"sweatpants" poems
I'd like to think that she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
As she sits on the corner of her bed,
Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.
I imagine her,
Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.
Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,
Then looking to her class ring,
Made entirely of imitation ingredients,
Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.
When she was still a friend of mine,
I never saw her wear make up,
I never saw her show off in tight jeans
or low-cut tees.
But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,
Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,
Next to the side door
that leads to his sister's side room.
The make up she wears
is from the night before.
It's skewed and shows evidence of running,
Like a wasted watercolor.
I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,
And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.
I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,
He's in grey sweatpants,
He's wearing a black tank top,
With a Confederate flag backdrop,
With two barely dressed babes looking ******
in the foreground.
His hair, unwashed and greasy.
He rubs his belly,
And bears an idiot grin
on his face.
Looking like he just learned how to smile
at this pace.
"Did it feel good?"
feel good.
After he asks, he scans her body,
Beginning at those crimson toes,
And Ending at that clumsy hair.
Every second he scans,
He still wears that drawn-on
Idiot grin.
I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.
Of my warnings and prophesy.
Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,
Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.
And finally reach the only thing she has on,
A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.
A t-shirt, when given by him,
It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".
Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,
During last night's expedition.
He still paid her back with a morning
one-sided session.
"It felt good" she says.
In reference to the ten minute **********
When her body was strummed and plucked,
Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.
As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,
On a bed that is six days *****
While he is grinning,
Being everything but wordy.
I'd like to think she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...
The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,
an ode to humility.
Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.
Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways
in spite.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
i am a dreamer
idealistic, optimistic
the one who imagines her life will actually turn out how she wants
i am the ideal girl to marry, apparently
according to these heteronormative results
that are based upon me knowing how to cook
and liking to sleep in and wear t-shirts
that seems like ******** to me
i'm not the ideal girl to marry
who would ever want to marry this?
who could i ever want to marry?
to wake up next the same person for the rest of my existence?
to never get a moment to myself?
sometimes i look at her
and imagine my life working out the way it's supposed to
and waking up next to her every morning
and dancing together in sweatpants
with messy hair and fuzzy breath
maybe
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
I am just sitting here, waiting for you. While you are over there, with my words, touching you. I envy them. I envy their ability to ****** you in ways I could only imagine, and pleasure you in ways, that only I could dream. If I know you two, as well as I do, you are both probably together, somewhere dark and quiet and everyone else in the house is sleeping. They are probably having their way with you, right now. Running around in that mind of yours, putting bad thoughts in your mind, thoughts that you never knew you wanted there, but will never forget. Persuading you to try things, feeling things that you’ve never felt. Levels of pleasure and pain, while exploring regions of your body, that you, never knew existed- finding your weaknesses, make them my strengths, then seducing you with them. To make you wet, they simply pour themselves over your body, dripping down your stomach, seeping into your sweatpants, open your legs and start sliding their fingers up and down the sides of your wet ***** My words guide you thoughts, and your body responds with pleasure. I wish I could hear you moan or just watch you; eyes closed, legs spread-eagle, squirming around under the sheets, grinding yourself against your hand, until you ****** so hard- the contractions squeeze your fingers. But, instead I am just sitting here, waiting for you. While you are over there, with my words, touching you.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Thin waist, long legs
Smooth hair, big chest
Angel eyes, full lips
Pink cheeks, wide hips
Tall but not too high
With a gap between her thighs
And long lashes on her eyes
Hourglass figure
Sweatpants & scarred legs
Damaged hair, flat chest
****** eyes, dry lips
Pimpled cheeks, no hips
Short and stubby
No thigh gap, just chubby
And eyebrows? Shrubby
Me
A
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak,
the sweatpants have holes and the T-shirt is frayed.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
The hours spent escaping to Twitter speak
to the test on the floor with a failing grade.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak.
The tissue rips across my salty cheek
while my transcript laughs at the mess that I've made.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
I'll go to class tired and return home weak;
won't even bother with the "good girl" charade.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak.
"It's fine, Dad. My predicament's not unique.
I'll get my diploma, and all this will fade.
It'll be over in a couple of weeks."
Yet perhaps this last piece of paper I seek
will only frame the path from which I've strayed.
The mirror reveals a face naked and bleak;
It'll be over in a couple of weeks.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
you who stand
in the shadows
what makes you think
for
a
second
that what you're doing is okay?
you do not gain power
over me
her
him
anyone
by standing in the shadows
calling to those
who walk the streets
what we wear
does not affect you
...surprised?
the fact that I wore a dress
skirt
shorts
jeans
sweatpants
heels
sneakers
CLOTHING
does not
give you the right
to comment on my legs
***
stomach
chest
BODY
because all you are
is a voice in the shadows
so do not whisper
yell
grab
touch
OUR BODIES
for in the shadows
is where you are meant to stay.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I am literate in daydreams
and letting my imagination rule my head
I am literate in music
where rationale can be abandoned.
I am literate in procrastination,
pushing away my mind-defying.
I am literate in heartbreak
which has been already over-endured.
I am literate in lazy weekends
spent with my sister and a remote.
I am literate in creating;
not masterpieces, but heart and soul pieces.
I am literate in ramen noodle and green tea afternoons
in sweatpants and sneakers with no makeup on.
I am literate in moment-capturing
and finding the right words to explain.
I am literate in thunderstorms
and dancing in between water droplets.
I am literate in heart confessions
over acoustic guitars and games of solitaire.
I am literate in wanting
and taking away from what I already have.
I am literate in wanderlust
and a wholehearted need to escape.
I am literate in color-coordination and clothing arranging
and bringing out all my best.
I am literate in kissing with desperation
and wanting to have it be effortless.
I am literate in wasting my time
in my head, in my heart, and in the clouds.
I am literate in everything mentioned
and so much that I can’t even say.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Dear Hot Straight Actresses,
Stop playing perfect lesbian characters on TV that cause me to become wet on lonely Thursday nights.
It’s the equivalent of waving double chocolate fudge cake in front of a menstruating woman who has just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.
To name a few,
Jennifer Beals as Bette Porter on The L Word.
Stop it!
Naya Rivera as the sassy Santana Lopez on Glee.
Stop it!
Angie Harmon as butch goddess Detective Jane Rizzoli on Rizzoli & Isles.
You may be in the closet but you are gay and stop!
And Sara Ramirez and Jessica Capshaw as the married ****** Dr. Cali Torrez and Dr. Arizona Robbins of Grey’s Anatomy.
You…you keep going. You two give me hope.
Hope that someday my insanely high expectations will be met when my hot art collecting, sassy mouthed Doctor with handcuffs in her back pocket jumps from the screen and onto my sweatpants covered lap.
In this crazy assumption that I’ll end up falling out of an apple tree letting gravity push me into the arms of a woman who fixes my broken sense of reality with a amazing great hair and a wedding proposal.
Missing out on the
Hot barista who gives me an extra large when I ask for a small
or the
Budding **** artist who invites me to her galleries only to realize her muse has oddly the same hips as me.
or the
Best friend who is still stuck in the shadows of my closet.
Nope…didn’t see any of those.
I’m too busy watching the **** tube to see what low cut tops they can get away with before they leave the set and back to their husband and 2.5 kids.
All I’m asking is…
…when is it coming out on DVD?
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
You like to party, I am a partier
You like to wander, I am a wanderer
Your thighs are the closet to Narnia
Is it cool if I go and get lost in that?
I'm the lion, the witch in the wardrobe
Massage my lap, I have a sore bone
Of course cold on the dance floor
Like an Eskimo's toes in the North Pole
With both toes poking out of two holes
In the Eskimo socks, I'm hot
Like a cauldron from a warlock
Wearing sweatpants in a sauna
Who's your father? I'm not
I'm motherfuckin' Raven Bowie and here's my ****
Rooster, Cock-a-doodle-doo sir
Take a hit of the hooka, now make it drop
Girl's ***** was bigger than the stomach of Rick Ross
Holy mother mountain of tender tendon to get lost in
Bounce, bounce, that castle ***** that bottom
Make it wobble, wobbly-waddle 'til my third leg has to hobble
You don't want to look back on this night
And think I should have been freaking on a *****
Freak-freaking on a *****
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Let out my ego and sense of order this comes from beyond this comes from the me between me if I listen I may hear it speaking, it's sleeping but talking and rocking, not still, and perhaps it awakens, perhaps it will open its eye but we mustn't depend on the idea that once he has opened his eye the whole dream of the world will just fade like my dream tomorrow morning which I already know I'll forget, like specific angles and perspectives of specific places in space and time that have slipped away but once in a while break through to consciousness
Like the sliding breakaway walls of Timber Drive elementary school
Or the rippling pond into which I fell and the old smile and laugh of my flesh and blood rescued me and held my body afloat in the air for a moment; and once I was the proud owner of a wind powered hovercraft, another invention spilling out onto the table of attention like the actual pig intestines the popular girl's parents used in her science fair project, the one that dragged on until the last monkey refusing to be locked up with the windows 98s in the archaic computer lab was tranquilized and convulsed on the gym/cafeteria floor in front of the PTA, who'd peed blood all down the front of their sweatpants; he was firing wildly hoping to commit suicide by zookeeper
Not knowing that humanitarian laws would prevent him from achieving his bliss, for the monkey knew as the Gnostics did that to bring a child into this black iron prison is a sin.
Did the Jonestown Kool-aid free them from the prison? Do they now walk among gods within the kingdom of the heavenly spirit? None shall know until the 13 crystal skulls are re-assembled and total gnosis emanates to the people in globe-spanning shockwaves.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
His hat says
I Remember Pearl Harbor
He asks me to put the wine in the basket
Hanging behind his motorized wheelchair
He smells a little like ***
His sweatpants have dark stains all over
Like a leapord who has gone old and grey
"They can put a motor on one
of these things
but they can't make them comfortable"
"When you're an old man like me
maybe yours will fly
but I bet your *** will still fall asleep all the time"
I tell him
that when I am old
I hope they make wheelchairs
that feel like a father's shoulders
He shakes his head after I say that and laughs
"That sounds like it might be nice
But i couldn't say I know what that feels like"
Me neither
I tell him
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
A man and wife go to lunch.
Premium burgers, shakes and fries.
It's cheap and he can wear his sweatpants.
For every one couple,
there's twenty single fathers
with his children.
(a depressing ratio)
It must be custody weekend.
At the Heartbreak Hotel
tables for two occupy singles.
The men picked out their best shirts
and the women painted their lips.
Looking only for a conversation,
they leave with a bill
priced with another Sunday
of shattered hope.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
I got on the bus alone today
and almost no one else was on it.
As it neared our campus the setting sun
hit the window so right, sending a golden corona
across the dusty seats,
bathing us all in this brilliant golden light.
Brown eyes turned to honey, blue ones to oceans—
a handful of minor gods and goddesses
on their way to class,
in sweatpants and backpacks.
It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
None of us wanted to pull the cord to stop,
but finally, someone did,
and I had to get off.
I feel alive on the bus, I feel alone at midnight.
I am the princess of the bus.
I make my boyfriend Aiden worse without intending to.
I make a lot of things worse without intending to.
I think that if I just spent a lifetime on the bus,
circling round and round at around 6:30 p.m.
I would cause a lot less harm on this planet.
But someone always pulls the cord, even if I don’t.
Aidan won’t pull the cord and neither will I.
We might be riding this bus for a long time yet.
Oct 29, 2024
Oct 29, 2024 at 10:51 PM UTC
Dear God. i hope You’re listening, i need to get close. im steady running in the same position.
i can’t get close.
my fingers hurt because i’ve been trying to pen down a letter to her & me & You for me.
im trying to be good.
these past few days i’ve been trying to get my thoughts in unison. working on harmonizing my processes & prioritizing my priorities.
im going to be raw.
i wrote letters to her but every single time i think of sending them to her, i remember that i won’t get much weight with my actions. so i throw them away.
im steady running in the same position.
she’s been thugging lately, in a good way.
i won’t even try to make sense tonight, i’ll let words flow.
****** of the youthful mind, hold me.
play softly, the strings at the back of my mind. be attentive, this tune will catch you.
she’s stroking my medulla oblongata, painting vivid images of passion.
steady running in the same position.
ever looked at someone and feel a conversation going on between your souls? no verbal action, just distance & the space between the two of you.
im steady running from nymphos of the youthful mind.
Father, hope You’re listening. help me to not bend Your will.
i’ve been good. dry cleaned my suit, im ready to walk with You.
i need to get close. but i can’t get close to You.
but im steady running in the same position.
****** of the youthful mind, tell me what do you want me to do to help you, help me, help you. she’s been straight thugging.
ever been so close to a beautiful conversation yet words halt at the opening and you’re left stuck with regret? days later, you remake the scenario and polish on what you could’ve said.
i wrote a letter to her & me & you for me. but i threw it away. wouldn’t have made a significant change anyway.
****** of the youthful mind, i need to get close.
but im steady running in the same position.
she’s been thugging. hat low, sweatpants low, afro hair, smooth skin, smooth **** dancing under the moonlight.
scorpion eyes, deadly eyes. i need to get close.
****** of the youthful mind, my gangster, i need you to stroke my medulla and play a thousand songs at the back of my mind.
im not trying to make sense, i was just trying to let thoughts flow.
Dear Father, can i run away? i want to run away with her, to a place nobody knows. us.
but please help me not to bend Your will.
send me to a golden forest, to the Garden of Eden, so she & i can be Adam & Eve.
we will be good. before then, i need to get close.
****** sing. sing me to sleep, sing away my troubles. i will run away with you.
Father, hope You’re listening. i need to get close, help me not to bend Your will. but i can’t get close. to You.
open the gates for me, im outside.
i need to take control of me and pour out vibes so hard the universe capsizes. ****** of the youthful mind, run away with me.
i wrote a letter to her & i & you for me. but then i threw it away.
don’t even try and make sense of the words i wrote.
don’t ask me how im feeling, just keep your eye on the poetry.
TeddyBearTribe.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage
Its only what's on the surface we
can see
There's the girl you called a **** for being pregnant
There's the boy you made fun of for crying
There's the girl you shoved in the halls
The boy you called lame
The boy you beat up for kissing another boy
Behind tinted windows we all have battle that rage
Its only what's on the surface we can see
She was *****
His mother is dying
She's already being abused at home
He has to work nights to support his family
That's his only reason to live
Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage
Its only what's on the surface we can see
Her sweatpants and hoody provoked him
Cancer is a *****
Her father is a drunk
His father is in a wheelchair and can't work
His family told him they'd rather him dead than gay
Behind tinted windows we all have battles that rage
It's only what's deep inside we can't see
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
It's Sunday
The Mexicans are all doing their laundry
Little girls with shiny bows, sweatpants and sequined tops
Happy smiling faces
Lead the brigade
Mothers follow
Shopping carts on the brink of exploding
The wheels about to blow
Tuxedo shirts, soccer uniforms with the words ***** PAN monogrammed on the front, mismatched socks, and pajamas with feet
Colors
A mess
Cheap laundry detergent stuck on top
I rush down to the laundry
They always take the best machines
I find my place
Throw my little load in
One person does not have that much
I never realized how alone I was
Until that moment
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
She liked sweatpants, just like her mother did
She wore them her whole life
She told him how much she hated when people tried taking them
They always tried stealing them
He stained the sweatpants though
Her favorite sweatpants
The one she waited months for to get
She tried not to think much of it
Then he stole her sweatpants
She didn't get why
She made it so clear of how much she disliked when people did that
But he did it anyways
Why couldn't he ask?
It was just a simple question
It was what she held on to the most
He took it away
She misses those sweatpants
She misses how it felt when she did have them
Her favorite sweatpants she wore her whole life was gone forever
And there was nothing she could do to get it back
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
I’m a functionally depressed person.
I’ve self-diagnosed myself as this
Because severe depression makes
Me feel like I should be lying
Around my house all day and
Although I’d rather wrap myself
In the blankets of my bed,
I push myself out into the day.
Dressed in an outfit that’s not
Sweatpants and a t-shirt, but
Instead, jeans and a sweater.
Long sleeves to cover the cuts
On my arm, or many bracelets
With no colors that match my
Outfit but they cover my
Self-inflicted wounds from
The night before.
I fake a smile at people
That I pass by during the day
And I hope that they can’t
See through my eyes and into
My head. I hope they can’t read
The suicidal thoughts swimming
Around, filling the lack of serotonin
That I’m missing from my brain.
Their eyes feel like lasers shooting
Into my brain like bullets that I dream
Of releasing from the chamber
To settle in my head.
I’m a functionally depressed person
Because I function in society
Without anyone knowing that
Inside, I’m already dead.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC