"stuffed" poems
this time has finished me.
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.
victory was so close
victory was there.
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.
and when she came to bed
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.
eleven months.
now she's gone
gone as they go.
this time has finished me.
it's a long road back
and back to where?
the guy ahead of me
falls.
I step over him.
did she get him too?
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My head, my heart, they are empty,
producing, containing nothing.
Yet, they are stuffed to the max,
flooding with thoughts, emotions, worries, hopes.
How can one be so empty, yet so full?
I am a ghost existing,
alive and dead in this twisted world.
They drain us of vitality and fill us with emptiness.
We are the lost.
Don’t bother looking for us,
we are already gone, found.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
On a Wednesday morning, clear and calm,
I went to Astor Place
and had a gypsy read my palm
or maybe just my face.
She said my heart was heavy
and my head was stuffed with lies.
But things like that weren't on my hand,
they hid behind my eyes.
The room is dull and dank and cold but at
least I have a hand to hold.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Dope, money, and hoes [x9]
[Verse 1: Da$h]
Ain't write it, thought of this when I was drunk driving
Like I had a license, been swerving through the intersect
Just to make the ******* wet, breakfast: yac and cigarettes
Feds about the only threat, spit nasty like my throat is strep
She working at the pyramid, shake her **** for some bucks from Tut
Pharaoh to the marrow, Cleopatra roll my dutch
Dour blunts they double stuffed, got a ***** stupid chopped
Used to squad these faggots' wives, the ******* that I used to pop
Wear the **** I used to cop, respect your elders lil *****
Ain't even of age to drink, I get your ** to buy me liquor
'Linquent **** I live for it, they tryin but might die for it
These drugs got my brain, money got my mind finding fun in crime
******* love my rhymes, to be honest I love their mouth at campuses
Looking for talents just like I'm a college scout
Ask her what she shout, I’m ashin' her on the ******* couch
[Verse 2: Da$h]
Dope, money, and hoes, getting dope money from shows
She sniff her coke then she blow, **** it, I don’t judge it though
Sugar free, no love for sure, just put 'em on Sepulveda
Benefits and bank rolls, all a ***** really want from her
And when she bring it back, call my brother hit the trap
Invested in a couple packs, will probably see a couple stacks from what he talkin
Money hulking like Bruce Banner
Panarama day dreaming, While she downin' my ***** on camera
Life's in action, piping, smashing whatever you call it
Smoke a 'Port and I'm off but they ******* think I lost it
And my dog facing blunts while I feed my pups bath salts
Infiltrate my castle, take your face like it's a mask boss
Pass raw flesh and bone, money long like small intestines
Homes I'm taking breakfast, long as getting checks involved H´z *****
Cause if you ain't know, AraabMuzik
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
i have anxiety
undiagnosed.
sometimes it feels like my head is stuffed with crumpled ***** of paper: the things I never said, the things I should have never said, the things that someone never said to me.
all of these things are written on every piece of paper
there are so many right now that no more would be able to fit
yet i can't stop thinking things, i can't stop saying stupid things, i can't stop wishing things.
i sigh I reach up to my forehead and i grasp my bangs
with my shaky hands and pull
i'm hoping one day when i do this
the top of my head will yank open
all of these crumpled pieces of thoughts
will pour out in a pile
on the floor
i will kneel down
and uncrumple each and every piece
i will read each one
until my head fills up again.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I told you I sleep with my stuffed animals (mostly to keep me company).
I am a child in your eyes,
ever since you saw me bare-faced & naked (I don't like clothes).
I am a child in your eyes,
ever since you touched me in places even God Almighty wouldn't dare to look at.
I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I sang with the birds and played in the mud, losing my voice and getting my dainty dress and Mary Jane's as ***** as I can.
I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I asked you, timidly, if I could sleep with you because I was afraid of the monsters in my closet and the monsters in the walls.
I am a child in your eyes,
even if I am not a child, even if I am not your child.
I am a child in your eyes,
and you, the real monster, use that against me, especially when the town is asleep and the moon is hidden and my teddy bear is missing and I scream, "No, please, not tonight."
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
I crave emotion like I crave pizza
But I can't have it
I can't let myself devour every ounce of love that comes my way
I can't become dependent on the infamous L word that has broken me
I'm emotionally anorexic,
But sometimes I'm bulimic
Sometimes I'll hunt down my prey, and **** them dry of their love
I'll crave it until I'm stuffed full, and then I'll purge it out
I'll tell them I hate them,
I'll tell them to leave forever
I'll push them away until I'm broken and sad and alone
And anorexic again
Until I'm back where I belong, in the corner of my room
Crying, sobbing, craving affection, but not letting myself have it
Because I don't want to be fat with lust
I can't gain a single pound because if I do
I'll be weak.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
i used to have a potent mind
so full of ideas and thoughts
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
i used to think i had a bright future
i went to school and college and got a degree
but all along the way i had a good, old friend
this scoundrels name is Demon Marijuana
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and gets me high and then i come
to see the light for just a while longer
before fading back into a fetal curl
i used to think i’d go somewhere and conquer
i went to go and sit some place instead
and stuffed my pipe with grass and inhaled deeply
the aromatic smoke of my old friend
i used to have a potent mind
so full of big dreams and illusions
but then i started smoking ***
from time to time to time
my good friend Demon Marijuana loves me
she comes over and we get high and then she goes
leaving me in the dark a little longer
then fading back into the beginning gray
originally posted on my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com/ on August 20, 2014
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Stop trying to make me fit
In your stupid little box
of Labels and Definitions
Truth buried far beyond reach
Only your lies always
Stuffed down my throat.
If other people can come out
Why cant i?
Your reasons get flimsier
My resolve only strengthens
Your toxic opinions
Make me want to leave you behind
And escape.
I will take my freedom myself.
I don't bleed for you anymore.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
she has dangerous thoughts
in her hello kitty slippers
she shines when thouse around her can only sparkle
there are dark angels in her stuffed bear collection
shes a gothic stoner emo-warrior princess
she wants to be heard
and its dreamy things shes gonna say
shes sketched in beautiful ways in my heart
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
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Bedrooms are intimate. Showing someone exactly where you breathe is special. To see it, they have to worship every breath that goes in and out, even if your exhale is poison.
*The walls still smell like you
Last week, I pulled the sheets off the bed. I placed them in the burn pile.*
I do not wish to see you.
*This week, I painted everything a new color, a darker shade.
I pulled down the Christmas lights and let my stars burn out. I placed them in the burn pile.*
I do not wish to see you.
I ripped stuffed animals off the shelves and letters off the dresser. Even the photo album went in the burn pile.
I do not wish to see you.
The flowers off the desk... They were dead anyway.
I do not wish to see you.
Everything in a bedroom is sacred. Not everyone belongs there; you sure didn't. You kissed everything with fiery lips and charcoal dust and I am still sweeping up. I continue to find your ashes in my bed.
I do not wish to see you.
You took everything. You took my air and gave me back poison. I couldn't tell the difference. But the worst thing you took from my room is me.
I do not wish to see you.
I do not wish to see you.
*I put you in the burn pile. I see you in the flames. I see you everywhere.
I start to tear at the drywall.*
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.
And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
120 seconds.
2 minutes.
That is all it took to change my life,
to shatter my heart,
to take my childhood.
Locked between four walls,
stuffed between forgotten papers and books,
I was made prey for my once trusted predator.
Now I understand that I have never stepped outside of those walls.
Those walls have taken refuge around my heart,
and surrounded my mind.
They have preserved the initial scars,
and have supported the hatred, sadness, and pity for the hunter and hunted.
These walls have held me up until now.
Life without them seems intangible,
treacherous.
They protect me from another life-changing two minutes,
but they also shield me from the light.
I want that light.
I want that freedom.
I want to live.
Every nail that I remove leaves a scar,
every board I break off makes me vulnerable,
but I think it is time.
My heart needs room to grow,
and my mind needs to learn to trust,
to trust that life is worth living,
to trust that life can be kind,
to trust that I am worth it.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
love
its a beautiful thing really,
its brutal, its strong
it so deep, and so heartwarming,
and at the same time,
it makes me want to cry, scream
pound my bed,
punch the white cement wall until my knuckles are ****** raw
and the wall has a display of reds.
it makes me want to break an elegant expensive vase, and crush it in my hand.
its destructive, desired, dangerous,
and yet
i want to laugh
i want to sing
and dance!
dance to oh what a night
dance with my yellow watercolored pillow case, with my favorite pillow stuffed inside
oh, love is so peculiar isn’t it?
its spectacular,
and its like standing in the middle of a ballroom
where dresses and suit ties of different hues reflect the chandelier light hanging from the ceiling,
an array of rainbows cast on the walls.
and yet, theres an emptiness…
one I’m afraid i cannot fill, and rely on you to.
its like standing in an ocean of chaos, of excitement and watching it from afar at the same time.
i can see myself swimming with the sharks, yet i am a bystander
as the thread of my life is strung tautly,
i watch myself bleed, gruesomely torn to pieces
i watch as the water darkens from spilt wine,
the wine that was once salty becomes sickly sweet around me
but i continue watching myself become bones stuck in their teeth.
its like being in an aquarium, encased in water,
and yet, still not a part of it, a distance, yet, a proximity
i watch myself drown through the looking glass, unable to help.
the sign says don’t tap the glass, but i pound and pound.
I am the only one watching myself slowly slow, and slowly stop.
stop breathing, stop fighting.
love is holding your breath, being cautious, yet careless.
Its diving recklessly, unsure whether to be sober, or drunk,
and being both.
its like seeing myself on a high diving board, the water beneath is so deep,
it seems to never start, and never end at the same time.
I can see myself, on the edge peering over,
scared to take a leap of faith,
yet relived i can still feel the sharp breaths,
nervous stomach,
because it means i can still feel, i am still capable of human emotions
i thought had left me long ago, before you.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
Enfleshed and skinned and stuffed with juicy giblets:
A future worm's-meal of steaks and chops and riblets.
O.O
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
artificial feelings stuffed in a room
dangerous proximity could finalize doom
deprivation brings about illogical thoughts
then it happens, and my hearts in knots
side effects may include waking in cold sweat
followed by hot flashes of regret
but
it seems like whenever the icing's enticing,
i can't help but take the cake.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.
When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.
When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.
High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.
Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.
The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.
How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.
How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.
If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
who knew you were filled
with gold!
when I stuffed the dynamite down
your throat and ran you
through the casino I wasn’t
expecting a jackpot
maybe a princess piñata or a
party popper
but a corner leather and a
fresh haircut?
no, we’re not
in the 50’s anymore
but your vault was guarded
like mob headquarters when you head
started sputtering
quarters
you the
light-skinned pin action
movie star
looking highly alien
you
my diamond studded
chain
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Accountants hover over the earth like helicopters,
Dropping bits of paper engraved with Hegel's name.
Badgers carry the papers on their fur
To their den, where the entire family dies in the night.
A chorus girl stands for hours behind her curtains
Looking out at the street.
In a window of a trucking service
There is a branch painted white.
A stuffed baby alligator grips that branch tightly
To keep away from the dry leaves on the floor.
The honeycomb at night has strange dreams:
Small black trains going round and round--
Old warships drowning in the raindrop.
8.9k
my cactus waits patiently for summer
stuffed into a *** by the window
rain or snow cactus sits meditating
so deep you would think asleep-
would be more fitting. but I know better
get too close and cactus is alive and willing
sharp as ever and prickly with it.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
Oh Jamaican girl,where is your patois?
where is your long dreads of natural hair?
your culture?
Jamaican girl,sing your country's national anthem
How do you not like reggae?
what kind of Jamaican are you?
You see the ackee and codfish I stuffed down my throat on a Saturday morning would never be enough for them.
My extinctive use of the English language made them sick at their guts
The fact that my waistline won't move in such a manner to alarm others.
Born in the Yard
Grew up in the suburbs
Never boastful;always grateful
So Jamaican girl you try to act white on purpose?
Wear 'American clothes'
And perm your hair?
My nationality will coexist throughout my veins
Will never hit sunlight unless my tongue decides to move in that direction.
Will never be ashamed of my heritage as I am proud of it,yet also modified to not be defined by it.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:36 AM UTC
in 1992, a child is born
and handed a gift.
he opens the box labelled "life"
and examines its contents.
a blanket hand-stitched
with hope, perseverance,
and comfort
draped over a teddy bear
stuffed with fearful nightmares,
and heartache.
a blue jar labelled "sadness",
containing fluttering butterflies
symbolizing joy.
a ticket for the rollercoaster
he's finally tall enough to ride,
with no warning
of the endless ups and downs.
that two-minute rush
of adrenaline
followed by hours
of motion sickness.
this child
is now twenty six.
he is staring at the empty
box labelled "life" -
at the worn-out blanket
lying next to
the teddy bear's stuffing -
at the shards of blue glass
and butterfly corpses -
at the torn up carnival ticket.
he regrets ever accepting this gift.
- v.m
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
I have no life
neither does bae
so I spend mine
with him day after day
I think poems
are a very lame way
to say something like this
but not for bae
I call him a loser
but he doesn't care
like how he doesn't
buy me stuffed bears
we're no white couple
not in any way
but I like him cuz he
doesn't think I'm lame
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC