"repairman" poems
step one: find someone with the correct qualifications. make sure he has taken the correct courses and has credentials.
step two: if your lawyer has a double major in medicine, run away.
step three: he is a person, not a house. do not treat him as such. don’t begin to use his bones as beams and his heart as a generator.
step four: you are a person, and just because you have legal issues doesn’t take away from that statement. you are a person, not a project. make sure your lawyer realizes this too.
step five: if he tries to fix you, run away. go back to step one and pay extra attention to step two.
step six: doctors are bad news. stay away from them at all costs, even if they are a good lawyer too.
step seven: don’t try to fix him either, even if he needs the help. he needs the help, but he’ll never actually accept it.
step eight: he’s just a boy. not an angel, not a superhero, not a saviour, not a lawyer, not a doctor, not a repairman.
step nine: he is not a song. don’t make him a song. he is not a song. don’t compare him to “broken crown” by mumford and sons or “ice” by lights.
step ten: if you need legal advice, a professional works but ultimately a convicted girl is the best advice.
step eleven: whatever you do, don’t hurt him because you’re afraid of being hurt.
step twelve: don’t give him your sharps. save yourself. you don’t need him.
step thirteen: don’t **** yourself because he doesn’t care.
step fourteen: he cares.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
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Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
You're like a window
Light shines through
But it's dark inside
Cardigans for Curtains
All those lovely shapes, beside
Depending on the weather
Sometimes you're blue (Don't forget I can see through)
Sometimes you're black
Sometimes stars get stuck
Fixation, Oxygen deprivation
Where would we be without you...?
dot, dot, dot, Question
The stars get stuck in the cracks
Obviously a metaphor for your flaws
And these lines/curves/obscurities
of my vision
Help me see you
Prism, dancing, and trying to age like wine
Getting, getting better all the time
Reflect it back
Childhood
Magnolia leaves
Currently being abandoned
Streets
Real Estate
And different Paint
Then College
NOT taking you're money
"Too bad, see you next time honey"
Lanterns and Moths like houseguests
Here to assess the property damage
You are not Real Estate
You are a Window
Light shines through
Ivy like a crown
Curtains like a blanket
You're looking from the corner
Feeling like the abandoned streets
Ex boyfriend like kids throwing stones
their blind, so they usually miss...you're beauty
You may crack, fracture, fractal
But you are Urban
There will be renewal
Here comes the repairman (Not that you need a man)
Band-aids & stickers
Heartache like a stomachache
And he's looking in
There's the Windowsill
Light Shines through
You are more than a Window
But it's dark inside
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
My dad lost his arm to cancer.
He was 61 years old,
did he let that get him down?
Heck NO...
The day he came home from the hospital
minus one shoulder and arm,
he jumped on his bike and rode
it down to our house,
which was a long block away.
balance, how did he do it?
Dad was always included in
all our neighborhood parties.
if he was sitting in my backyard,
he would be drinking a cup of coffee
with Jim, my husband.
If he was sitting in my neighbor Dennys backyard
he would be drinking a beer
with Denny.
Dad worked as a machine repairman
with out his arm for two more years.
Because he was good.
Dad bowled two times a week with one arm,
and he walked out at the Park
the days he didn't bowl.
My amazing dad, with one arm and no shoulder,
built my kitchen cupboards,
put up a ceiling in the basement,
build doll houses for my daughter
and the neighbor girl,
and also one for a church raffle.
My dad went to church every Sunday,
and when he was so ill,
the nun would visit dad and mom,
mom would play the *****
beer barrel polka,
while the nun and my dad danced.
He was known by many, taught kids
how to bowl, including my son.
AND HE IS MISSED BY ALL....
This is a tribute to my daddy
named Fritz....
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY...
by ~ judy
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
To whom it may concern;
As I watch you from afar,
It seems your mental living conditions have become poor.
While the paint on your house seems new,
the garden, gently cared for
and your front porch, freshly swept
all of the rooms in your house are a mess.
The foyer,
which once invited large storms of crowds
and your master suite;
the most lavish room in the entire house
are covered in trash, half-empty bottles,
and what i can only surmise
as a deep depression in the walls and floor
But your attic, whereby
you store your most valuable treasures
thought,
wisdom
beauty
appears to have grown dark
and now neither dark basement nor top floor
can be told apart
so dear,
i write you this, to speak of my qualifications
my abilities, as a household repairman
though i may not hold any formal degree,
please,
see my references,
as quite soon, i would love to get to work
and teach you
to rebuild your home
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 3:57 AM UTC
nayakan an repairman, waray man problema
dire man daw liwanan, ngan nadara pa
pero pamati ko, ruba na gud ada
kay waray ka na man tatawag, waray ka na magpakita.
🥀
#siday
Jul 7, 2024
Jul 7, 2024 at 8:00 AM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
I've been listening to static for years.
Watching the black-and-white zigzags
Crumple across my screen
Defeated, without knowing the enemy.
Overwhelmed, without taking perspective.
Suddenly pictures are coming through
Sounds that don't just seem to be dying aluminum.
Laughs smiles conversations
Touches...
Gasps.
Heartbeats.
Those black and white zigzags are fading
Blurring out until you see the picture
They've been trying to form for too long.
And behold, the picture is clear.
Maybe the repairman upgraded me to hi-def.
But that repairman sure is sneaky.
Apparently the channel is now set on Cinemax
And I have no idea where my remote is.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 1:35 PM UTC
I was real quiet when
I closed
that door.
You smile like bro-ken glass
and walk like the newspapers left on subway benches-
we've watched them float
like dandelion seeds
while the train brought in its
catch of businessmen.
Do you remember?
I was real quiet, understand,
when I wept and you were sleeping
there beside me.
Do you know you talk in your sleep?
It's wonderful and terrifying-
you are screaming and crying
and reaching like a newborn,
and I want to save you.
I want to lift you
up and out
with my kisses
and my arms.
But I touch,
and you're wide awake.
You stare, and I stare,
and I want to tell you I love you,
and that I'll kiss you up and out,
but you've already closed
that door.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
If you leave,
I won't look at the world the same.
My windows to the outdoors may be wide open now,
but the moment you take a final step out the door,
my windows will come violently crashing down,
shattering glass upon itself.
I'll view everything as if it is broken
and even though I'll try to repair it,
the shards will remain pieces of a past life
that you'll leave me forever trying to fix.
Pity my ruins
and call a repairman yourself,
but even Home Depot won't have the tools
to fix the girl with broken windows.
-mp
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I hate and love this place.
I hate the long line of people I have to serve,
filled with naggy mothers,
bleached, fried hair,
silicone bodies the color of bacon.
I hate the heavy ache in my feet,
sign of a long shift,
having to serve food to thankless patrons.
I hate how the juicy, salty burgers taste so good,
adding unwanted lumps and bumps.
Grease sizzling, popping in the air,
Sticking to your skin, permeating your hair.
And yet,
I love the sound of Denis's voice breaking through the blanket of shrieks,
telling me hello in his clipped English.
I love the sizzling of traitorous patties on the grill,
looking for love in someone's stomach.
I love the constant banter between Thomas and me.
I always let him win.
I love seeing the cute, scruffy arcade repairman as he comes to my register
waiting for me to offer a free icee.
He always pays for it anyway.
This place annoys me all the time,
the screams of children, the lack of tips, the way my skin peels off from my fingers,
an ugly result of having to wash my hands every 5 minutes.
And yet, I love it.
Every inch,
the good and the bad.
All of it.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
All is gone
I can only see darkness
And my mind's projection of the silouettes of my hands
The grandfather clock is broken
No repairman came knocking on my door
Nor did my house tell me it needed fixing
Soon the dust gathered on the golden bells
And the mahogany fell silent
The silver cogs were equally as inaudiable
The glowing numbers didn't shine anymore
Man, the only creature plagued by time
So accustomed to our sickness
I can still hear, in the back of my mind,
"Tik tok...
Tik tok...
- - -."
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
Time
Subtly counting the seconds
Hopelessly loosing oneself
In utter endless distractions
Only to realize
The count was lost
And the time has passed
Left breathless
Again one begins
Subtly counting the seconds
Focused on the task at hand
To only become lost again
And realize
The moment has passed
And it is time
To call the watch repairman
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
I miss your arms on my sides,
And you biting my lips at night.
Remember that day on the beach?
We didn't see a ray of sun in that tent.
Your hair always smelt like oranges
And you tasted like peppermint.
I would always play with your ears
While you toyed with my fingers.
You had this funny way of getting me
To open up for you, my heart, my legs.
When I inflicted damage onto us,
You were the patient repairman;
I was the pain for your scream,
And you were the sorrow for my tears.
Somehow we made sense...
Until the day dream ended.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
This is a story of man who defied all odds, and his name was Henry Fredrick. Henry rides the train every morning on his daily commute to the city, which is where he works. He is a repairman for Azrael Medical Center, a local hospital. Henry is a single man who lives alone and does not like to keep company very often. As said before, he takes the train from his residence located in the outskirts of the town. He seldom makes friends, but the friends he does have keep in good rapport with him. T’was the first week of April in the year 1987, that he departed like any other day when suddenly the train derailed. He was tossed about from roof to floor, and this vicious cycle continued until he was left lying on top of someone else’s luggage. Henry laid there for quite some time fearing no one would know where to look, and he began to think what he could have done better in his life. The only thought he had was of his death. Trying to rid himself of this misery he began to ask why he did not simply buy a car and take that to work instead of the train. The train was so close and inviting to Henry because he could spend time alone to think before having to deal with the occupational world. A few hours were spent and he finally attempted to move his carcass so that he could perhaps be found. He struggled to crawl up to the door, the only escape route. That’s when the feeling hit him, like someone was watching him or planning his demise. Henry frantically looked around but saw no one. He began to yell for help when someone or something showed up. The two of their eyes met and instantaneously the two of them became preoccupied with the other. As Henry began to widen his gaze from those engulfing red eyes, he notices that indeed that thing that was watching him was a dog. The dog grabbed onto Henry’s shirt puling him from the wreckage. The dog seemed to have supernatural strength and Henry felt as if he was floating on air being carried on the shoulders of some strange beast, but was most likely due to the fact that he lost basically all of his blood. The dog dragged Henry’s broken body to the street, and that is where Henry blacked out.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
How She Loved Me
After she broke her neck, the diagnosis advised her to
avoid all moving when she could.
Once she agreed, three vertebrae were fused together,
and a cushion braced her instead of us.
We were not allowed.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Maybe three.
She sat in her chair and rocked and rocked
and rocked – until the hinges snapped, too.
The repairman repeated those two words:
Don’t. Move.
I avoided her after that – ran right past her when I could –
let my legs leap and fly and bend and breathe.
But even my knees knew how she watched,
how she waited for me to look.
I only did once.
On the day the sky became a lake,
she walked onto the deck like a dock,
threaded the wind with her fingers,
rose her chest when she breathed,
and bounced onto the trampoline.
She stretched and sprung and skipped into a flip
only stopping to giggle about her favorite rollercoasters.
And I stood still to listen.
I stood still and watched.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
There’s a strange satisfaction
in the tranquil pounding of feet on pavement
against the quiet whispers of the sunrise
over a morning’s dreary eyes,
when the world is about to rise,
and your unaccompanied flesh is its alarm,
like the soft ripple of a rock
skipping against the water.
I came here to stop feeling,
but instead I feel everything.
The hum of the wind beneath my eardrum
is a lullaby for my loneliness,
and the cotton candy sky is begging
for my mercy.
A few months ago,
this was the key to my fulfillment,
but somewhere along the way,
you went and changed the lock.
I tried to call a repairman,
but my throat froze
and my chest burst
the moment he stopped by.
I’m not sure what brought me here
or why,
but eventually
I’ll breathe again.
For today
I’ll simply close my eyes
and pray that the light that floods my corneas
when my lashes meet lid
brings brightness to this twilight mood,
and someday the repairman will allow me
to lift this weight from my chest.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 12:03 AM UTC
You pick me up in your car
I'm already waiting outside
Shopping and lunch, you suggest
I think it's the perfect plan.
As you drive, we catch up
(I hate that we've been apart)
You tell me stories
About people I don't know
Jokes I don't understand
But try to laugh at
All the same.
Somewhere, on the way
Your car splutters
And fails to start on the hill
You're annoyed, say we'll be stuck here
I am secretly thrilled
But then worry
That you don't want to be with me
For that long.
It clearly shows on my face
As you reassure me
Put your hand on my leg
(I wish you would keep it there)
And tell me help is on its way.
Your Mum arrives
As you're calling a repairman
She calls me your girlfriend
I don't correct her
And stand close to you
When your phone call ends.
I try not to read into it
When you don't move away
(After all, we're used to being close)
But still savour the warm smile
Your Mum gives me
Before she drives away.
We window shop for hours
Slip back into our old rhythm
I reach for your hand
Instinctively
But you move yours away
Before mine has reached it
And I'm left grabbing
At the air
Trailing behind you.
We try on stupid hats
And laugh and laugh
(Is it weird that we're friends now?)
You're in a great mood
And I'm proud to be with you
As you put on a show
That passers by
Stop and smile at.
(It's awful being just your friend now)
We have lunch at a bistro
Our table is small and intimate
And our knees touch
Under the table
It makes me blush but
I love it.
You say you have something
You want to tell me
My heart leaps
And flutters.
I take a sip of milkshake
To avoid saying something
Stupid.
You look me in the eye
And tell me
That you've met someone
And she's perfect
You couldn't be happier
You have a smile
fixed on your face.
The milkshake
Curdles with my stomach acid
My mouth is dry
I think I'm going to be sick
And excuse myself.
You don't notice
That I'm quiet for the rest
Of our lunch.
You speak enough for
The both of us
Telling me stories
That I don't want to hear.
My ears ring
Like mourning bells
And I feel dizzy.
My face is pale
Under the artificial lights
I wish I was anywhere
But here.
You drive me home
Thank me for the
Nice afternoon we had.
I go in and know
That I can never see you
Again.
As I am not your friend
And never can be
As I am not quite over you
And I'm hurting
More than I'd admit.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
I am not the girl that most want to love
I am a siren at all times
Full volume blasting
I do not keep my words bottled up
I have far too many
And not enough places to store them
Instead
I am vocal
Wear my ripped out heart on my sleeve
Still bleeding from the times
I've had to bury it back inside of me
I have dug it out on various occasions
Only to sew it back again
I have never much of a repairman
My veins are blue
With the stories that coarse through my body
I have so many
That sometimes I worry I will burst
Fragile skin turned volcano
Lava running through my bones
I am not gentle
Or sweet
Rather harsh
And honest
I am not a sugar coated mixed drink
But
Bourbon taken straight from the bottle
I am bitter
With a tendency to burn throats
And leave headaches
I am unapologetic
In my ****** ways
Do not call me sweetie
When I am the farthest thing from candy
I will leave a forest fire in your mouth
Melt down everything in my path
And still not know how to say sorry
I am anything but
Polite
I am stubborn, taurus, bull
Anything but amiable
I am not the girl your mother ordered
I am the one she warns you about
I am more medusa than aphrodite
I am not goddess
Nor princess
I do not yearn to be swept off my feet
Simply to be desired
For more than just one night
Nicotine lovers that want only momentary bliss
You will not get me momentarily
I cling like black ash on white sheets
Smoke that stays in the air
Leaving you gasping for breath
I am not the doe-eyed
Day wandering
Innocence that men crave
I am not delicate
Not silk
Rough to the touch
Spikes that can ***** yku
But my edges smooth over
When I love
And when I love,
I love hard
I am not the girl
That most want to love back
I am not one to stand out
I am an opal among diamonds
I do not need to shine
In order to know that I'm beautiful
I am an oak among palms
I am hoping that someday
Someone will be able to admire my wood
Scars and all
I am not the girl that most want to love
I am not the girl
I am not
I am
Girl
I am human
I am willing to open my wide reaching arms
Willing to let down my titanium plated guard
Mold my brass knuckles back into bone
Turn my metal wired fists into string that you can wrap around your fingertips
I am willing to ease
But I am not
Willing to change
I am not the girl that most want to love
I am a tree in a forest full of split branches
I am not the girl that most want to love
But I am anything
But
Hollow.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
the fact that the price tag is still on the beanie you bought me,
claims the truth
it's not that the little things were priceless,
it's that they turned up worthless
up to no point in return
I'm such a hypocrite saying that I never ******* lie
lately, it seems that I do it all the time
all of the poison that I drank
from the cup you gave me
I should have never accepted
I must have been ******* crazy
you would never deserve a poem from me
I'm already speaking too much
you were never worth a moment of my time
wasted in more ways than one
this bottle of gin never loved me more
the fact that the little **** I see
reminds me of you
and the thought I was once loved
makes me sick
I wish I would have known before that I was meant to fix you up
call me a ******* repairman
man, that's ****** up
what did I ever do to deserve this?
the biggest heart
and never a flinch
but when you look back
you call me a *****
you say the opposite of everything I've ever done
I don't understand that logic
at the end
you're the one who ran
at least after the end of reading this
I can still stand
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 7:04 PM UTC
I wish the big crunch theory was never disproved
Because I want to be unmade
I want to see myself going backwards
So my mistakes can be undone
Not so sure I want to be born again
Cause I'm sure I'll just waste all my dopamine
On pointless highs and someone I'd be coping on
Cause this human condition is something to cope with
Because hope doesn't exist it just works when you believe in it
And my mechanisms are missing gears
What do you do when the engineer is broken
So don't try and prune, just remove my stem
I'm the lonely astronaut
Because we're all just neurons in the mind of god
And I have no synapse friends
**** time, if I'm dead that's something I can break and bend
If I had more time, this broken repairman could mend
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
The repairman
Sat at the bar
Broken
Great,
now there were
two things
he couldn't fix
She was gone
His heart went with her
And only a drunken shell
Remained
His dad always told him
"If something's broke, fix it"
And his dad gave him
His first set of tools
And they built
A rocking chair together
And even though
His dad was gone
He still had
Them
And his dad's last words
To him
Were "I love you"
But she always said
"You don't love me"
And she gave him
His first child
And they built
a family together
But she was gone
And he didnt
Still have
them
And her last words
To him
Were"I don't love you"
He left the bar
drunk
And started
For home
And as he walked
He saw families
And couples
But it was
always
her
Her with another
And he hated them
No
He hated himself
He was walking
Near a bridge
A good ways
Above the water
Rocks beneath
He stopped
He was on
The edge
Of the bridge
But it wasn't
a bridge
It was a pit
And he was at
The precipice
He jumped
And the only one
Who went to his funeral
Was his corpse
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
God the problem solver,
The repairer of the breach
And restorer of all things.
Like with the repairman
That fixes broken items,
I am learning to give
My problems to you Lord.
For the power of restoration
Is in your hands.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
I have myself convinced
that my heart
has a limited amount
of repairs.
That after the seventh time
it is broken,
there will be no way
to fix it.
I don’t trust
its durability.
But I am the owner
and the repairman.
And if I say it will get fixed,
it will get fixed.
Lifetime guaranteed.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC