"stapler" poems
Palembang, 16 September 2012
Pagi ini cerah.
Tak tahan tuk ku sembunyikan senyum ini.
Semalam aku memimpikanmu.
Dan sekarang aku merindukanmu.
Aku duduk, di sampingku jendela terbuka lebar.
Cahaya mentari hangat menyentuh kulitku.
Di depanku ada tempat pensil, aku siap menulis.
Ada penghapus, pena, stapler, lem dan kertas.
Untuk sedetik ada image mu di sekelilingku.
Kreatifitasku muncul untuk memvisualkan dirimu.
Penghapus.
Andai aku bisa terbang, akan ku hapus awan.
Dan ku ambil pena, tuk menuliskan “Aku mencintaimu” besar-besar.
Lalu akan ku stapler rasa ini di otakku.
Kemudian ku ambil lem tuk merekatkan wajahmu di hatiku.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
Alligator! Alligator! Alligator! Alligator!
Bite me whole and take me to space.
Staple my **** and spaz my face,
Plaice defrosting in the refrigerator.
These things all seem to come together,
Throw them far apart will be for the better.
I hate this ******* verse,
‘cos it all rhymed from Alligator!
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 3:57 PM UTC
inaantok ako
sa tunog ng printer
kung paanong ang mga ngipin nito
ay kumikiskis sa papel
na tila ba kinakagat ito
ngunit hindi ganoon kasakit
may halong harot sa pagitan nila
landian ng mga bagay
inaantok ako sa tunog ng maraming papel
bulto bultong pinapantay
at iniuuntog sa mesa
na tila ba'y naghahalinghingan
na dulot ng pagtatalik
may halong harot sa pagitan ng mga ito
landian ng mga bagay
inaantok ako sa paglagapak
ng stapler sa sahig
na tila ba'y unang pagkikita
bugso ng damdamin sa muling pagsasama
may halong harot sa pagitan nila
landian ng mga bagay
inaantok ako sa walang humpay
na pagbukas ng pinto
ang sayaw na nagmumula sa kahoy na ito
tila ba'y sinasayawan ang lahat
at kinukumbinsi na umuwi na tayo
may halong harot sa pagitan nito
landian ng mga bagay
inaantok na ko
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 6:24 AM UTC
Hold me together
Pierce me with your silver
Mend me
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
I'm a sprocket
A moving part
Comrade to the common stapler
Wind me up
Punch my card
Money makes a fine enabler
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Before you judge me, Let me tell you my life story
I sure hope its not boring
In middle school
i was the little fool
getting beat up in the bathroom for being to critical
What, you think my remarks are too cynical
Hey squidward tentacles, you got a big nose, want me to break it
no you must be mistaken
so they beat me up and striped me naked, and left me shaking
thank god they left my clothes in the next stall
woulda been pretty awkward walking **** in the hall
But this was just the fall, haven't mentioned winter or spring at all
So from sixth to eighth grade you could see the bruises on my face
from where those jerks tried to tell me that that was their place
one day in art class i was painting on the paper
when some guy sitting behind me shot me with a stapler
Now if my mind had been stabler I woulda let it slide
but i was crazy back then so i tried to fight
punched em in the head, he musta been high
cuz he didn't flinch at all not a single inch
he grabbed me by my hair and threw me down
started punching me in the face like a ticked off Chris Brown
Now there is nothing you can do to wipe off this frown
Ive been a sociopath ever since that day
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Go ****** your opinions and your political minions up another ass’s ******* or maybe take that noise, and show some glamour and some poise like the bigs wigs on capital hill, filled with the ideals of the real, reality sets in with a pen on paper and a veto or a stapler to add another pile to another pile stacked high with paper and anger and a wager on top of all that to rate his and her, him and them, freedom or not, this is when the world goes black, back to a rack of what was and what wasn’t and isn’t and hasn’t been or whatever may come, from, whatever’s the machine in charge of the largest country on a scale of humility to ego, eating eggos daily, watching bombs drop and proms go on like any other day, a dance filled way too high with alter personalities and ratchet fatalities. This is another normality in this bleak reality of life. Full of wisdom, full of strife, take your knife and force it down someone’s throat, coat it with words, thoughts, sought after beliefs and chiefs of the mind. Find what’s real, what’s good, something borrowed something bought, this freedom we fought for, blood sweat and tears for, die for, cry for, ride it till its outlasted every past and bold and rash incision upon decisions. Fission fusion and confusion driven, is a country with stripes stars and bars, filled with past and present Heros, veterans, bet again they’re there for the third night in a row, about to row away down te river of blood and dirt and dignity, until the tugging of righteous voices slices the void of sorrow, but that’s tomorrow, today is just a work in progress.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
Hell hath no fury like
a stapler jammed.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
sometimes,
the s y l l a b l e s of your name
still feel like staples in my chest.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC
"Neither him nor I could decide for ourselves if we wanted to outlive the night.”
- Tomas Kalnoky of Streetlight Manifesto, The Big Sleep
It wasn't necessarily bad,
It was just different.
It was slower,
It was bend, bend, tremolo,
It was high, low, high, low, high
It was nowhere and
It was everywhere.
It was soft, but
It was growing harder.
It was but
It wasn't.
It was never a dull moment.
It wasn't up nor was it down
It was hidden
It was you, you, you, you, you
It was nigh and
It was sudden but
It was bound for the floor.
It was 80 proof
It was strong enough to knock out a lightweight, but
It was medicine to the depressed
It was a drug you **** for hours and
It was a fake ****** Above all
It was a blue eye,
It was a stapler
I was in your head and
It was in my hand.
It was straight and narrow
It was at least 50 miles per hour against traffic.
It was a grape
It was peeled and
It was a strange set of values.
It was live in 1970, but
It was rerecorded
It was redistributed to the public in 1991.
It was 1992,
It was cloudy and
It was red.
It was an open sore
It was lingering for sun.
It wasn't like this hadn't happened before.
It was run of the mill
It was a pop fly, 80 ft high.
It was a million other people
It was true but
It was true to a fault.
It was one lie after another after another.
It was a chance for redemption but
It was a Christmas on Easter.
It was thick and
It was slushy and
It was nothing out of the ordinary.
It was a mistaken interest
It was a mistaken identity... above all
It was a mistake.
It was the best mistake, but
It was a mistake.
It was dry then
It was wet then
It was yellow then
It was wet.
It was rise, fall, lift, rise, fall, fall
It was a bag full of nothing.
It was a wall of notes
It was a wall of sound
It was low-end techno mixed with high quality
FLACK.
It was it was it was it
It was, was it?
It was it.
It was braille.
It was written and
It was the start of the end.
It was just junk, and
It was a shame.
It was potential, sheer potential.
Now,
It is just ***** in a sink.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
They tell me, "Your fulfillment is to be your husbands help mate"
That my goal in life is to simply help?
I'm sorry
I'll still get married, and have children,
but I will do more then just help.
Me as the over used stapler,
the poorly kept kitchen tool
is not gonna cut it for me
Instead I will be the words of Solomon
the grace of Mary
the faith of Ruth
the kiss of the beloved
I...will be...his muse
his lover
I will not be a the helper
to come when called on
and put away, to be sent back to the kitchen.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
Be mindful of the gap between
the stapler and tape dispenser.
That my boy,
is where evil breeds hate.
Bacteria waiting for the right moment.
A sickly blitzkrieg.
We are alive,
here in the office,
Looking for the next paid holiday.
One that will come too soon.
Forgive me for rambling,
it is what I do best.
Alone in my thoughts
and feeling like I am back home.
The road to ruin.
How can I help you today?
Oh,
I can't really do anything for you.
I do not care.
I respectfully request that you stop.
This poem will ruin your day.
I would feel bad.
Let's forget this ever happened and
get back to what we do best.
Staring into space and hoping it reverses.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
As I bind these sheets in a monotonous routine way
I neglect to see what they are or hear what they talk about
Was it just some information they needed to convey?
Maybe just some words that hold some uncertainty or doubt
My metal decreases and turns to rust
Still I go on until my very last one
Continue with no hesitation, I must
Till the time will come when I say, ‘I am done’
I cannot resist, else I shall be obsolete
Nor can I continue without making a mistake
As my opponent does faster, I have accepted my defeat
Whilst I do my last attempt, I stop and break
I was used and discarded like the inanimate thing I am
Pushed away from the place I called home for many years
Thinking of a way to be used again, ideas I cram
But to no avail, I stay in the dark bin, crying without tears
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
disappointment lingers
thick air, stagnate and unfiltered
looming like impending doom
enough humidity to grow fungi
dampness spreads altering the color scheme
as infringed pits flow with shame
and guilty eyes dart
from the lamp
to the stapler
the most terrifying desk ever crafted
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Time,
oh time is a silly thing,
it proves things right
and it proves them wrong.
Its’ seemingly long years change you and all that can be touched.
Time-
this illusion we base our lives around, this illusion we obsess over
(don’t deny it, we all do).
It confines us to a routine, to a norm.
The time spent at desks makes us into zombies.
The time spent after chokes us with copious amounts of papers and projects.
But occasionally it grants us a wondrous thing called
wisdom.
It bestows upon us insight and growth.
My always shrewd teenage self has grown to believe that time…
can go **** itself.
I want to fall into a slumber that is a day or two long,
catch up on rest and miss the trials of everyday life.
Of course, once several days pass or several thousand ticks of a clock,
I’ll crave another respite.
Life.
Life is hard.
It’s tiring.
And somehow there is never enough time to
work,
work on the work,
rework the work,
eat,
sleep,
take a couple deep breathes to keep from jamming a stapler into any eyeballs,
be a healthy person,
and do all the things that society tells you to do.
Maybe a designated sleep day would be nice.
If we only need 8 hours of peaceful slumber
for every 16 hours of traumatizing wakefulness,
then sleeping for 24 hours would give us
48 hours of working.
Right?
No.
But it’s a proportion,
so theoretically it should make sense.
Which leads me to conclude that 8 hours is not merely enough time to rest.
Unless you’re under the age of 6.
Or you’re retired.
Or in a coma.
Or…
But no.
No, no, no, no, no.
We must keep going.
Like good little soldiers
on and on
for 60 years,
70 years,
80 years?
I’m sorry but that just does not appeal to me.
Why oh why would I want to work my body to unhealthy levels.
Why oh why would I want to exhaust my mind to points of breakdowns
nearly
every
day.
It’s silly to want to have enough time to eat healthily.
And hit the gym 3 or 4 times a week.
And sleep until recharged.
Yes that’s preposterous.
Ridiculous.
Time is an illusion
that is ruining lives.
If we have an illusion
destroying us from the inside out,
does that make us
crazy?
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
*Love is nothing
but a stapler
to staple invisible pin
between two hearts..*
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Yesterday I swallowed a tiny glass capsule
much like that
I've been walking around in for years
amongst these picture people.
My palm clung to walls made sticky by the heat,
skin to pane,
I could not bear to let go.
I wanted to enjoy their stapler smiles
but the fog made it impossible to see.
I only called it what it was
when I breathed it into the glass.
It was always there.
I wished it would fill the whole thing,
wished I had a match,
so it would serve some purpose.
So my capsule becomes gray and troubling
against its paper background.
So they stop and stare,
Look at the girl in the bubble.
I think she's suffocating.
Like it's a revelation.
Like Gabriel himself hand-delivered
tiny glass pills for them to swallow.
Let me be their spectacle.
Let me be the object of their pity.
Let me be a one-woman-glass-capsule miniature show.
I'll be their tired metaphor.
I'll choke on shimmering shards so they can watch my blood color their roses.
I'll drink until I'm heavy with turpentine.
I will destroy myself.
I will make it clean.
Tiny glass capsule
in my wooden palm
who did you once hold?
Aug 6, 2024
Aug 6, 2024 at 1:17 AM UTC
You don't get dark when you fall apart
It's when you're putting it back together, that you see the damage from the bad weather,
Mom I can't come inside my clothes are soaked
I guess it's not so serious in the end,
I'm not made of glass I don't break I bend,
So I'm bent out of shape,
I'll take some yoga,
Get a massage,
Focus on my breathing,
I'll do a bunch of stuff and sort out my kinks.
Give me a high five, promise I won't flinch,
I didn't do this to myself,
But I'm here by myself,
I won't be bitter,
I'll be better,
See:
I burned all the sweaters,
I've moved somewhere with better weather,
So I should be getting lighter and I think I am.
But on Tuesday I cried because of a printer jam.
I wasn't worried about the printer but I was worried about my boss. Would they yell at me? Did I **** up? Am I worthless? Do I deserve this?
My boss is nice don't get me wrong, but I was told for four years that I am what's wrong. I am what's wrong. I am wrong.
So anyway I had to reload the paper,
I missed a therapy session and misplaced the stapler.
So I didn't do this to myself,
But I am what I am and I'm dark,
Im here by myself not afraid of the dark,
Maybe in the end I win,
Maybe in the dark I'm better,
Maybe my night vision will save me next time,
Maybe my clothes won't be soaked.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
You asked
What being fourteen felt like.
Well,
It feels like when your teacher drops all of her papers
In the parking lot after school
And it’s windy and you help her pick them up
Chasing down every last one.
And then in class you help her erase the board sometimes.
But still,
When someone plays a prank
Her eyes are on you.
Because your parents are divorced.
And your brother was a troublemaker.
But was he?
He’s been diagnosed,
They call it autism now.
And so you TP her house
Just proving that she’s right
Because after three years in her class
She still can’t spell your name right.
And it’s an easy one.
And then she holds you after class
Because someone stole her stapler
And you’ve never stolen anything
In your whole life
And you don’t know why she’s asking you.
But you do.
So you spray paint her garage
And the whole school knows it’s you.
There aren’t any other suspects.
Because they know that your mom
Doesn’t even believe in God
And they’re pretty sure
You don’t either.
So then you’re standing in her yard
And for some reason the cop that drove you there
Left his lights flashing across the lawn.
And she’s saying things like
I don’t know why this happened.
I’ve always been nice to her.
She needs someone to look out for her.
The adults nod along and she says to you now
If you ever want to come to my house
We can talk or bake cookies and hang out.
And you laugh because you want to cry
Because she’s talking for the cop
As red lights flash across her garage
But you hope she means it.
And you write her a note saying
I’m sorry
And I’d love to come make cookies
But she never writes you back
And she never calls on you in class.
And her son is younger than you
But still he pushes you in the hallways
So you’re even meaner to him.
And now it’s not just her
that knows that you’re a bad kid.
And still sometimes you help her erase the chalkboards.
That’s what being fourteen feels like.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
He lost it.
He could feel his sanity draining from his body and coming out through beads of sweat, the anger rising up into his now blood-red face and the infamous smoke shooting out of his ears, the earthquake taking place inside his body causing him to tremble and shake uncontrollably, the white flag that the first tear waved in an attempt to go back to the way things used to be, and the poor excuse for carpet now beneath what used to be his sanctuary but now was as much of any enemy as the world: his body. He could feel the stares of his curious killers glaring down at him with their judgement-filled eyes.
With no sense of time or care in the world, he closed his eyes and slipped away from the world in that moment on the carpet, holding an open and empty stapler and the knife he used to cut out the last bit of pain the world and his enemies had left behind.
He had not just lost it in one immediate mental breakdown over something trivial to society. No. His body and mind had been gradually giving up on him as the days of stress and hatred went by and the nights filled with tears and sorrow counted down until his demise.
It isn’t some immediate thing like a stab that cuts into your heart. It usually never is, but that is all people on the outside see: a sudden, quick, and inconvenient loss.
The pain and severity of the world crashing down around you and ultimately burying you into its eternal embrace, does not strike fast and leave just as quickly. Rather it drags the pain out until there is only a thin thread holding that person together. The littlest things can be what cuts that thread into two dangling and useless pieces of thread in the end. Though they may be seen as trivial, they are the person’s lasts hope that was then crushed right before them.
It never seems to be a clean cut either, but more of a dull and rigid cut that is, like the internal destruction of the world around you, dragged out until its end.
The littlest things, such as no more staples, can be the end of something so precious yet poisoned by the world: a beautiful life.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
She muttered words nobody would ever hear
Her cubicle scarred her for life
Putting staples in the stapler was the final straw
The monotony of it was stifling
She left
Nobody ever noticed
Now she lives deep in the woods
among giant trees that speak to birds
She's got not much use for words
She hacks down the dead ones
so new life can grow
She's the world's best woodcutter
Far superior to any other
But nobody will ever know
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 4:16 PM UTC
you drink cocktails on wednesday mornings
to feel the rush past your tastebuds
telling your brain
_this is good- this makes me happy- give me more_
i gave you my all till i had nothing left to give
now you kept my heart
got it stuffed and propped up on your desk
right next to the post it’s and the stapler you stole
propped up like a proud taxidermist
showing off the new addition to the collection
the rare one- it put up a good fight but _you_
you conquered
in the end.
proud trophy hunter
_you_
are the animal.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
The other day I was told to stop throwing staples
when I wasnt throwing them
they were falling
falling out of my skin
Once they were all down my legs
all along my arms around my waist
and all over my face
And most of all they kept me smiling
and when someone hurts me they fall out
I stapled my mouth so I could smile
and now they have fallen out
I'm afraid I won't smile
and everyone has turned and gasped in fear
and I look in the mirror and my mouth
its bigger and black and scarier
and everyone screams
" STOP SMILING!"
"PLS STOP! YOUR SCARING ME!"
and I look at all of them as the look away
all the people who have bullied me and harmed me
now screaming in fear... but I don't feel joy
I run and hide because there scared
and I sit in a dark corner and cry
and I cry. not because I look like a monster
but no one loves me for me
that I'm alone in this dark world
and I look at all the staples
some blood stands and bent
but I notice there are two staples remaining
two staples struggling to hold together my broken heart
but suddenly I realize..... that I'm the way I am
and I pick up the stapler and say
"its those who were mean to me who needs a smile."
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 9:18 PM UTC
Tuesday, November 29, 2016,
living room, Freshwater.
4:12 AM: I woke like any other morning
which means my eyes opened
my voluntary muscular system switched on.
This time.
Slowly.
But it wasn't like any other morning.
I woke up in the living room,
lying on the floor
next to Gunther, my dog.
He's not doing well.
He's old
and I spent the night with him.
Mostly.
5:24 AM: Woke up again next to Gunther,
cold and sore after disappointing moist dream;
went upstairs to bed for another 165 minutes.
Whatever 165 minutes later is:
Woke up, got out of bed,
dragged a comb across my head.
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream.
7:12 AM: Drove to work
knowing how many holes you need
to fill the Albert Hall:
12,347,023. Plus or minus.
8:47 AM: during my morning constitutional,
I noticed:
Catastrophic Trouser Failure.
Colleague saw me leave the
East Genderless Restroom
in the basement of House 54 at
8:53 AM with stapler in hand.
I moved cautiously through my day
not wanting to rip my metallic stitches.
9:12 AM: Over the last 7 1/2 minutes
I have flicked 17 ants off the top of my desk.
2:40 PM: After carefully maneuvering around campus
and getting through my day without exposure,
it was time to go home—but not quite yet.
The file uploaded that my students needed NOW
was corrupted and inaccessible.
Workarounds ensued.
Another day at the office.
3:54 PM: The black army has arrived.
My desk is aswarm—
anticipating their conquest—
my desk has fallen.
4:47 PM: Arrived at home.
Used PBS to relax.
9:03 PM: Moved on to Brandy.
Better.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC