"sop" poems
If i told you i needed help
would you listen?
Or would your silence
Echo off the walls.
See my life is like a car,
Sometimes moving fast
And other times so **** slow.
If i told you i feel hurt inside
would you not just hear
but listen
to what i said
I need someone to care.
Im tired of trying to fight alone.
Im tired of trying to survive at a table for one.
If i told you
I cry all over my body
And each tear is a knife
And they are leaving scars on my flesh,
Would you cut me a bandage,
Sop up my blood,
Or leave me to bleed out.
If i told you
I was alone and my demons are taunting me
would you get me out
Or would you keep walking
or keep scrolling...
Im not begging for attention,
But one cannot be expected to be alone and silent like a life long detention.
If i told you
I was ready to confess everything
Come clean from my secrets,
Strip myself naked so you could see my imperfections
would you care even the slightest bit
Or are you so selfish
And so ignorant
To walk on
And leave this person to die.
If i told you i was ready to die
*would you blame it in cliche,
Or believe it and save me from damnation*
Its time to think.
It could be up to you
This isnt just my world,
Its yours, too
and dont you want to be
somebody
To someone?
I need you.
Because all of these "if i told you's*
Are becoming
*im telling you
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
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Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
I was born to a woman who smoked cigarettes
and since I was a child, I tried to inhale blueberries until they
stalled my windpipe.
My mother taught me that word –
windpipe – after she coughed for hours upon hours. I
was so happy that day, imagining how I must have swallowed
windchimes for the doctors who helped birth me
in December’s final snow –
how I hoped they believed I sounded pretty, although
covered in that sop adults call life juice. Life juice sounds nice
but I had known babies who
came just as sticky as me and never got to breathe.
Windchimes, you know, the things
beautiful ladies in ankle-length dresses hang outside,
my daddy lived thirteen hours down the interstate and I knew
somehow that he owned one.
In my dreams, I touched it
and pulled on it. I twisted the copper-ends up like my
momma’s hair and pretended we were with my dad by some
lake where the breezes are heavy enough and I
am small enough for them to carry me up, up, and away.
Everyone insisted that windpipes are inside
while windchimes stay out –
I fixed that problem, too. I tried three times to plant chimes in
my ears, unglue parts of the skin there from myself
to make room for dangly jewelry. A tiny
slit was all I needed, but it would not stay open for long
and I never got to swing my head
pretend I possessed the ability to create music like how God
let my momma grow smoke. I never got to exhale.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
(on a Black Saturday)
Sun beams touch the lustrous shells of
the capiz chime, dazzling the eyes and mind,
the walls on both sides of the big window are
newly painted, immaculately white, so bright,
....the pink blooms of the bougainvillea,
humbly bowed for almost two weeks now,
have turned to a faded brown.......wilting...
the strange nest had fallen, and gone
the young of the yellow green-breasted birds
have grown, flown away...all have found
............other trees to perch on
the sweet sop tree quivers
from its heavy fruits and birds on branches
enjoying their meal of fruits...ripe and juicy,
leaving some for the bats at night
a striped yellow cat rests on a shaded part
of the roof...i patiently wait for daddy long legs
to come out from the gutter...but in vain...
...paint still wet?...scent too strong, maybe?
maybe, the gravel and pebbles on the ground
weigh too much...did i unknowingly bury them?
i am missing the spectacle of an earthworm,
..........emerging from under the soil
big ants are restless...driven out...roaming,
the bricked wall's natural tan-beige shade
has surfaced...concrete wall is too hot...
these bricks, must be repainted white, as well
the ants, the spiders, the earthworms,
the bats, make their own preparations,
why can't we human beings do the same?
we prefer to suffer the consequences, and
deal with the results of unpreparedness:
el nino, earthquakes, unwanted people,
la nina, unexpected decisions, unwanted
changes...and all sorts of crazy "uns,"
townhouses have risen on my street
strange faces of new neighbors
......pass me by...
......as i write...
the worst heat of summer is yet to come...
Sally
Copyright April 15, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
Don't fight the thunder when it comes,
let go your brick and brush.
Sop up the graying clouds with
every bit of lung, step
away from your paint.
Your labor
has always been in vain.
Surrender your body to the wind,
trust its wings, trust its landing.
Watch closely
come the tearing of the torrents,
don't be afraid
of what washes ashore.
Allow every strike of lightning,
let your bones shake themselves brittle.
You will not die.
You will not die.
Breathe in the roaring waves,
slowly sink to its depths.
Avoid the struggle if you can,
and let it be so.
Let it be so.
And when all has billowed over,
keep open your eyes
keep open your fists
and know that all this
is where spring begins.
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC
I think that I shall never know
Why I am thus, and I am so.
Around me, other girls inspire
In men the rush and roar of fire,
The sweet transparency of glass,
The tenderness of April grass,
The durability of granite;
But me--I don't know how to plan it.
The lads I've met in Cupid's deadlock
Were--shall we say?--born out of wedlock.
They broke my heart, they stilled my song,
And said they had to run along,
Explaining, so to sop my tears,
First came their parents or careers.
But ever does experience
Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense!
Though she's a fool who seeks to capture
The twenty-first fine, careless rapture,
I must go on, till ends my rope,
Who from my birth was cursed with hope.
A heart in half is chaste, archaic;
But mine resembles a mosaic-
The thing's become ridiculous!
Why am I so? Why am I thus?
1.7k
Cop A Nop
Yop O U
Dop E Cop I Pop Hop E Rop
I-top?
Mop U cop hop
E A Sop I E rop
Top hop A Nop
Yop o u
Top Hop I nop kop
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Ya’ll **** (Myself included, I said everybody, didn’t I)?
Forbes, a magazine for rich wannabes, says:
85 people control half of the world’s wealth (yet, nobody obsesses)
In my rural hometown alone,
that’d be the equivalent of a disembodied ****** hole
calling all the shots from a platinum throne inside the town hall
“Keep plowing! Keep selling! PLLLLLPPPPPP!
Sop up my **** with all those Benjamins, and bring the Russian ballet in!”
In between **** and brain rotters, everyone else watches ******
with his handsome silk hat on,
shake hands with the petty bourgeoisie in suits
Little lap dogs
licking up all the slimy brown Franklins
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
I am the doll with the growing hair
Whose face returns your bloodshot stare-
Your red eyes accented blue
Knowing he won't think of you.
When back was turned, in sadist lust
I wrote the name, etched in the dust
Upon the shelf where I reside
To catch your gaze as you walked by.
You ponder on this grotesque mask
And wonder how this came to pass-
How fate won't follow any plan
And memories rot, still in your hand.
And though I torture where you dwell
I hearken now to what you tell
On how you'll live against these odds:
"I'll sop up my mistakes with gauze."
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 9:20 AM UTC
Grasping at love or passion or ecstasy.
Take this pain from me, sop up my tears.
Pour me a cup of sunshine and roses.
Let me bask in the light of your aura,
And I will be full of joy once again.
My head spins and swims and swirls.
Dizzy with delusion and disconsolate,
Like a lighthouse for the lost and lonely.
My weakened heart pulses steadily.
A rhythmic blast of fluorescent green.
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 12:25 PM UTC
This.
Is an ode
to Hip Hop
to Bob Sop
and Rob Top.
You flop mop the back drop
And sweep the front shack shop.
"I CAN'T HEAR ****
Well.
Listen up gramps and stop licking those stamps cuz I got a bit more for ya then this sweet little dance.
Lemme tell you a story
of a few men who gotta bit more then glory.
We got 2-PAC, wutang, and snoop Dogg with a ciggie.
Eazy-E, Jay Z, Eminem and Biggie
Outkast to outlast 2000? I mean really.
Ice cube and Cool J won't keep it too hot.
Need a shot for the cold you just caught?
il throw you a deal- 50 Cent,
and dr. Dre?
He's yours, all yours
but just for the day.
Run Dmc, busta rhymes, slick rick, and tech nine
Oh! And a tribe called quest.
Alright. Ok.
Il give it a rest.
Dear gramps. Dear grams.
Just want you to know
these men- they're the best.
Now let's go to the show!
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
The smell of dettol permeates way down the street
even as I approach the clinic in terror
death stalks every step and my pulse races
with the knowledge of impending doom.
Try as I might, to stay calm and in control, bugs don't think-
they eat their fill first
and talk with high temperatures and tantrums
coughs and splutters
chills and tingles and tantrums, probably knowing
that murderous pills on their way.
dettol has a distinct sensation, it matches sterile
spongy clean sop and maternity wards
yet I know if you smelt dettol in the deep woods
you would question every dark spot on a leaf
the bark the tree! the wind and the root.
That's how it got associated with death.
I could never overcome that smell
at times it felt safe, at other times it felt like
alarm bells were ringing of an approaching enemy
facing a firing squad. How could they fire us
to the next world with a smell?
But that's what it always felt like. But today
I need to get my flu sorted out.
Dettol wont do the killing fields any good.
Its hard to have a love/hate relationship with a smell.
Dettol and Women! They are alike! That's it. Yeah.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11613999-dettol-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.J5CFBwXf.dpuf
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
I wish I was not standing here on this bus,
Where the crowd is so thick and the people do fuss.
For in pain right now, I am, you see.
And all alone, I wish to be.
'Cause all of the pain is deep in my gut.
And the only relief is out of my ****
Just a little relief , I hope to measure,
From a small release of some of this pressure,
No one should notice, there are so many here.
So I'll relax a little and open my rear.
Oops! Oh no! That's not just gas!
It's way thicker and sticks to my ***
Uh oh! Wait a minute! This is not right!
I can't stop the flow! C'mon **** get tight!
It doesn't matter how hard I try,
I can't seem to stop it! I don't know why!
Soon, surely, someone will notice a smell.
A funky odor that has come to dwell.
It's getting worse 'cause my underware's full!
And now down my legs, the stuff starts to roll.
A puddle now forms at my feet on the floor.
Oh my gosh! Where is the door?!
But it's too late and it really shows,
I'm having problems, so's everyones nose.
They all start gagging and yelling "P-U!!"
"Who is the idiot that passed that poo!!"
And just as the flow finally does stop,
Down the aisle comes an off duty cop.
"Hey!" He exclaimed. "What's wrong with you!?"
"You can't just stand there and take a poo!"
"I'm sorry sir!" I tried to explain.
"I was having extreme abdominal pain!"
"I thought I could vent a little gas,"
"When out of my **** this liquid did pass!"
"I wanted to stop it!" I said as I cried.
"It just kept on comming, no matter how hard I tried!"
And as I stood weeping because of my shame,
All of the people, to my aid came.
They all gave me tissues and one guy a mop.
So I took them all and started to sop.
By the time I was home, I had cleaned it all up.
And,thankfully,did it without throwing up.
I thanked everyone and apologized.
And from then on I realized
That if you're on a bus and have to pass gas,
Make sure you have kleenex to cover your ***
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
Stick a fork in me and tell me I'm done.
Tell me my only purpose now is to be
carved open and served on fine china,
Tell me now is my time.
They plan to eat me alive.
I can already feel them
gnawing on my bones like toothpicks
after the first course,
and washing down their disgust
with my blood, still warm,
like sun tea sitting in the window
on a hot August day,
except maybe a little thicker
in consistency and a little more
bitter in taste.
Old soul, flesh and blood
doesn't stay fresh long, eat me.
Smile and nod at dinner table conversation
as you choke down every headache,
every bad decision I've ever made.
Things like that call for a little extra meat tenderizer, don't they?
Spending hours making me more appealing to the pallet
only to make me look like roadkill.
Sunken in, glazed over highway eyes,
always staring straight ahead,
never to change.
Served on a sliver platter with a puddle of blood under me,
make sure to serve bread to sop up all the mistakes, imperfections, monotony.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
Old T Rex stood on the mountain top
And watched the brontos stroll
Little did he know that further up
Moses was on a roll
The critter knew that one day soon
The tables would be turned
He hunched his back and gnashed his teeth
The tablets wont be spurned.
Both together made mankind fierce
and splashed the fear of hell
One did better with no rehearse
Casting an eerie spell.
The tablets were used
To keep temperatures down
Ten doses a sop and a lollipop
T Rex the centre of town.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
leaning on a rusty figure eight
my nails chip away at it
head on the tabletop lifting breaths from the center
minute single snares snap capturing the space
time reddens and swells like a bruise around me
sop up my wilted remains from the garden plots
polyglots in my sinuses whisper rhymes in sanskrit
laughin in rhythm within my toe tappin on icy paths
a buncha doughey toesies poking in the carpet
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
The most bitter tears fall to the earth forgotten.
Seep
Drip
Fall
Splat.
Drip drop,
Puddle puddle,
Tink tonk tap.
The most bitter tears fall to the earth forgotten.
Leak
Lunge
Fall
Splat.
Pitter patter
Seep sop
Tink tonk tap.
#16_3/19/14
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Talk about the way I loved you
Once upon a time!
I will always be kind to you,
But keep your valentine.
What good would come of an empty notion?
I won't sop in your love potion.
Keep your hearts of candy handy,
You might need a snack.
Wrap it up in cellophane,
Send your entreaty back.
We had our time, you had your shot.
Let's just be friends, or maybe not.
I can't think of reason one
That I should take the chance
On trusting that you'd ever change,
No, I am not entranced.
Learn the meaning of good-bye.
Walk away on down the line.
Don't look back, don't dwell upon it.
Give it no second thought.
To be clear, I'm not mad with you,
But feelings can't be bought.
At the close, there's this to find -
I don't want to be your valentine.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
Well what was I supposed to do?
Fight?
You really think I'm that crazy, that fearless, that brave?
They say there are three kinda of heartbreak.
No.1 When someone is clumsy with your heart and drops it, breaking it into 1000 pieces.
No.2 When you break someones heart. Having to look into their eye and turn them away.
No.3 When your heart breaks everyday by watching the person you love love someone else.
These are all viable theories but I disagree.
We are the breakers of out own hearts.
We are responsible for our own catastrophes,
and thats just it.
Maybe thats why it hurts so bad,
because its my fault.
I do it to myself.
I probably shouldn't be so hard on myself though.
If you're hurting now its because you did it,
you alone.
I won't ever know though.
Maybe thats what really hurts.
The so many "ifs".
The so many questions.
Perhaps I get my sad sop of a life published one day
and by fortune you find yourself reading it.
Perhaps the assumption of your affections for me infuriates you,
or perhaps you weep for loves long lost.
Perhaps in the future in we cross paths again when we're ready.
When we're good and ready.
Or we don't,
and I don't,
and you don't care,
you never cared.
I was right,
its the questions.
Why do you think people enjoy adrenaline rushes so much?
Is it the surge of fear,
impending death,
or the relief that follows?
Why do we keep hurting ourselves?
Because it feels so ****** good when it stops.
Real Nirvana isn't the answering of the questions,
but the decision to stop asking them.
Unfortunately enough every thought is tainted with your ghost.
You follow me around,
your name incessantly whispered behind my back.
So until I reach Nirvana is a lifetime away.
One in which I hope you return into
because I'm afraid I do like you a whole lot and I'm afraid I do not like it one bit.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
You want me to
write my heart out on my sleeve,
then pull the thread,
unravel it,
patch it up,
then again,
then cut that arm off
and burn it.
Shovel my thoughts
into tidy piles,
then spill the milk
and muddle them up
then sop 'em up and
mop 'em up
'til I'm left with blurred lines.
Stuff my feelings in a jar,
toss them with ingredients
that don't mix
rollie pollie
with a dab of Ranch
and it's all ****** up.
Y'all want the key
to my mind -
an old closet that leads to
a tunnel that leads to
the grave of my buried thoughts.
I opened the door
and I was pushed from behind
then told to "lead the way".
To "find the truth
in all your ways" -
one arm out
reaching in the dark;
a girl on a mission,
searching for her heart...
I fell in a hole.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
It started to rain,
I was surrounded by mud.
The door closed.
Which one of you all
care to open it again?
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
Walking past the playground at the park
in the center of my grown up city
I hear children, but do not look at them,
their parents’ eyes seem to glare at me.
As I carry on, earbuds infecting my head
their vibrant laughter derides my shady afternoons indoors,
the things my mother said.
Once I wanted to drink grape Kool-Aid, but my mother wasn’t home
and even though she’d told me not to, I decided to make myself some.
I climbed up in the cupboard and took the faded pitcher
then I took the translucent canister below, in which my mother stored her sugar.
I mixed the sugar and synthetic flavor with a knife
a cloud of purple powder rising up.
Despite the fragrant odor, I couldn't be sure I’d added enough.
After the ingredients dissolved, I was ready to drink.
I took a big boy, breakable glass cup from the counter and washed it in the sink.
I dried the cup and set it there, beside the pitcher on the table
But when I raised the pitcher up to pour juice in the glass,
my little arms were just too feeble.
The pitcher slipped, as I lost grip and everything got wet.
As I took white cloths to sop up what I'd done,
the Kool-Aid fell in torrid sheets from the table's edge into my mouth
as warm Summer rain did years later, inhibiting a game I didn't want to play.
The water falling was relaxing and sweet for me both times.
Each accident was my momental, purple rain delay.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:32 PM UTC
You are a fleeting moment for me
For you see, I know how the pace of whirlwind romance flows
We tug and push and pull and grind
Sop up that exciting newness of freshly
Daunting skin and glances
Thirsty to drink what we feel is unknown
Thriving to delve into the sheets of a
Mysterious lover whose past we hope they unfold
But after the initial surprises die down
Surely a new conquest will be on the rebound
So I won’t mold you into something you’re not
Let’s enjoy the ride and this hasty lustful high
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
I made a bowl of soup for myself tonight.
Red bean, kale, and quinoa.
I toasted two slices of bread,
buttered them,
let them cool.
I planned on dunking them
in the soup
to sop up leftover broth.
While the canned food heated
in the red saucepan
on the first burner
to the right,
I did simple tasks.
Recycled bottles from days before,
put away the dishes in the drying rack,
fed the cat.
I paced back and forth,
in my purple socks,
from my bedroom
to the kitchen,
listening to an old record
that sounds like nostalgia.
I did simple tasks.
Small, achievable things.
Self care comes
in many forms.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC