"teaspoons" poems
Tingling alarm,
burning eyes,
sassy is out,
in my mind.
**** long hair,
short skirt,
dark music,
pale skin.
Salty humor,
seriously sweet,
sparkling aura,
on high-heels.
Knocking on hearts,
Opening doors,
Shivering crowds,
Dancing all floors.
Sight sets on me,
Fountains of youth,
Brilliance in her steps,
Each marked with truth.
Tied by her beauty,
My soul's reeling in,
Tossing and turning,
The lure, deady sin.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Each night I lie myself to sleep.
Everything will be alright.
Each night I count rocky mountain sheep,
And wake up in the morning bright.
Each dawn I drink coffee with cream,
Two teaspoons of sugar or three.
Each dawn I live the american dream,
In my little house by the sea.
Each morn I ride into the city
To teach the new generation.
Each morn I make myself look pretty,
To gain a mans affection.
Each noon I head to the bookstore,
Eat a late lunch at the cafe.
And each noon I lay on my wood floor,
Making a small paper bouquet.
Each evening I cook myself a small dinner.
Dessert made with chocolate and powdered sugar.
Each evening I consider getting thinner,
And every time, to myself I snicker.
Now each night I sing my love to sleep.
I hold him close to my own delight.
Now each night we count rocky mountain sheep.
and we wake up every morning in the bright.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
blip bleep beep boop
santas gonna watch me sleep
slip sleep seep soap
mommy wants to have a feast
avocados, bathrooms, teaspoons, menthol breath
so very special to watch you seek
bread, seven elevens, toilet paper, adjectives
the way you'd never see.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
“Two teaspoons of coffee, one teaspoon of sugar, and pour it right before it boils down”, my mother said smelling the coffee she is cooking to perfection. I stand there and wonder what scent Hamlet was smelling when he said “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark”, I’m guessing it’s the same scent colonizing this house. I look at the ***** ceiling and start sniffing the air. My mother looks at me and says “your nose is nearing the skyline, keep it where your feet are. Men don’t like prideful women”.
I looked around trying to see what smelled so repulsive. My grandmother lit incense, my sister baked a fresh orange cake for celebration, my other sister splashed a few drops of the musk that the Arab man gifted us all over the house, and father held a stack of 500 Riyal banknotes to his nose.
The rich Arab that knocked on our door last week asking if we have an extra womb for sale is visiting again today. My mother prepared a hot bath for me an hour ago; she said I have to smell like freshly uprooted Baladi roses, so I soaked in the bathtub trying to figure out what is this repulsive scent I am smelling.
Right after I finished my bath I told my mother “something stinks”. Her reply was dragging me to the kitchen where she teaches me how to make coffee. I say “mother, nobody drinks coffee here”, she says “You need to learn how to properly make coffee to serve our sheikh some tonight. Remember, eyes on the ground”. I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “Keep them where my feet are”.
I hear people in the city overlook what lies beneath their feet; a 16 year old city girl will never know what it means to have to walk 30 kilometers with a broken shoe in order to read one book. I guess farming taught me a thing or two about looking down. I remember reading before that African slaves were shipped to America to primarily work in farms, coffee and sugar farms to be exact. I realize now what this stink is. I look at my mother and tell her “I will not marry him. This ring reeks of slavery”. She looks at me in astonishment, and I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “and pour it right before it boils down”.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.
Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
one drop of fruitless satisfaction
two spoonful of unease
three teaspoons of emptiness
four quarts of loose tears
a handful of frustration,
pints of jealousy
gallons of heaviness
dozens of music,
and a sea of thoughts
but a drop is enough for me to drown
My teeth hurts...
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC
#
Piercing blue eyes
As though you can see the truth
A wide boyish smile
Barely at the prime of youth
Brown freckles that cover your face
I could trace the constellation
A void of stars coating the night sky
Creating whats deemed a wonderful sensation
On your 18th birthday
A year away from now
We shall cook ravioli together
You said you would teach me how
You wear fingerless gloves
Each and everyday
They double up as mittens
"I love them"
I would always say
Warm and cozy
Far to large for my hands
But they fit yours perfectly
Then again they are made for a man's
I'll still call you Smol boy
Even though you tower over me
I'm sure your use to it by now
After all I'm pretty crazy
Pure black coffee
With no sugar at all
A little bit of milk though
8-10 teaspoons if I recall
***Too bitter for my liking
I'll have enough sugar for the both of us***
You're an insomniac
Barely 2-3 hours a night
Its quite concerning
But you say your alright
I know your a lil over the edge
you're a fair bit mental
But your a dear friend of mine now
I'm sure you're actually quite gentle
I'll support you still
Even though I've barely skimmed the surface
There is still much more to uncover
And sure I'm a little nervous
Even maybe a little scared
But you're my Lil ravioli boy
So there is no reason to fear
Try not to be coy
I'll be there for all your sketchy antics
And all the mental breakdowns
And I hope you will be there for me
When my heart occasionally hits the ground
Though whatever happened through this
All the highs and the lows
I'll stand by you through it
No matter how steep the road
Lil Ravioli Boy
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
hung in black cobwebs
wrapping the ceilings
hot water cylinder
rusted to usless
old nickle plated
green tarnished teaspoons
food scraps that lurk
on ancient linolium
a sprouting of mushrooms
under the cooker
bin bags all spilling
jumble sale clothing
death a relief
only imagined
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
I used to like you a lot.
i don’t know what ******* happened.
we’re children and you pushed me off the swings,
off the playground,
out of the park.
And now my best friend only wants
me for what i can say about you,
you sea urchin.
bouquet of prickling spikes
piercing my jagged rib bones.
rip through me,
feasting scoundrel,
you ***** you fox.
you viper.
wipe her from my soggy slate.
dinner plate? it’s empty.
everyone is the garbage disposal,
grinding my teaspoons of self-worth
into dusty pieces. i am the garbage.
and i never pegged you as one
to leave me in a
dark parking lot,
shadows curling their bony fingers
around my purple lungs,
but she found you making love to
him in the same car we sat.
the bull frogs saw what you did.
i’m warning you to stop pretending
like you’re still a fawn.
a doe-like female.
i can see through the speckles
on your face
and your mixed tapes.
i don’t have heart left for you,
you ******
kneel in front of his knobby
knees. beg,
*****
muck him up and then
lick him clean,
feline.
slink past me in the night,
in the broad daylight.
you are not a spy
i can see your arteries.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
You need a porcelain mixing bowl and a wooden stirring spoon
a cup and a measuring jug.
Add one teaspoon of ripe inconsequentiality.
then add two teaspoons of innate stupidity.
Pour in one cupfull of political lack of integrity
preferably nurtured in hot smelly air.
Add 4 cupsfull of facile celebrity chatter,
preferably with the volume turned down..
Add 2 cupsfull of shallow religious nonsense
full of obsequious morality.
Add 2 cupsfull of vain "god" chatter
and sacrificial demands.
Pour in 1/4 cup of nonsensical "goddess" humbug
and fatuous posturing.
Sift untold millions of youthfull soldiers dried
and powdered bones until finely ground in the crucible
of never ending wars.
Take up the wooden spoon of societal hypocracy
and stir slowly with gossipy backstabbing.
When all these ingredients are blended as smoothly as a shaven young girls **** put to one side covered with a bloodstained cloth for a millennia to rise to the occasion.
Back in an hour
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
(n.)
a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that has been loved and then lost
January //
Your smile makes flowers grow in my lungs and I'm too busy taking care of the garden, pulling the weeds out for the flowers to live and bloom, I forget I need to breathe too
February //
They say addiction is a habit; kisses are drugs but your lips are rehabilitation and I keep coming back for more sessions because I need it; you're my "personal brand of ******
March //
I write symphonies about the way a single touch from you defines the revolution of the Earth but I was wrong; it actually defines the whole galaxy
April //
My eyes are the same hue of empty, vacant, while the ocean is trapped in your eyes; there are more than meet those chocolate orbs, so let me explore every depth of the waters with you
May //
Your voice is the sound of the soft pitter-patter of the falling rain on the window pane after a storm, and the clouds don't hide the sun anymore
June //
I love the smell of books and coffee, especially with extra teaspoons of sugar and a story about looking for a place to call home as I long for the scent of belonging I only get from having you wrapped in my arms
July //
I fell in love with the way every novel I read has pages with traces of your footprints, your mark imprinted in my heart like how one is drawn to TFIOS; heartbreaking and tear-filled but it was true and the love is real, sort of like you and I; I like to think of it like that — you are Hazel and I am Augustus
August //
I don't believe in full-stops, I don't believe there could be an end to this love we have like how there is an end to a sentence; you might not have noticed that there is not a single full-stop here because our story is not ending, I'm not saying goodbye yet, and Augustus has not died yet; please do not leave me
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
A dash of personality
Two teaspoons of wishfull thinking
A sprinkle of beauty
A sprits of humor
Is all you need
You'll fall in love an then you'll see
All you needed was a bit of conifidence
Of which you got from me
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
✓My favorite weapon
✓Bikini ski boat
✓Fluorescent sand
✓Her eyes immaculate
✓Keys to the prophet's house
✓Emotional screening device
✓1 cup of sun, 3 teaspoons of rain
✓Third world treasure map & saxophone
✓Alternate flightpaths
✓Extra parachute
✓Mediocre Shakespeare
✓Poison pen letters
✓Getaway car & escape route
✓Ladies in waiting (in lingerie)
✓Subterranean lips
✓A pinch of film noir
✓Night vision
✓Antarctic scenarios
✓Fountain of remembrance
✓Policy of containment
✓Silhouette machine
✓Water wings
✓Pillow
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 10:12 AM UTC
Now how do I put it into words,
Explaining a feeling I've never felt before,
A little piece of love; making me yearn for more,
A richly deserved taste of it's brewing love,
Inside of my cup; sometimes in a long mug,
The steam tickles my top lip hairs, I stir, and stir,
Sip, sip, careful not to get burned.
That little *** is boiling over the stove,
It whistles proudly; of my warm heart for my love.
Pulling the draw; grabbing a spoon, three teaspoons
of sugar, a full spoon of coffee, and the hot water I pour.
Oh! Looks like it's a bit to bitter, so let's grab the sugar
and add one more.
Warm blanket, warm thoughts, a warm paper,
and pen, then my warm words.
_Warmth._ Warmth is all I can describe of my
love in words.
Apr 17, 2022
Apr 17, 2022 at 10:22 AM UTC
it's quiet simple, i remembered it finally,
lost long ago in the dwarven mines to memory,
the weights and measures were hard to
balance, but, when the recipe was finished,
boy, was it finished... so this is how it goes:
150 grams of plain flower
2 teaspoons of baking powder
pinch of salt
(mix),
add 4 eggs
(mix),
add 600 millilitres of whole milk
(mix & cover, leave aside for at least half an hour),
melt a **** of butter, pour into a baking tray,
place in an oven at 180°C
for half an hour...
serve with anything from icing sugar
lingonberry jam (or any other jam)
to crème fraîche.
and that's it... it's not your typical pancake,
but it's from Finland after all.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted ***
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
the world will never run out of water
as long as the actors, dancers, painters, writers,
can make fellow humans weep,
as long as there are teaspoons
to catch their tears that face seep,
the world will never run out of water,
but you better learn to like the flavor,
salty sweet
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Remind me that
one day
I will visit the planet
Zog
Where sleepy people
parade in duvets
instead of clothes.
Good morning
to them means nothing.
Sleepy people come from Zog.
Is it where rude animals live?
That make a mess with
food in their dish
oh sorry they eat
off the floor.
Spend their time
distributing hairs to
every corner of a room,
Then they go in the
shoe cupboard and
choose the nicest shoe
and goes to the toilet on
the sole of it. Nice.
A dog comes from Zog.
Moths
their one purpose in life
to spread eagle on your car window
with a shcoked look.
Or drape themselves to the grill
on the front of your car.
They come from Zog.
The postman that looks
at the address on the envelope
looks at the number on the
front door.
Do they match?
No they do not.
It is next door's mail.
But hey ** just for the thrill of it
it goes in the letterbox.
That postman comes from Zog.
The teaspoon from the cutlery drawer
having its daily laugh.
Refusing to comform
wont go with the rest, oh no
It stays in the washing up water
and tries to abscond down the plughole.
Teaspoons are from Zog.
Here endeth my rant.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
1 teaspoon of sugar
not sweet at all
2 teaspoons of sugar
bitterly mild
3 teaspoons of sugar
little sparks of taste
4 teaspoons of sugar
this is too much
5 teaspoons of sugar
by then I realise
my heart is so bitter
and I need you
(c.r)
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
A recipe on how to make a person fall in love with:
1 1/2 cups (355 ml) of DEVOTION
1 package (2 1/4 teaspoons) of AFFECTION
3 3/4 cups (490 g) of PATIENCE
2 Tbsp of OPEN-MINDEDNESS
2 teaspoons of SWEETNESS
3 cups of TRUST
2 Tbsp of COMPASSION
1 teaspoon of WARMTH
4 Tbsp of RESPECT
And an infinite amount of LOVE
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
The moment he rejected you the first time
I saw a little part of you break
like the icicles in your eyes were melted with a self destructive hate fire
burning dangerously with the unrequited desire
for his love.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
On the times he moved closer to you at the lunch table
I saw the way your body stiffened
I could see the mental checklist being ticked
making sure you had the grocery list of the things that you wanted
the things you thought he needed.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
He fluttered your heart with his smile
making you realize that this spell he put you under isn't temporary
no matter how many times he knocks you down
you'll always go back for more.
I want to tell you you don't need him.
Where other girls want to undress him with their eyes
to see the chiseled swimmers body armor created from
years of waking up before sunlight
all you want is to strip the armor from his skin
to see if what lies underneath the charm
is really as soft and sweet as it is in your dreams.
I want to tell you he doesn't matter.
The day he asked out another girl in front of you
you tell me you need a friend
you say you don't even know how to stop crying
you say it hurt so bad
choking back tears is causing you to choke out that it's killing you
and it just kills me when you say that you feel so pointless
but you're infinitely perfect to me
so I make sure that you know how pointless he is too
and that if he can't even see through his glasses to realize how beautiful you are
then he might as well be as blind as a bat.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
even though you say your importance can be rationed out in teaspoons
I tell you that no amount of measuring cups could ever measure how much you mean to me
I want to tell you that your shine is like the one light in powerless city
gifting those in the dark with the wonders of your intelligence
and with the beauty of the way in which you look at the world
I want you to know that you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for not noticing all the times that your lip was white beneath your teeth
or the way your eyes stung from the acidity of rejection
causing tears to form around the red insides of your eyelids
I'm sorry I wasn't there to wipe those tears off your face like I always promised I'd be.
I'm sorry for the time that you had to ask for me to listen
because the invisible rules written by love
in the book of friendship in my mind
say that you shouldn't have to ask for me to uncover my ears
they should always be open
and so should my arms
because that's what friends are for.
I want to tell you you're perfect.
I want to tell you I'm sorry.
I want you to know that putting layers of make up on your face
makes him fall in love with a copy of every unoriginal
girl he's ever dated but you
my friend
you are not a copy
you are not unoriginal
you are a story
you are amazing
and you should never let your self feel like any less.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
What's in his mind?
One cup of labor
Two scoops of pain
Three scoops of lust
Issues with trust
Four cups of distress
One more for the rest
And five milligrams
of pessimism at best
**What's in his heart?
One tablespoon of pride
Two teaspoons of shame
A spoonful of ambition
One third expedition
Two-thirds of abolition
A half a cup of absentee
Another half depravity
What's in his soul?
A recipe I have yet to know
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
I was born in the spirited sixties,
When t.v was there but, the channels were few,
The skirts were super short, the boots rather *****
made in crinkly wrinkly patent plastic,
The music was loud,
so my mother moaned,
as usual,
The quality was better,
The stones were ******
The Beatles were trippie,
My mother so serious,
was no freakin' hippy,
She fed us malt extracted from teaspoons,
Okay, from jars really,
I remember it tasted pretty vile,
But she'd smile,
nagging inconsiderately,
that we needed to take it,
it would do us good!
Yuk, I wonder if my brother felt the same,
I will never know!
(C) Livvi
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
1. Candles smell best when the day is nearing its end and you feel the weariness in your bones. Favourites flicker like moods and the way the fire dances upon the wick; fresh scents mostly. Zingy citrus and sweet melon and cucumber, and sometimes sweet spice and serenity which smells like old memories.
2. As a sister, I do no know what kind of attributes I wish for a sister. Even though I adore and get annoyed in equal parts by the girl who calls me big sissie, I could not name what it is that I exactly would want. Perhaps, I would enjoy some one such as Nana Visitor as my sister, although one wonders if having actors for a family member is the best.
Kelly Rowland comes to mind, and perhaps I would adore her as a sister the most.
3. I have longed for a brother for a long time, wished I had one just to experience it, mostly. I’d want someone fierce, but someone understanding too. Someone who would not treat me like I could look after myself, and under much consideration, I do not believe there is someone I’d truly want as a celebrity as my brother. Perhaps Olly Murs, if I had to really answer this.
4. Marriage is not something I would wear well, I do not think. It’s not a comfy pair of sweats or a too big sweater. It’s a very pretty dress, or a dapper suit and it doesn’t fit like colourful beanies or a rather fluffy scarf.
5. Books lay in piles about the space entitled my room, old bottles from years before I was born live in their own special cupboards. Piles of intricately made teaspoons and bone-handled knives tuck into boxes upon boxes upon boxes. Old text books barely squeeze into my shelves. I hoard like I breathe.
6.When young and flexible I managed to tie myself in knots; I’d fit in spaces I only dream about now and stretch like I was reaching for the light. Doing such things like the splits doesn’t occur to me anymore, I’ve got a book to read, an emotion to write and a song to hum under my breath.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC