"stomachache" poems
I cannot eat
you from here, please,
come closer.
You are a flower
blooming in the
wrong season, no,
this isn't always about
you. So when
I sing to you I
sing to wind and
it was you who raised
my voice, so
high only
bats can hear.
Ruby or blood,
I am gonna have them both.
You don't worry
anyway because it
is my growth.
It's not ************ anymore.
And nothing to
do with pregnancy. The
stomachache is
genuine -- so pure and poor,
melodious chemical reactions of leftovers.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
When you think of love
you think of butterflies and flowers
Prince Charming and towers
happiness in abundance.
You think of kisses and hugs
Aladdin and rugs
a sort of sixth sense.
You think of daydreaming, hearts sinking
no, not sinking, skipping.
Red crayons and smiles
Long stares into each others eyes
Carnival rides
You think of it being written in the sky
and a sweet apple pie
We see it as sea side picnics
Holding hands
Watching cheesy chick flicks all night long.
Guys riding on lawn mowers
holding up a boombox, blaring phil collins.
We see walks on the beach
shoreline just reaching our feet.
When I think of love
I think of awkward moments.
I think of my father as he left my mother
See, I want someone more than just a lover.
When I think of love
I think of a stomachache
my last heartbreak
and band-aids to hide the pain.
I think of his hands in mine
our thoughts intertwined
I see the hurt in your eyes
as I told you goodbye
Our last kiss in the summer rain.
I think of love
as a societal excuse
A word said too much, too often
Just a word
Nothing more than caution.
When I think of love
I see a dog’s loyalty to his owner
and the owner showing him affection.
A sunset, a beautiful sky
The way the ocean shows its reflection
When I think of love
I think of the heart’s sight.
Love is light.
Love is Agape-
God’s grace and mercy poured on top of me
the day Jesus died on the cross.
I think of no hope lost.
When I think of love
I think of Him
I think of how.
Love is here
Love is now.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:06 PM 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
When you have a toothache,
The dentist pulls it.
When you have a stomachache,
The doctor eases it.
When you have a headache,
Medicine soothes it.
When you have a backache,
The chiropractor fixes it.
So why is it...
There is no dentist, or doctor,
There is no medicine or chiropractor,
To heal this heartache?
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
This is a story about a man who ate love.
An odyssey of his tumultuous travels up above.
Coveting confection, he licked the sweet kiss.
Starving for affection, he swallowed the poor miss.
She lived inside his stomach for years.
Undigested and pretty, she slept in his fears.
Speaking in groans and abdominal aches.
At night, his disemboweled soul, in torment, shakes.
Insufferable disgust and miserably alone.
He prayed in hunger, in agony, to atone.
For once falling in love with a lady of wit.
He threw her up; a meal of true grit.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
there is a heavy weight
pulling down on her eyelids
and at the moment, I know her fate
to sleep, fidgeting and gently
holding the butterfly's in my stomachache
Apr 19, 2010
Apr 19, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
while I chase the sunshine
& clouds framing the
shape of your mouth like
who am I to think she can fly or
get that high
but it's Sunday.
I am
asking the air a favor
that your thinnest shirt might
remind you of me
that the next time you run
the sun could burn you some
that we might get a drink and
blink a thousand times in a bar
is nonsense
is
weekend news
like a shovel to help make your pretty bed
call me your
friend and
tell her yes
wake up again and against it
ask me
if I am
in love
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
I've been dreaming of memory losses or i really am losing sense of self
A painting on the room, a girl sits like an ant, three straight haired girls laughing like nothing is happening, another thinking about *** all the time; a boy in a frame, all boys watching **** all boys eating their own toes;
A tree, a whole tree in your stomach
"Your tongue is going to be enoki farm, that's what i think," he said to a carefully moonlit ice cube, he said that to his mother too, he said that to the taxi driver; now he is becoming lunatic, he wants lake, he wants paper, he wants to drown in the sky
Now is the time, now is not the time, please do not stop, oh, please stop
"Sorry i yelled, i was on my period," a boy says sorry to his grandfather, his grandfather died a year before his adolescence, his grandfather had no ears before he was buried, his grandfather was a bunny, he used to eat carrots a lot that's why a boy sees you with different eyes, that's why a boy sees you with clearer sight
You judge me unfair, but i don't care, it's better than you knowing what i really am
So we are competing, so we want to see who is more terrible at being liar, so we try to hide things in exposures, but you lose, but i also do
So we are objectifying ourselves and we don't want to stop
We love the smell, we long for the reeks, we want hurt, we want the thing they do to sinners, we want fire, we want the burns, we want the pain but we run
And no one thinks of coming back
"A year from now we will become strangers," oh, to shooting stars
But heart isn't the only thing that beats, but heart isn't the only thing that draws blood to your head
I am, i am, i am, losing my legs!
It was another way of saying i love you but you don't understand my stomach is growing, my stomach is alive, my stomach is going to **** me at midnight so i won't sleep, i won't feel sleepy at all, i will see the sun rises, and i won't fear when she is here, i won't fear even when she is outside; she exists and she proves it-
Why can't anyone do the same?
Life does not go that way, it does not go any way; life is stomachache, life is ************ and marital rapes, life is what your country does to separatists-
"I've been dreaming of wide windows," says the moon, "but there's
None wide enough for me."
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
My stomach hurts from the anxiety I feel everyday.
I can't possibly describe it any other way.
When I wake up from the two hours of sleep I had that night
I feel the pain creep in just like a bright light.
It shines it's darkness all around me
And whispers things that quickly drain my glee.
It makes my head and stomach ache.
It makes me think all the times I felt fake.
I get up and go to the bathroom
To look into my mirror of absolute doom.
It shows my face: exposed and pale
Because lately my state of mind has made me so frail.
I know it's a cliche emo thing to say
But why did my life have to end up this way?
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
Here I am hunched over another
stomachache, another mistake,
and all I can do is watch the bruises form and darken.
The first time I met you
was a corner table in a coffee shop
with blackberry water and toes frozen solid.
Mint chocolate chip nights, vandalizing desks,
scrubbing grimy dance floors—
it was my kind of falling in love.
Less like falling, blushing, butterflies;
more like a face plant onto the sidewalk
(unexpected, clumsy, bleeding).
But maybe love isn’t french kissing and slow songs.
It’s forehead kisses, dreaming of Japan,
listening to post-rock.
I think you knew, though,
that our ice cream would melt and our sparklers would die out.
Now I’m the beggar on the street corner:
“’Scuse me sir, do you have any love to spare?”
Or change.
Pennies and dimes jingle in my cup holder,
but change is what cracked my plastic heart and ripped my paper skin.
I’m weaker now, but not poorly made;
There’s been no knock-out punch or final words.
Just bare-fist brawling, searing insults,
bruises,
bleeding.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
I have no problems except my body wide as a baseball field except there's no boy in it
and i eat at midnight and when i say stomachache it could mean anything
it could mean my right knee hurts (i am losing my legs) or my thighs are a rainforest except there's no life in it it could mean the sky is falling except i weigh more than it
I have no problems except when other girls are pretending that they are dumb i cannot pretend except i really am
dumb and cannot even read the cuckoo's calling because my father says literature is all **** except that is not his fault having a kid like me except my brain is too wrinkled people think my head's a box of sunmaid
(they begin to eat from my head)
and when i say my face round as a basketball i mean it (i mean it) i can even paint it red except when i see people's eyes i cry and my face boils so that's why i can't keep my mind cool
(i have never been cool anyway)
I have no problems except when i talk i talk superficial and maybe that's why i stop and i never keep the conversation going except i talk to a trash can except i don't want to talk to a trash can except god really does exist
except you don't know what god i am talking about
the god in the face, the god
god heart of a god like you
do you stand at the blackboard, daddy? we sat under the lights and you said, "let's go home, you have curfew, don't you?"
and when my mother talks she talks so much like ************ --- or constipation or another contraction (i can't tell the difference) but i was not answering her calls i am never answering her calls because i am moon not just because the medications or my face because she is goddess not just because motherhood or marital rapes
(I have no problems except when you kissed me you thought it was better than returning my hug except after that you felt sorry except i only wanted more)
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
do you remember that time i had a stomachache and you stayed up all night with me, drawing pictures on a pizza box? or the time tried we to skip rocks and mine would always just sink, sink, sink to the bottom and oh, how retrospectively that irony is killing me. i’d count my summer freckles and we’d try to count your always freckles but it was endless just like the dysphoria catching myself right before i fall. always, me. i’m sorry that i always use the wrong words, and i am sorry that i can’t always pull myself up by my bootstraps. and i’m even sorrier that i can only stutter paradoxes at the most cardinal of moments. instead of lub-dubbing my heart is singing that bittersweet symphony out of tune and it seems a little silly that it all happens like this. and it seems even sillier that i rub these things onto my skin like you’d rub the engraving of a tombstone, to remember that they disappeared but they’ll always haunt you.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
It feels too early for them to be playing the ******* Wii
and I realize I can't even see them
but I feel each of them step on my head
hear each of them yell at me to wake up
that I've been asleep too long.
I roll over and try to my eyes
but realize they're already open, and have been.
I unclench the blanket
from my stomach
which is screaming near as much as my head.
And I quit blaming the headache and stomachache on them-
they are fast asleep
and I'm just hallucinating their presence
and 6 in the morning
because those aren't dreams
they are hallucinations.
Or so I find when I take my phone out of my pillow
(beating it on the ground because i can't find the end of the case)
to see why my phone alarm hasn't gone off.
my phone says it is 2:30
and I realize that I set the clock three and a half hours ahead
in my half lucid state.
I stand,
separating myself, in a less than graceful manner
from my brothers carpet.
I stumble through the doorway
lit by the lamp he always keeps on
through the dark hallway
and into the bathroom.
I flip on the light and shut and lock the door in one movement.
my eyes are tired and bloodshot
my head and stomach hurt.
I let a small stream of cold water go
and splash it over my face and open eyes.
that does nothing.
I through more water over my front.
no effect.
I try to scream but no sound comes out.
I open the the door
letting the lock pop loudly enough to deserve a four hour lecture.
I'm tired of lectures.
I stumble back to my makeshift floor bed
and try to lay down.
my stomach complains
I can't bend all the way.
I pick up my blankets and pillows
(silently screaming)
and carry them to the small couch.
I flip the tv stand over and throw grandma's blankets and pillows
I'm done giving a ****
I throw my bed down and lie there.
for two and a half hours I try to sleep.
I'm too tall
I decide around five.
I stand
throw the tv stand
all the other pillows and the phonebook
the other way
and lay down on the large couch.
it takes me fifteen minutes to fall asleep.
forty five minutes later
I wake up to him screaming at me.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
There are blotches of red marks on my skin, my face,
bags under my eyes,
I get around 5 hours of sleep most nights
but every morning I still feel like I haven't slept in a century.
This is a different kind of pain.
This isn't a migraine, or a stomachache.
This is more than a stomachache.
This is waking up every morning to arms full of scars that are so ******* triggering,
A stomach screaming "feed me" but skipping breakfast and lunch
because I swear to ******* god, I've gained weight.
This is a different kind of pain.
This is my first poem in months which is why
it doesn't fit together perfectly
but since I penned all of my thoughts about
my eating disorder, my self harm, my mental illnesses and my boyfriend,
I didn't have anything to say,
I'd given my voice away by that point
and that caused a different kind of pain.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
It rained
I said goodbye
I noticed the red rims of your eyes
Turning away
I bought flowers and tore away rye with my teeth
And drove down the avoided road
Looping around to scare away sadness.
I found more happiness in this
Stomachache I slept away
Than the vine-wrapped walls where I presumed
Happiness lived.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
i miss my hair falling out
my eyes dragging me down
i miss not having anything but bile
my bones pulling to the earth
i miss the sweet feeling of being hollow
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 4:25 AM UTC
Mostly it's chest pain whenever i
see your words, but today
it's different and fresh and new.
It's the kind of feeling of mild
starvation, softly hurting like a baby
kick from inside your womb,
a baby that you know is not yours.
It's a stomachache like hers, or just binge
eating extremely sour and spicy things
where the road will not stay still,
it races with the cars and traffic lights,
it stumbles when it loses, it curls the
pedestrians up inside it; just another way of
showing the stirred of love and despair,
the paint that closely resembles its pain.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
I woke up on the couch again.
I've been sleeping there each night that he's out of town without cell signal.
Not that he even lives with me.
But sleeping in my own bed still feels lonely if there aren't texts from him to look forward to.
No matter how many new friends I make, I can't fill the empty spot.
And it's okay.
"Distance" makes the heart grow "fonder", but all I can hope is that it'll make the heart grow.
So much on our minds.
Choices to make and places to go and work to be done.
And the desire to just drop it all for a week and be together is always there.
Patience, I say, there will be a week for that.
So I will wait.
As much as it hurts for the present, it's worth it.
I got up off the couch once I'd written him a good morning text.
I was playing some of my old music and getting lost in the atmospheric melodies, and just pouring water into the coffee machine instead of waiting for the Brita pitcher to filter it, and then use that, was my method for breaking through the anxiety barrier today.
From there, coffee was followed by a desire for food (because coffee alone is just asking for a stomachache) so I thought of my pancake mix.
Here goes. I'm not measuring this out, my measuring cups are all in the ***** dishes pile. I've washed a bunch of glasses and this one will fit enough pancake batter for two or three small flapjacks.
Here I go.
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
I'm seated across from my stomachache.
The diner mutates into a morgue.
The tables are gurneys with checkerboard shrouds.
Is this conversation - or autopsy?
I explore an intriguing potential corpse
-unflinching under my lancet eyes
-numb as my curious scalpel pries
as I try to dissect what this means to me.
It might mean a great deal
(perhaps too much).
With delicate pressure cracks appear
STOP!
Questions cause fragile things to break...
Relationships all die premature deaths.
I am maladroit when I handle hearts.
Then I wait for the last breath,
"Let's keep in touch,"
and watch as my wounded friend departs,
sanguine about the mess I've made
of my latest stab at intimacy
when I dropped my guard like a flensing blade
and opened myself up as well.
Mistake!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
oh the sick rejection won't go away
there you are in the back of my mind
every single day
it's been 3 years
we both have moved on
but still there is pain
in my stomach
it aches
it's not the butterflies
or the simple bug
it's the pain of loosing you
loosing what I love
we talk and flirt
but you'll never be mine
only a boy who makes a tortured soul out of me
only a boy who makes me cry
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
You're in a bar thousands of miles from home in a city that
your tongue struggles to properly pronounce
watching a seventeen year old chain smoking nicotine he bought from
a girl on the corner
when you first feel like you're beginning to settle,
a familiar weight settling in your stomach,
an old acquaintance a stone's throw from a stomachache,
so you slip off of your stool to stagger to the bathroom
where you clutch the porcelain and kneel with fingers poised
like a prayer to your gag reflex,
but you don't do it,
you just sit and feel cold tiles seeping a chill into your knees
and you're trembling.
You don't get up for a long time
but you know you have to settle and sit eventually.
When you go back to the bar,
a boy with a galaxy smile will take you outside
and buy you candy from a sketchy vending machine,
and you can let yourself believe that sweets solve everything:
sweet words and signs and cards tucked into your jewelry box,
tongues tucked between teeth in smiles and screenshots as receipts
of ten second Snapchat dreams.
But other people can't fix you.
Learn that.
Don't you dare let yourself believe,
don't you dare let yourself put something as fragile as
your happiness in someone else's heart
because it probably won't beat as hard as your own,
and it won't pump life into your joys for long,
and before you know it,
that happiness that you tethered to someone else is gone.
That's okay. You'll be okay.
You just need to learn that memories will only ever be memories,
that things only shine when you
remember that you have to keep them clean,
that the chemicals of development take white pages and make them
dark,
that photos come from negatives,
and that you've never had a predisposition
for rose-tinted lenses.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
You are maple syrup
Unbearably sweet
And I like you on my tongue
But I know that you would
Surely rot my insides
If I indulged in you daily
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 10:35 PM UTC
1 a.m.
"sylvia plath aesthetics" on google search
overwhelmed by the pages excerpts
click a link
close the tabs
tosca curtains
tv sound
smoking brothers
polka dot pajamas matching the face
wonder if the mirror would break today
religious villa
wide glass windows not high enough
useless hills
some are sleeping
shy ghosts
panic attacks
catch breath like solar cells
sunless
penniless
nostalgic sourness
hydrogen chloride solution in water
stomachache
period 4 days late
muscle spasms
skeletal recreation
fireworks
involuntary flow of old stale traumas
haven the escapee
banana diet and menopause
blank tombstone: a perfect biography
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC