"stomped" poems
My mind never turns off
Like light from the stars after dawn
My conscious switch has been stomped
By the force of biology
And I can’t get a grip
My thoughts continue to romp
Out loud, and I scream them
Cause they scream at me too
I have no control of it
There’s nothing I can do
Conscious and subconscious?
I don’t believe in separation of the two
I think a mile a minute
My mind is a rendezvous
For both of their needs
They help fuel me,
And segregate only when I refuse to be free
I must say,
It makes everything more fun
The sky seems so vast
And every single blade of grass
Is just as interesting as the one next to it
Every rain drop of dew
Shines with a light
On lawn where it grew,
From the sun that shuns
It’s growth, when it hides beyond the clouds
I breathe it in when it decides to come out
It’s life
I just want to sing the thoughts I have
Because I don’t know
How to say them all, without forgetting
In the next few minutes,
When my mind is burned with then need
To explore even more
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
oh yes, I remember when I was just a lad,
I was really quite bad.
I remember this one fall,
I drove my parents up the wall.
Up in the air the conversation flew,
And to annoy them more I answered with a "mew".
As I climbed the stairs and up into my room,
I slammed the door with a loud 'boom!'.
I stomped so loud on the floor,
And thought "oh, what a boor!'.
And up the stairs my parents sprung,
Their nattering in my ears rung.
I kicked and lashed out, not knowing what would happen next,
As I looked down, I thought I was hexed!
For if you stomp and kick,
You will be changed quite a bit...
Long grey ears grew high above my head,
"Help, help me!" I plead.
Hooves grew down to the floor,
And I gasped as I saw...
The little boy was no more.
Frantically I looked to my parents who said,
"I thought this would happen, I guess you need a new bed."
Now the boy is no more,
My parents bought a farm with a large moor.
And I help out more now,
As my job is pulling a plough!
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
Dried Up Tears
(To a stranger that I call Dad from your Daughter with a broken heart)
There is pain that can not be fixed by Band-Aids and Poetry.
To the stranger I call Dad.
The one who left me and my sister.
For lies and greed, For your selfish gain.
Why did you run away?
Am I anything to you?
You said that you love me, That was all lies.
That you always be there, Nothing but lies.
You took my heart and stomped on it, a part of me has died.
For years you never said a word, so I write, I stand here with a broken heart.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Sometimes it hurts so much not to cry when you have to hold it inside you and it hurts so much to be in a crowed room
and you have to hold it in because if she sees you
crying she'll know it's because she stomped on your chest
and caused your heart to deflate like a lazy balloon and
in that moment you feel so alone and
empty
and so you start to cry.
And everyone consoles you and pats you on the back and tells you it'll be okay
but this isn't what you wanted
it wasn't supposed to happen like this
"no no no leave me alone
just stop
I'm fine I have allergies jesus."
And crying doesn't fit your aesthetic,
emotion doesn't fit your aesthetic,
love doesn't fit your aesthetic. So you get your **** together.
You go to the bathroom and you wash your face and you get your **** together and you fix your makeup
because runny mascara does not fit your aesthetic
and neither does
heartbreak.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
I start way up high,
with others like me in the sky.
I am a raindrop.
We are all the same.
None of us are the cream of the crop.
None of us are lame.
We are waiting up here.
Just waiting to go.
Up here in the atmosphere.
Waiting to flow.
First we must fall.
First it must be cold.
There is no warning call.
No sign of us getting old.
The warmth brought us here.
Cooling will do the opposite.
To allow us to fall like a tear.
To allow us to fall composite.
Then my journey will start.
I hope for great joy.
Like an actor getting to play their part.
Like a child getting their first toy.
I can feel the cold creeping in
and the warmth starting to fade.
Now my travels will soon begin.
Could my travel start with a glade?
Maybe I will land in a lake.
Maybe I will land in the city.
Hopefully not the latter for my sake.
For I may be stomped on without pity.
My time here is now done.
No more having to wait.
It is hopefully time to have some fun.
Falling, I will soon see my fate
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
We all bear scars in one way or other.
Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for.
Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons.
Some we are but some we are not so proud of.
I have scars all over my body.
All over my mind and all over my soul.
I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet.
I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of.
I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships.
I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth.
I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals.
I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age.
I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start.
I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times.
I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then.
I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met.
I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home.
I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth.
I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life.
I have all these scars. All of them.
And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times.
They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become.
They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now.
A survivor.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Habits
Gluttony
Greed
Bribery
Lustfulness
Passed down
Generation
After generation
After generation
After generation
Okay, I get it, it get it
You get it, you get it.
Let's get personal
Born set up for failure
My statistics not looking bright
First baby born of color born into
A family of strictly whites
Grandmother beat my mother
When she discovered
The life forming inside of her
Was half black -
Don't cry mother, or I'll whither
Inside of you.
I grew and grew
Taught lies upon lies
About myself
The other half of me.
The only love I knew was of my mother.
There was no other -
Until she started to take it out on me
Habits
Passed
From generation upon generation.
She was sick and tired of being
Sick and tired
Stomped to the ground due to her
Kindness
Abused emotionally due to her
Selfless-ness
Mistreated physically due to her
Weakness
She took it out on me.
Cornered me to a wall
Choked me up
Laughing - she couldn't get enough
Of the amusement of my pain
All done in vain
Because she couldn't stop the strain
Put on her brain.
Scarring my face
Pulling my hair
Public places
Not a care -
Kicking
Scratching
Pulling
Biting
The agony
The hate
The battle wounds
The hurt
The scars -
On my heart.
Habits
Passed from generation
To generation
To generation
I was sick on the inside
My heart - suffering -
never ending bleeding
My brain
Psychologically ill
Flashbacks
I locked myself up in my room
Head in pillow
Screaming louder than your annoying baby sister who throws her unnecessary temper tantrums
In the middle of the night.
I tied myself up mentally
Stuck
Self-hate
Self-abuse
Self-hurt
In the sixth grade I to myself -
I wanted going to ****
And my victim was myself.
Filled with the poison - I was ill
Injected with self-hate
Hated my family
Hated all my traits
Hated all forms of humanity.
Habits
Passed
From generation to generation
To generation.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with hoe-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Your words a fissure in my heart,
crumbling it apart,
split in two, by you.
Like a giant you stomped your feet,
causing earthquakes in the street,
and I am merely a fearful boy,
who looked up to you,
only to see you destroy.
Now I lie with my dreams dripping out,
in the form of that warm red liquid,
soaking into the seeds of doubt,
all because of what you did.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I sold my soul
for those bony hands
and you stomped on it
for a couple grams
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
I get the crust and the gristle of a thistle once a missile shooting out into the sky and I cry, wonder why. Never sure what I feel for the meal of a deal and then words more like air slip the breeze in my hair, butterflies in the skies killing what kept my alive. Oh too bad, well how sad, if the songs last lines din't matter it'd harm, it'd make the soul so very mad. Here I fall, there I stand like a robot dancing to the tunes. It's demand. Hear I laugh, hear I cry. I hear the screams and feel the burn, so why? Why unsure, of what's telling me my life is so impure. Threatened heart, from the strings that wrap it, tearing it apart. Feel the clench of a bundle of what you yourself have drench and so benched. And you threw to me the horror show, I never so have thought would reckon me to be. I, to be, it's master and it's longing family, here I cry. Hear "I" cry. For I exist in heart, but never, not in mind. There I stand once again as a memory of all that I pretend. If I tried, to be real, the pieces fall apart inside. So I hide, then I quiver and I shake as 'me' is inside. I can touch to the shelter covered in the unbelieving, underachieving to be who I know I am to be. Or at least what you see. I crush the old me and start anew, though I grew. I, immortal to myself have stomped the true. And I become something greater than simple little shrew. Do not lie! For I see with one eye, the look through me. What you see is a host, not the ghost, that lives on. "Awh, look at me. I'm so strong!" Laugh along. Child there. Where? Oops, forgot to care. Now I stare, towards the end that's never ending like this script. Never ending. Twist and bending. Don't kid me, I'm no kid. I'm the body of a youth, but I am dead. I've destroyed myself, if others didn't do a perfect job. Hold up stop! I'm letting go, a bubble that will pop. It will burst, destroying me, if it doesn't **** me first. Here I stand. Hear I cry. There I go. I have died.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring. With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
5.8k
It wasn't quite a party.
More of a kickback
just ten or twelve friends
drinking and smoking from a huge glass ****
all of them huddled around the computer
watching funny videos on YouTube
of people getting hurt and ****
The guy at the controls
went to a website
ratemyboobs.com or ratemytits.com
something like that
and the four girls there
all moaned and groaned
saying they didn't want to see **** like that.
The guys all laughed
and continued rating the pictures of *****
as they came up one by one
when all of the sudden
a picture of a guy holding his ****
came up on the screen.
The girls finally had a reason to laugh
the guys were all grossed out
but one guy more than anyone else
he freaked out.
"What the **** bro?! I don't wanna see guy's ***** I'm not gay!"
"Relax man...no one said that you were. Chill out."
He looked like he was hyperventilating and about to
break out in ******* hives.
"But that's gay **** bro! I'm not gay, so I don't wanna see that **** ****
He stomped off to the backyard
lighting a cigarette
you could still hear him out there
shouting over and over
"I'm not gay. I'm not ******* gay!"
he yelled, pacing back & forth.
Everyone around the computer
didn't know what to say
so they just chuckled quietly
and then someone said it.
What every person there was thinking,
"Wow. That's sad. He's totally gay."
one of the girls said.
"Yup. Totally gay..." the guy at the computer said cracking up.
He rated the **** picture
ten out of ten
and moved on
to more ****
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Santa got us workin' in the cold,
not a single fireplace in that **** factory.
He don't even feed us:
we eats polar bear leftovers,
penguin flesh and such.
Ask for a break and get stomped
by reindeers and such.
not a day of vacation, not a one.
The houses be made o' candy
but we ain't got no dental either,
so eatin' that would **** us.
This fat white ape is a bad bad man,
lord ain't that the truth,
ol' Saint Nick is a total ****
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.
He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure
I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”
But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
She's like a flame,
dancing back in forth,
flickering and crackling through the night.
When fueled,
with love, hate, or passion.
She will grow and flourish,
but when stomped out,
and extinguished by the twisted venom,
that pours from life itself,
she vanishes and all thats left is ash.
But that flame thrives,
and it grows and burns strong,
flickering more than ever before.
That flame dwells with enough power,
to burn everything in her path,
and she's just waiting to be ignited.
T.B.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
He took me by surprise,
and in a second I knew I was held,
captured,
only to be used,
I knew I could do nothing at all,
my feet were cold and his hands were armed,
he scratched me and molested me with all he had,
my neck was ****** and my heart went slow,
after having his fun,
he tightened his hold,
his work wasn't done until my body was sore,
he stomped me on the chest with his brand new boots,
hit my head and broke my arm with his beatings and his calm,
he wanted to see me dead now,
I gave him what he wanted,
as I could not move acted dead,
he left me dying told me his name was 'Angel',
my only company now was the silence of the trees,
*His name was Angel,
but evil were his deeds..*
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Why do the worms fiercely dig their way to the surface
During rainstorms
As though they're afraid to miss the spectacle?
Don't they know they will end up drowning
In pools of chilled sky-tears
And get stomped by careless and hurried feet?
Strewn across drenched brick and concrete walkways,
Thousands,
Yet each somehow alone in his own conquest.
Drawn
Like the moth to the flame
And my eye to the sun.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Words tattooed her thighs.
Chocolate hair fell in her eyes.
Muscle queen stomped
gymnastick,
round silver poles.
She was no stripper,
but an athlete
for tips
and hand shakes
and bills in her
cracking her face,
*her face must be
cracking* to
ass-grabbing lions,
prowling LA's
city sierra bored.
I couldn't imagine
Queen Courtney crying.
But upside down,
floating disco lights
exposed pursed face shows.
She girated
sex-lined hips
for tips, not ego.
Splits and tricks
choking chuckling girls
saluting her routine,
tossing one's,
wishing they were ten 0's.
She looked magnificant.
I asked her if she was a gymnast.
She said something like that,
eyes fixed on the sleek floor,
strong arms chilled by the cold —
men with thick wallets and no home.
So I gave her my coat.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
See that carbon footprint
the one stomped on the earth
the one that you've been treading in
since the moment of your birth
it's the dog **** on the muddy boot
that stinks of gasoline
it's the plastic bag and broken glass
it's the poison nicotine
it's the mattress in the hedgerow
it's the paint can in the lake
It's the acid in the raindrop
and each promise that we break
see that carbon footprint
the one stamped on liquored breath
that's the one you never noticed
until too late the earth faced death
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
Everything is broken. Broken clocks, broken doors, broken spirits. Struggling just to softly breathe your name without my voice breaking. Shredded letters, meaningless scripts to highlight just how much my life is a cleverly constructed piece of satire, poorly printed on a newspaper page that no one reads, tossed to the sidewalk and stomped into fibers that do nothing but pollute the already ***** puddles on the side of the street. The words upon that parchment, the ink within the pages, is insignificant. I am insignificant. I am a vagrant. I am a knot in a tree trunk, and when a tree falls in the forest, it screams. It silently screams to be held back up by it's brothers, by its friends, by its family, but none of them move. They let it fall and they watch it rot.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
i.
this life has been led
in a hundred different directions
by a hundred different shepards
but you
were able to show
a lamb
how to walk
like a lion.
ii.
how sweet power tasted.
iii.
the night that i met you,
after a lifetime
of running from
darkness,
you said
"sweet child,
rest.
take your shoes off.
stay a while."
i let out a long sigh
of relief, my legs
tired, eyes blurry from
sleeplessness, judgement
clouded, i mistook you
for light, i stayed
by your side until
you took the last lick
of me i had left,
stole the sun from the sky,
stomped out the last
burning ember that remained
from what was once a forest fire
i left with nothing
footprints in
debris and ash
absence
where life once was
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
At the Bernie Sanders rally on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in Alabama, a middle-aged woman in the crowd fell to the floor from illness. The entire rally silenced. All 7,000 attendees turned their focus to her welfare. When the medics arrived, the crowd erupted into cheers, a heroes’ welcome. The people then applauded the ill woman once she regained the ability to walk out of the event.
Two weeks prior, at a rally for the authoritarian populist Donald Trump, three white men stomped a black man. He’d worn a t-shirt that read 'Black Lives Matter.'
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.
cc1210
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
What would it be?
Besides another leftover,
One of those countless ***** socks
Discarded
Unwanted
A cigarette ****
the flame stomped out
by someone just as caring as you
Tossed out of a pickup
Tumbled in a ditch
Laying with the rest of the fragments
This memory
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC