennium
but how lucky i am
alive and free
in the same universe as you
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
running jumping
mewing occasionally
always begging for attention
always begging for a treat
a furry ball of cuteness
warm and playful
my handsome little man
my baby
sleeping on your back
snoring and twitching
my amusement
my love
fetching your favorite toy like a dog
chirping like a bird
an attention-grabbing-kitty-slut when guests arrive
an attempted escapee when then leave
poofy tail
expressive as always
I know you want me to play with you now.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
I have big hair
Hair that looks like medusa
Using loreal.
I have hair that is a
Short version of Merida
But isn't as firey as the mad hatter's
Hair but is
Big enough to be called that type
No I didn't stick my finger
In a light socket today
It's just my hair
My
Big
Poofy
Hair
That seems untamable at the very least
An accomplishment for anyone
I will never control it
And yet it is almost a super power
To have untamable
Hair
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
So, let's see, cheeriness personified.
****** if I can think of anything depressing.
Again and again, my mind goes on ever and ever,
In search of that infernal lightening rod
To which the dark and dreary are attracted.
And yet, butterflies and billowing clouds,
erupt magnificently in full bloom.
Hiding in the nooks of my cranium
fluffy bunnies and poofy flowers.
Anything really to while away the hours.
And so I write about grand battles,
frogs on crack, and ladies in your lap.
Seems this perky cheeriness is infectious....
A wink and a nod to my friend Frank. ;)
Jul 10, 2011
Jul 10, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
I had to do it, since I wanted to see him again
one last time, it was OK
Just a guy in a typical poofy too big man's shirt
Funny how men try to puff themselves up with their clothes and suit
and we try to look smaller,
undershirt borders underneath too big white sleeve his wife bought
A married weight, a paunch that began at chest level
and made him look like a mango and brown slacks
a tan, and that curly hair with the little twirl on to that seemed to asked to be
grabbed onto and pulled back
and his authority the sexiest part
I needed him to sign a form and he took a long time to sign it
read every tiny thing, as I squirmed inside, but sat up straight and
perky so happy to be here.
was he drawing out--for me?
Then he looked at me with those baby blues
up from the paper on the desk, with those deep rivets in his forehead
all these huge scrunched up muscles
why do they need muscles even on their forehead?
and I was pierced to the center
and I know I'd think he's a bore
and as I drove away I saw him walk out of the building
carrying a lunchbox his wife probably fixed for him
and no, I'm not proud that I feel like this
and no, it's never something to act on
but as I drove home, I thought of him
despite the mango body, the huge shirt
and my not in shape profile that would have to be
crammed into a corset I thought about a lot
and if I could forgive him his middle aged flaws
I should be able to forgive mine
because humans are much more complex than those
dumb two dimensional magazines let you believe and
we haven't been photographed for all the thousands of years we've been reproducing
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Ever since I can remember, Barbara has been coming to our home
With her poofy hair and her powdered cheeks, all in a cloud of pink perfume.
She would speak in the fragile, broken voice of a woman well beyond her years,
And Mother would beckon her cheerfully to sit at the table in our dining room.
With whatever coffee was in the *** and whatever Danish found,
Mother would prepare the table and invite my older sister and I to gather round.
From noon to three they’d gab and chat and flip through the catalogues
That Barbara the Avon Lady had brought.
My sister and I would thumb through glossy, vibrant pages
Of blushes and eye shadows, eyeliners and mascaras.
But I, I would thumb quickly and tire even faster
At the conversation of the table that awaited me, inevitably, after.
With feigned interest, I would sit there a bit
And watch as my older sister would, more patiently, fake it.
I’d grab a cookie and then leave
Mother with her checkbook and her bitter black coffee,
Barbara with her perfume cloud and cheeks all porcelain powdery,
And my sister, with her blonde hair, which was just like mine,
But which tried, much harder to grow much faster.
Yes I would flounce away with my neck-length locks,
And go play with my younger brother.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
There's only so much smell left in your powder box
I can tell. I
only open it every once in a while,
to feel like a child
and hear your chuckle and smell
how
glamorous
you were.
I didn't weep at your slipping away.
I could see your pain
I could hear it screaming under
your skin, your pride burning
your age raging inside you, I
watched you crumble and I blinked, I
looked away.
I didn't want you to have to feel your pain.
But you live with me here.
In an old box you don't remember that I have,
out of all the countless
sparkly
spangly
shiny things you gave to me, this is the thing
I keep with me.
Your trash.
Your old powder box.
I open it from time to time and I smell you and I hear you rumble
and I see you
lipstick and hair and bright poofy hairbands.
Every time I open up your box it smells a little less like you.
I didn't fear your going because I knew that it was time
but I rue already the day when I might think on you
and not be able to find you.
When your powder box will just be a box.
Instead of the place I keep you inside.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Some call me emo.
Some call me scene.
what do you consider emo?
is it someone who cuts to relieve their pain?
maybe someone in tight clothes with long hair.
emo to me it's just a style.
what do you consider scene?
is it someone with weird hair?
poofy hair?
a lot of makeup?
why?!
because you feel better about yourself by putting others down?
thats called bullying and it makes me sick!
just because someone looks "strange" to you doesn't make them a bad person
what do you consider me?
emo?
scene?
im just me!
i have my own style.
i act how i want to.
you can't judge me
especially since you don't know me
im not emo
nor am i scene
im just being me and no one can change that
i'm not changing for anyone
im not going to take my life because you think im weird
bullying needs to be stopped!!
be yourself!
and dont let anyone tell you different
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
On the last day we spoke, you compared me to a 1000 piece puzzle.
One of those puzzles in which half is made up of a pretty blue sky, with big poofy clouds.
The other half is a plain field of grass.
You also compared me to a colorful rubix cube, the sparkly ones to be exact.
My unique and confusing disarray of color patterns make me approachable.
You said all this is the perspective
that while I'm interesting at first glance, no one wants to stick around long enough to solve me.
I never would of thought that a loss of a poets friendship would be harshest of all.
I guess I should have known.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
Crosshatched tower of black ropes
Spiral towards poofy marshmallow clouds
A tempation for each passing youth
To gather around in crowds
All together the creatures, they climb
Grasping rope and some stranger's limb
Bodies fall to the earth like potato sacks
No limits in order to win...
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
A plump girl
sees her ride, steps off the curb
Purple cat ears on her head
A string of Purple hair
Butterfly tattoo across her shoulders
Glittering bustier
Poofy short skirt clashing with everything
ripped fishnets
combat boots
huge over stuffed bag weighs her down
It's a concoction, not an outfit
She crosses to a middle aged man
In a non-descript car
Wearing Walmart's finest
They argue
A story begins
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
Ginger beauty
With the curly hair
Poofy and floofy
She loved all the stares
Face of a perfect shape
But always alone
Ginger beauty
Why the long face?
Is it because your grace is all fake?
Ginger is not.
More like just brown locks.
Face made of plastic
And a body that only looked fantastic.
Ginger beauty
What a face to behold
But don't come to close.
For what meets your eyes
Is not what is in her soul.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
I figure writing while laying down will be sloppy compared to my computer writing, but it will also be less edited.
I am not entirely sure why, but I want to have my hair cut.
If you know me, those words are like sin.
Yet I can't seem to shake the feeling, I am getting tired of looking so... poofy.
Maybe just getting rid of some of the thickness would make me feel better.
I think I should talk with my dad about the counseling I never got.
I think I need to stop being afraid of asking for things.
I don't want to sleep right now, I feel like something that won't happen will.
I feel like something that can't happen is feasible.
When I close my eyes, I can't stop thinking.
About how she should be here.
Instead, I do the logical thing, and hug my blanket as I think depressing teenage thoughts.
Do I need help beyond myself?
I hate advice, because often times the answers are so simple I refuse them.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
Sour drinks and parochial doilies don’t go together/ My impermanent knee protrudes from the pretentious slash of your jeans/ My hair is the anti-cliche, the counter-perfect, the poofy dry to your flat and mediocre shine/ The sides and crevices turn black within seconds, like marks on my soul, mirroring the hidden cavities of my teeth/ Why do I need a phone when you never call? Why do I brush my teeth when they will eventually fall?/ My blocked nasal is similar to your blocked mind/ Your anger does not affect me, it only kills you/ Her black scrunchie is like the black hole, an entangled abyss against her snowy grandma hair.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
The ring of the doorbell
My heart fell
I was out of time
Things weren't done
I'm out of rhyme
The candle burns like a little sun
I let you in
My heart you did win
Wearing a deep red button-up
With black pants
I pour some water into your cup
Around the table are plants
Of yellow and white
And I just might
Steal a kiss in the candle light
I, wearing a blouse of deep red
For some reason, this perfect moment I did dread
I think I wanted more time
To memorize a rhyme
Just for you
You pleasantly wait
While myself I hate
For not having everything done
So in the end, I have not won
But
You say I did
I feel butterflies in my gut
For a moment, I hid
Once dinner was done
I had decided it would be fun
To watch a movie
Then show you my dance moves, kinda groovy
Yeah, I'm a bit goofy
And my hair is poofy
But just you wait
I can tell you something great
When the movie's over
Come on over
I don't bite
What a night
Playing "Stand By Me"
Just wait and see
No longer do I have two left feet
Our eyes meet
And we smile
It goes on for a mile
Doing the waltz box step
You matching every footstep
Then the song comes to an end
I play another because I want to spend
More time here with you
So for now I do
I tell you how amazing you are
That you are my lucky star
That your eyes shine brighter
And every time I hug you tighter
Because I love you so
And don't want to ever let you go
You tell me something wonderful
But my mind is just so full
Of you
That I can't remember the words right
Hold me tight
Because I might get a little dizzy
You make me feel kinda fizzy
With butterflies
When I'm with you I tell no lies
I answer all your questions
You give me a few suggestions
I snuggle up with you
And almost on cue
Another song plays
So sweet
And once more, our eyes meet
You fill me with a thousand dreams
And my eyes look up to a thousand stars
Putting the dreams to each one
Hoping they all become complete and done
And baby there's just one more thing;
You're the one.
- Jay M
February 7th, 2020
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC
1. Stop looking at his Facebook profile. Seeing his posts tears your heart open again, especially when they're about you. You know that he is not worth your time.
2. Eat more. You need the nourishment. The number on the scale does not matter to anyone but you. Who cares if you went up from 102 to 108? No one.
3. Love yourself. There is nothing poetic or beautiful about getting ********* alone in your bedroom and stumbling drunkenly to the bathroom to cut yourself open.
4. Teach people how to treat you. Explain your boundaries. If someone doesn't respect them, cut them the **** off. They don't respect you.
5. Take more baths. It may force you to look at your naked body, but the warm water calms you down.
6. Do your ******* homework. It may not matter after high school, but it matters now.
7. Stop giving your heart to boys that won't even give your their time. He may claim to love you in the dark, but during the day you're just another **** to him.
8. Pursue that guy. Yeah, you might get hurt. But it'll be a lot of fun in the meantime.
9. Stop acting like you're above high school activities. You have a year and a half left, make the most of it. (Even if it's buying a poofy dress you'll never wear again and going to Snoball with your best friend.)
10. Buy more red lipstick. You feel like you can do anything when you wear it, and you deserve to feel like that all the time.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
I've got a bad case of brain fog
Maybe you should call it brain smog
Because I've got all sorts of bad thoughts
Diluting my air
And spilling into the words that I speak to you
Oh god, please hear me
You should fear me
Because soon you'll be coughing up your lungs
Don't come near me
I'll be climbing up your atmosphere
Burning up the hearts of your daughter's
Corrupting the thoughts of the
Poofy goofy white clouds of childhood
I've got brain smog
Don't let me hurt you
Quick clean up your mistake
Before mother sees the blood upon the bathroom floor
Hurry she's knocking on the door
She already knows you're a ***** *****
I've got brain smog
Look at you, you pathetic dog
You don't know how to unclog
The nasty case of brain smog
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC
Weird.
Queer.
Odd.
Poofy.
Friendly.
Lovely.
Gay.
No more weird,
queer,
odd,
or zany than yours truly.
Little me!
(C) LIVVI
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
*Voices surrounds the dark nothingness,
Laughter, cries, screams,
Try to understand them as you may,
You won’t be able to comprehend.
You first see a girl who is curled up in a ball,
Crying, mumbling, calling herself “fat”,
Don’t look for her heart,
Its been left behind with her past lover.
You then see a little girl,
Laughing, giggling, smiling,
Don’t talk to her,
She’ll never speak to strangers.
Next is a girl with a poofy dress,
Happy eyes, goofy smile,
Don’t speak anything sad to her,
She want to keep others happy.
There is an evil female,
Hateful, dark, smiling evilly at you,
Don’t try to even talk to her,
You’ll find yourself in the afterlife.
Finally you see a normal girl,
Smiling, being goofy, being ‘normal’ right?
What if she is wearing a mask,
Hiding the horrors behind the smiling masquerade?
The mask finally wearing away, breaking off,
Showing you the true scars and sorrow hidden,
Showing you how crazy she is,
Showing you who she really is?*
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
Unapologetic and flawlessly she is drenched in the very essence of beauty called melanin, Her body has a glow as if the sunlight shrouds and gently embraces her skin,
with a complexion so deep and warm my eyes can just lay on it days on end,
I escape this trance only to find myself captivated by her mere presence all over again,
mesmerized by how she transcends the modern notions of perfection,
you know the notions that tends to sleep on a darker complexion?
and no, I don't want it to sound like that I'm sleeping on your complexion
but everyday I picture your skin as a tone I wouldn't mind waking up and drifting away to,
Miss melaninated lullaby your beauty rangs true.
Crowned with royalty and rebelous in nature, her hair defies gravity only adhering to the Queen's imagination,
"black girl magic" there is no other explanation,
think about it, she waves her hands and then **** her poofy hair turns into a new creation,
bantu knots, braids, 2 strand twist, her hair is a work of art and she's an artist, her hair imitates the heavens and she's the goddess....
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
Lacey Bows,
Ribbons in pastel,
Poofy dresses,
Victorian style,
This is my aesthetic,
An aspiring ******
Garters and stockings,
Bows and floof,
Poofy in pink,
Sweet and blue,
Cuteness sourounds me.
Morning light,
Heavy eyes,
Just a dream.
Jeans & a Tee,
Patting my pillow,
I'll be back again.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC