"snot" poems
Hey. I said I do to a sociopath.
No winey snivel.
No quibble.
No ****
BPD= Borderline personality disorder.=sweet insanity.= submerged insecurity = indian giver = lifelong victim=child manipulator.
Slick as snot running below the radar.
Now.
Dropping pretty baggage
Finding perspective.
WOW.
Amazing what can reside in a mid sized cranium.
Disneyland in cog neat O.
Frued would have missed
This one.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Sticky fingers,
***** toes,
Smelly *****
Beads up their nose,
PRECIOUS
Snot stained blouse,
Sick stained shoulders,
Work gets harder,
As they get older,
WONDERFUL
Midnight screaming,
*** in your bed,
Barbie in your coffe ***
Poor goldfish overfed,
GOOD TIMES
Money problems,
Teenage tantrums,
Nose rings, blue hair,
Football anthems,
PARENTHOOD ROCKS!!!!
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 3:15 AM UTC
Todd Totally Toad
Finger Smell McGee
E-I-E-I **** You
Captain Sally Potato
Blackhole Sound *****
The Glass Candy Imagination Man
Dew Snot
One-Eyed Duce Leg of the Cement Dimension
The Guy Who Makes Sailors, Pirates and Fisherprice men shake their Buoy.
The Saccharine Snake of Compatibility
Yeti Jenny ******
Johnny Loch Ness **** Deck.
Chicken ***** McGillicutty
Blanket Face
Rev. 3D Trigonometry
The Little Pistachio ****
The Killer Doll That Only Exists in My Alternate Universe's Self's Imagination.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Can he cry
Knowing the winds won’t stop
Feeling his heart pulse achingly
Listening to the sounds in the other stalls
There are others crying with him
He still can’t cry
Can he cry
Knowing the failures will stick like duck tape
Felling his snot paint his sleeves white
Hugging himself in his time of fright
He still won’t cry
Can he cry
Knowing this is one out of too many
Feeling the burden settle so heavily
Breathing in timing to the tapping on his knee
The tears won’t come out
He can’t cry
Knowing it’ll always be the same
Feeling the drain on his psyche
Listening to the silence in the other stalls
He’s still the only one
And the winds still won’t stop
And the clouds will pass by
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 2:08 AM UTC
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.
- m.f.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
i would like a pizza topped with cheese
then sprinkled with some gnats or fleas
some centipedes and slimy slugs
and other creepy, crawly bugs
i want to add some fingernails
and oyster ooze and crunchy snails
and chicken bones and spoiled meat
and smelly socks from ***** feed
i want it topped with lots of mold
and gooey boogers that's not too old
a lot of snot, a little spit,
and guts with grainy grit
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
Ban flu,
Man flu.
Aching head,
Bleary eyes,
Death lurking,
In disguise,
Under the bed,
What a surprise,
**** off Death,
I’m going to rise.
No I’m not,
I flop down,
Head cushioned,
In eiderdown,
In the curtains,
Face of a clown,
In medication,
Senses drown.
I’m not dying,
I am in a state,
Snot and phlegm,
I ******* hate,
No latent desire,
To **********
No appetite,
I’m losing weight!
I’m getting better,
Weak as a lamb,
A hot toddy,
A wee dram,
Man flu is real,
Not a sham,
Getting better,
The **** I am.
The fifth day,
What a-to-do,
So had enough,
Of feeling blue,
Death lost,
So go *****
Getting dressed,
I am its true.
Man flu,
Ban flu.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
Bring out the pottery boy
Mr A said
bring it out front
so the other boys can see
your work
I took out my clay pottery
attempt to the front of class
and stood there
holding the pottery
on a wooden tray
Mr A gazed at me
through his black framed
Beatnik glasses
his eyes like huge marbles
what you call this
huh boy?
I looked at the hand rolled
clay ***
haven't called it
anything yet
I said
thinking of a name
he went stern eyed at me
are we attempting wit
as well as pottery?
He said
a mild titter
from some boys
in the class
here
he said
in a raised voice
like a failed actor
here we have
an example how not
and I repeat NOT
to make a ***
the classroom went quiet
I stared at my ***
lopsided and brown
like a rushed ****
what were you attempting?
Mr A asked
whatever it was
it most certainly was not
a ***
I said nothing
I gazed at him
in his snot green jumper
and Beatnik beard
and brown
corduroy trousers
and sandals
I don't know
why I bother
with pupils like you boy
he said
waste of my time
I stood looking
passed him at Danny
who was boss eyed
and pulling a face
I suppressed a smile
and looked dull
go back to your place
and spare me
the sad boy look
so I returned to my desk
with my ***
leaning further east
and placed it down gently
as if it were some work
of modern art
Mr A then poked
Eddie in the back
and held up his ***
which went in and out
like armless model
of Greek design
worse
Mr A said
than mine.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
This poem is green
Would you buy this poem?
This poem is do-it-yourself
backyard garden green.
This poem is save the world
give peas a chance green;
this poem is azure sky
squeezing the golden sun
all over the world green.
Could you buy this poem?
This poem is apples and oranges
farmer’s artist market green.
This poem has
leaves as pillows
and blankets as grass;
this poem is a lil’ patch of green
earth purchase me plot;
this poem is
100%
recyclable
disposable,
sustainable
(after all it has gotten this far)
You should buy this poem.
This poem is green,
its’ tyro-technics
shooting out of asphalt cracks.
This poem is a snot-nosed brat
full of SASS
(short attention span sentences)
This poem is the hope of audacity.
This poem is fumbling with bra straps
and tongue-tied techniques,
this poem isn’t old enough
to know any better, it’s wet
behind the ears green
petting zoo pellets green
willing to SCREAM green
but not part of
a gang green
this poem is all alone
with its words
Buy this poem?
This poem is green
Its envious of
solar panel studios with eyes on the price
of a venti economy
This poem is the green-eyed monster
of product placement pick-o-the profit
This poem WANTS to make
consumer obedience the easy culprit.
But really…
This poem just wishes it could sing
Won’t you buy this poem?
This poem is green.
This poem has no half-life,
shelf life or
night life.
This poem exists solely in this moment
of your imagination.
This poem has milk carton desperation.
This poem is begging for change.
This poem was stolen from all of you.
This poem is not for sale.
Buy This Poem!
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
You'll never believe that I am the secrets and you're the words
Just like I don't want to believe I was the ball and you were the bat
What am I even saying
Why am I still writing
These words don't feel the void in my chest
Church says God bless
But then talk down about you
I can attest
I'm drowning in myself
The beast of my mind is consuming me
How much is left
I have no ambition to fight
I'm weak and you'll never know how it feels to be me
No matter how much you relate
You won't know how much I feel it's in vain
Depressing words to match feelings
Dressed in a uniform
Tears roll down my cheeks
Snot dripping nose
All, just leave me alone
Yes I'm broken hearted because the crack was never sealed
And although I act like a cold blooded murderer
I'm the one dying
I'm fading away
You'll never believe that I am the secret and you're the words
The ones I never heard
I don't know myself
Death is stuck in my head
These words you're reading don't mean a thing
Just another broken soul
Probably nothing original
Everyone feels pain
These emotions are cliche
Nothing, still got the same feeling
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC
Little tiny Jellyfish,
You look like gobs of snot.
Then I went and stepped on you
and found out your not.
Little tiny Jellyfish,
your kiss really hurts a lot.
Next time that I walk the beach,
on snot I will step not.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Snot Sniffer, I hate you.
I hate sitting nex to you.
Why do you choose to keep the snot inside of your head by sniffing it back up?
Why don't you get up and grab a tissue so, I don't have to listen to you.
I'm sick and tired of hearing you every five seconds, with your nose and your snot
Your snot and your nose.
Why can't you blow it and make yourself happy?
and better yet, relieve me from listening to you...
Its like the guy or gal that chews like a loud cow
I hate you just as much as snot sniffer.
I hate you Snot Sniffer go and marry Chews Loud and die
In your Overwhelming Abundence of Auditory ****
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
my
poor
ugly fat
sister with her
ugly fat body blotchy
body and ginger ***** hair
yells in terror futilely begging
'no more Daddy, please, no more blows'
as my drunken old ******* of a stepfather
lashes her wobbly *** mercilessly as he yells
bible-inspired obscenities and hatred from the pulpit
of his demented brain and I am powerless to intervene or else
I know I shall be next and my many wounds from last week's thrashing
are still so tender and unhealed so I sit and watch and gently
********** myself under the cover of the odourous blanket
but things are taking a different turn this evening
as I see dear old Daddy taking out his ugly ****
and then ravish my sister's bloodstained body
and this really is too much even for me
to bear so whilst he is occupied with
the edifying task in hand I reach
for the rifle and taking aim
I blow Daddy's **** off
in filial love
and then I
come
with a grunt into my snot-encrusted handkerchief
OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.
Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.
Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.
Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Oh nose on my face,
You empty my wastes.
My snot filters through you,
Into the chocolate fondue.
I blow my snot rockets
Into my mom's pockets.
I keep myself in fashion,
By blowing you with passion.
I love you Honker
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
I'm sitting in In-School-Suspension
I flick their air with my tongue,
And I can taste the tension
And the humility
Of the acts that got my fellow **** ups here
One was in a fight,
One was selling ***
One caught with a knife,
The other blew his snot,
On the principal
This room is as bland as bland can be
Tanned walls and tall ceilings,
That are impossible to reach
I just can't shake the feeling,
Of boredom taking over me
This poem has no real purpose,
I'm writing to pass the time,
Only five more hours to go,
Since it's half past nine
Tick, tock, tick tock,
Goes the clock,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
There it goes again, the clock
With it's ticking,
And it's tocking
It's driving me insane,
Up the tanned walls to the high ceilings
I can't shake the feeling,
Of boredom taking over me
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
This here poem is about a puppy, you need not know his name
Only in that he is a puppy, you should know him all the same
This here puppy had an awareness not unlike your own
He knew he had to lick his ***** and hide his ****** bone
This little puppy stumbled about, much like you once did
Back when you were a dumb as **** snot faced little kid
The puppy found his world confusing much like you still do
But unlike you this puppy knows he hasn’t a ****** clue
See here what this puppy knows, is that it’s ok to have no reason
To call into doubt what you think you know, isn’t ******* treason
This here puppy he figured out that his reality isn’t fixed
In fact it’s incomplete, not done, any beliefs he had were nixed
You could learn a lot from him, if you’d only stop a bit
Put aside your petty wants, try thinking while you ****
Wisdom and compassion you’ll see walk hand in hand
Be considerate of your actions, keep your head out of the sand
This puppy has no enemies and yet you have a million
If you lived but ten more years, I bet you’ll have a billion
Try being like the puppy, just appreciate what you’ve been given
Sometimes it takes just a smile to see why life’s worth liven
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 8:43 PM UTC
The envelope was red, white and blue just like the flag
Betsy Ross spent days with bleeding fingers over so many
years ago. It was addressed to me from an unknown sender.
I was giggly, jumpy. Who would write to me? I wasn’t important.
Just a seventh grade nobody stuck in a sparkly purple wheelchair.
Mom said I could join. She secretly wanted her outcast
of a daughter to have a sense of normalcy during her
last fading moments of childhood. I just wanted to have
fun. I wasn’t ready to accept that I was different. I knew
that I was. The stares told me so but I didn’t want to be.
The letter said that I could represent my fine country
as America’s National Teenager. Me? All I had to do was show
my ability by competing in a scholarship pageant. You know,
a beauty pageant except it wasn’t being called so because adults
are trying to be sensitive to teenager’s feelings because we’re
more likely to be sensitive, emotional and prone to disruptive
and potentially harmful outbursts. The perks of being a wallflower.
Teenagers, we know this. We’re also not stupid. I and every
other girl who would participate knew this pageant
was nothing more than a beauty pageant; a popularity
contest. That didn’t keep us from dreaming of becoming
rich and famous, stop the crying fits, hormones from raging
or acting like drama wasn’t our life’s goal and college major.
Four days in Southern Idaho and an eight-hour drive
to and from gave me plenty of time to practice my talent,
an essay. Even then, I knew I had no real physical attributes.
Instead, I shoved my fears aside and wrote, rewrote and polished
my essay on America until my parents, teachers, and friends
repeatedly had to tell me “that’s enough already. You’ll do great.”
I made friends, told stories, laughed until snot came out my nose
and answered the ever cautious “What happened to make you look
that way?” I had the time of my life. I knew I wasn’t going to win
because let’s face it, I’m not pretty enough. And just as predicted,
I left with “Most Inspirational” and cried ugly tears when I
didn’t come home as America’s National Teenager. Looking back,
I was a real American teenager. I don't need a pageant to tell me so.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running swinging like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like the Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when i sneeze flying lighting manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I was only dreaming pops
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when I sneeze flying lightning manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I realise I was only dreaming pops
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Behind me and my daughter
In line for the Ferris wheel
Perhaps when you are older
You will find breastfeeding
Is the least nasty thing
Your child will do
Wait for the projectile *****
The diaper explosions
Snot handed to you
So kindly like a present
Wait for the strangers to ask you
"So when do you plan to get your body back?"
My body never left
It did the most badass thing
Any body could ever do
What have you done
With the beautiful sharp mind and body
God has given you?
Used your eyes and words
To judge other women
Looked at your tummy in the mirror and thought
"I should be skinnier."
It is a shame,
Women ought to stick together
So I'm going to tell you now
Your bodies are amazing
Magical, you might say
Life giving, you're **** right
Do not judge me
Say that my nursing toddler is nasty
Look at her face,
How can you be so cruel?
For ***** sake,
It's just a ******
I can see more of you
Pre-thirteen
In your crop top and skinny jeans
Than you can of me
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
Daar was g'n tyd vir bybelversies nie
, want die brood van lewe was te duur
En wie wil nou regtig wag om ring
As die manne vir jou hoogliedere sing.
Aan die begin was daar niks nie
Maar hyt gepraat met sy hande
En toe was daar lig en oh die gode
Dit was goed! Dit was goed!
Maar hy was aleen in n wereld met als
En almal was sonder naam
, toe hy sy laaste een gee en ek
Deur bloed en been vir hom geskep is.
Dit was goed, dit was goed
En ek huil snot en trane van seer
Maar die appel proe soet
Of jy hom in die hemel of die hel hap...
Jy is die fontein van lewe,
Ek drink van jou en raak dors
Vir meer as net een aand van sterrevolg.
Mag ek dronk raak op jou wyn?
Of is jy my een reeds voor!?
En ek kan.nie kerk toe hol nie
En die Bybel vloek my skel
Want jou lyf voel soos die Hemel
Maar Hy se jy is die Hel.
Mag ek langs jou bed op kniee neersak
En jou hand in myne neem??
Kom ons raak besope...
Genoeg om liefdesliede
vir mekaar te kreun.
More bid ons om vergifnis
En vergeet wat sonde is
Tot die vlees te veel begeer
En die lewenslig so bietjie blus.
Dit is *** die liefde werk,
Dis my lewe dié
Die struikelblok wat my versmoor
Van n vel religie.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
The best part of waking up
is picking my nose
and rolling all my gooey boogers up
into one big ball,
an amalgamation of snot and crust,
then flicking it off
and trying to get it to stick
up on that one spot on the ceiling.
Y'know, that one slightly darkened spot
just above my *** stained desk
downstairs in the back room?
It's down there next to all those
empty Jim Beam bottles, well
I mean they're not empty anymore
because I keep filling them up with ****
But they used to be empty at one point,
actually I guess they've been empty twice;
once before the factory added the liquor
and then again after I drank all the liquor
but before I added the ****
I digress,
you get it.
The ****** spot on the ceiling.
Good morning. 🌞
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 8:05 AM UTC