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Madisen Kuhn Oct 2014
i dreamt you could love me again,
that you had a big studio apartment in the city
and you bought her lots of gifts,
made her go thrifting with you
to buy strange clothes,
but she knew you loved someone else,
she knew you missed me
and that you would always be mine,
and although i woke up
and not a bit of it was true
(because i know you love her
and that you don’t think about me)
it was still nice to live in a world
where your heart had not
forgotten my name.
Daniel Fowler Dec 2012
Ah, the season of gifting.
Antagonist of year-long thrifting.
Tradition sadistic,
Materialistic,
Four quarters in pockets worth sifting.

This year I hereby proclaim
I shan’t be consumed by the game.
Cycle of curse
Purpose perverse
The namesake, an oversight became.

Christ’s birth did in fact begin,
Holiday distracted by sin.
Misguided it be
To forget idly
The sacrifice He made for all men.

We naively regard generosity
As holiday’s behavioral piosity.
But if dollars and cents
Are the tools of offense
Over shadow favor luminosity.

Water in Africa is *****.
American child in poverty.
Politics aside,
Convenient homicide,
To enable the ills of society.

In the global economy we flaunt
Wealth by comparison, bitter taunt.
First world problems abound
Pass the turkey around
Central heating and air, what a jaunt!

What if this season we decide
To extend two palms open wide?
Sacrificing ourselves
Rather than stocking our shelves
Dying whispers echo true: “we tried.”

Don’t spend your money on me this year.
Not iPhones, not tickets, not Blu-ray or beer.
Instead know you can
Distribute more than
A snort, a lie, and a tear.

(optional conclusion to assist interpretation of last line)

Snort of derision,
Lies of provision,
Tears, even true,
Hardly subdue
Anguish deprived of tradition’s revision.
b e mccomb Oct 2016
i don't feel very
whole these days

that specific sticky
dusty feeling all over
my palms neck tilted
sideways running the
tips of my fingers down
rows of plastic cases

"oh are you over
there looking at
music again?" you
sigh but it's not
the kind of reproach
i need to defend
myself against because
you know i always do it

and i don't think you
really mind how long
i take because once in
awhile i'll find one that
you like or that i'm so
excited over you can't complain

and then we wander
through rows of
scratched dressers
winding our way
around old doors and
molding strips that had
a better life once
chairs and desks
dinette sets and hutches
a little bit of this
a little bit of that
a little bit of something special

laughing over
strange items
ugly clothing
even art pieces

and for an hour or
two i can feel the
stuffy secondhand air
between us clear

we usually don't
buy anything or if
we do it's not much
because neither of us
happen to have very
much extra cash

but once in awhile we'll
find a fifty cent mug
potato coasters
a solid wood end table
or a nice cd rack
a piece of someone else's past

and i'll load the
furniture into
the van if you let
me keep the change

i like thrifting
because looking at
items with unknown
history puts the
present into
perspective

gives us a reason
to go out something
to laugh about over
the dinner table

to agree about how
nice that cabinet is
or to disagree about
how ugly wicker is
instead of what
the other is feeling

because everything
is subjective whether
it's trash or treasure whether
it's mine or the next person's

and i don't feel very
whole these days
but on the other hand
i'm not yet in
the attic of the salvage
shop on the corner
and neither is
our relationship
Copyright 10/18/16 by B. E. McComb
Un-Thrifting Essence, what of Loneliness
Allows the Hill across to bend and weep?
Who is to blame? Are you the Sorceress
Drawn to cast an Un-Witting Spell so deep?
These are all but Questions; If I may add
Failed on Writ, yet convenient to Subject
Here is the Adjective I thought I had
But the Spell did lie thus made to reject
My Immortal Covenant: To Keep you,
Dearest Talent; A Servant's Dud I make
Within a shadow shines a Brighter Hue,
A Promise I no longer will Forsake:
Though in Essence always revealed un-been
I am that Shadow never revealed un-seen.
#toniacouch
Martin Narrod May 2014
"I know your vexed great spirit, miles away, a gentler more playful you thrives on a journey of life. There among a ridge, the plateau where you dance, leaping, ripping yourself out of the air,escaping towards the light. Free from the weight which chastises and locks you up. Out of the medicine cabinet quaffing your deepest breaths, urging your hours shorter and shorter. You cascade like glass buttons scattered on the desert floor, let those wet cloths be forgotten, may your sorrow disappear amidst that great arenose simoom.  When the ghibli makes you stutter before the bright outlook you once displayed, do not forget to visit the flowers that bring you the most  peace of mind"------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ It's here. In the pile-ons, wrapping around your head like a cool, wet bandage, keeping out a headache, or the rancorous guilt of an ugly night. It sits on the top-layer of your forehead, beading off in fresh droplets of self-pity, uncomfortable and self-defeating restlessness and despair. I rub it with my hands, removed each new wave of desperation and soothing your hairline with a swath of my hand. I raise up, your cucumber colored walls, that bright pink bedspread, nothing different ever changes. The masonite paintings still there, that old familiar **** carpet, a thatch-work of menage-a-tois and fifth grade-style arts and crafts. The light bulb has been out for six years, third drawer right-side down is still stuck, a mystical blow dryer blocks it closed, and the door won't ever quite close- I take a shower with the world wide opened and you trailing a fastening steep. And so your fever rises, your feet soak in a tepid iron clad bed frame while your mind rattles against your skull. Thirty days have past, lifeless, echoing in this wicked upstairs chamber. The West Wing. Slatted blinds, the white dresser, the Chanel books, the pool party photos, the blue swim-meet t-shirts, the fake gold trophies and the true gold hairs on your head, my fingers dash across your forehead again meeting your brow with the cool folded washcloth, I reach for your back and you turn, slightly rolling; something routine, unsteadied, even wicked limps in a stress ball inside your bottom lip. It's just a quiver. Nothing different ever changes. It's the devil inside, and I am nowhere to go. Maybe midnight or maybe twilight. Every hour of morning is another hour of night I'm ever taking my sleep back into. I don't count the days, just mark them in the thoughts of worry that flurry through in brief thoughts. I am obsessed with care-taking now. Three hours have passed since I showered you out of your black party dress and sparkly Gucci slip-skirt, since I took bits of post-digested food from your hair, held your nose with a tissue and told you to blow it all out, again, another night of building a sick room and sauna. I never tire, I just make arrangements, I build a small room and I wait the weight out. Nothing different ever changes, and I don't expect the unexpected or dare to meet your smile again.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------ Three months ago, thrifting on Valencia and 26th Street. Walking from Blue Bottle to the Bay then to the Breakers. I climb atop A Buena Vista with man Adam, you scale a mountain-sized hill with your teal green and cherry red Nikes. We make a photograph in front of white dogwood blossoms overlooking a steep Ravine to the East. A bird chirps, a homeless woman barks, and four children smoke cigarettes and joints in a treetop. Every ***** goes up and down, each footstep dithering amidst our biduous ascent. I buried you last Thursday beneath the dogwood, your cherry red and teal green gym shoes planted at your doggerel.
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.

Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.

With smash hits like
"This traffic is *******"
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals

Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.

old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.

"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.

Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"

So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
k e i Aug 2020
the date reads november 18.

there's 6 days before our anniversary

-i think i've finally gotten it right now.



the air's crisp with that autumnal scent of dried leaves. the coffee’s what keeps me from losing the last of my grip on this cold morning, indifferent to the iciness of our early days i currently heed through.



my forgetfulness had its way of having us spiral down to endless fights-our anniversary was one thing for instance. petty back and forth bickerings resolved with my “i love you's” met with eyerolls failing to cover up the smile that slides it way on your face. heated stares and suffocating silences. “i'm sorry, i'll make it up to you's” soon lost its charm. conflicts hung with one of us walking out. compromises wavered, melted into emotionless pleas to end it all-us saying "**** it" to the rings glinting on our digitus quartus.



the day we've chosen to surrender it all true to life inevitably came, that september 7 five years ago. if i force myself to stop thinking about the specifics, i can brush it off as our homage paid to the same day i was first made known of your existence as you passed by me in the campus grounds, the day we scratched our angst upon a match box-little did we know it would become the same fuel that extinguishes all the embers we've lit aflame. that year winter followed but it simply couldn’t come up with blizzards raging with more cruelty.



autumns ago we gave up on being each other's stressors and stress reliever. we’ve turned out to be the boulder rolling on all the spaces we shared, flattening the dreams, the dayfalls, the vows we’ve exchanged and wherever it was that we’ve only quite reached the middle of;



our midpoint turned out to be our ending.





for so long this wondering nested in the crevices of my hollow. have we done or not done some small thing, done or undone it some other way, would the course of things have ran differently for us?



maybe they’ve been right all along,

and their fingers pointed to our temples were justly served.

maybe they were right and we were just two kids unsuspecting of just how much an involvement of forever would cost us.

such hasty entanglement, infinitely falling unto acts of impulses yet again.

maybe we should’ve saved all that trouble of gown and tux thrifting and cake tasting and tying the knot until the years proved ripe with stability.

you should've said “we should talk about this first.” instead when i got down on one knee five months after we’ve gotten our degrees.



you could have offered a spillage of precarious uncertainty instead of easily giving out that hearty yes, flinging us both on top of the world only to be mercilessly pulled six feet under, forced to breath still.

you would’ve stomped over the shards cut out of the shape of my heart but at least i’d eventually come with an acceptance. we wouldn’t have turned into ten years worth of grief.



i know you’ve always been born for higher things, always been on the lookout for greater pursuits. that’s what made me drawn to you in the first place after all. you were someone who knew where she was headed to despite the fuckedupness of all that surrounded you while i was some beaten down misguided boy who needed that pulling uprooting force of a direction.



maybe you should’ve gone off to medschool and i with working my way for a promotion before we dealt with rent and bills and threading on the line of what it truly meant to be parents.

i’ll always thank the heavens for having the thorns leave that part unharmed, our daughter cradled by peace, swaddled in the softest of petals, later on forging the steps where wildflowers bloom; it was only right we named her after one. celandine.



she’s got your doe eyes, the exact tinge of blue. i can see how much she looks up to you. she told me how she wants to be a doctor when she grows up the last time i picked her up from the place you both live in now. during the drive, she was humming to the chorus of that old nirvana song, you know, that one we repeatedly listened to. i couldn’t help but have my heart swell, nearly tearing up. it felt like a memory the three of us shared like her first nights at that house. her loud cries quieted down as you hummed that alt song into a lullaby. she’s very inquisitive for her age though she’s still yet to ask questions about us or why her parents don’t live or spend time together or why she only gets to see her dad during the weekends. but i think for a five year old she somehow understands.



i can imagine you scoffing, a cigarette dangling from your lips just like the old days where you’d light one whenever you couldn’t help but be annoyed. your belief that regret is stupid and what if’s take you to a drive to nowhere still stands strong. but baby for a long time the what if’s have kept me going, as with all my unhealthy coping mechanisms-when we peeled off the last of the wallpaper, pulled out our clothes from our shared closet, even still when i gunned my old corolla to ignition.



we lost it all.

to our fights. to their i told you so’s. to the vows we’ve memorized since our dates around the college park. to the milestones framed. to autumn and winter and spring and summer.



it's years later and we've managed to unstuck ourselves from the rubble this marriage has become like how adults are expected to deal with everything else this sorry excuse of a life hurls at. but hey, maybe you were right. maybe us separating was necessary to **** off the beasts that tore past the skins of our monsters in unison.



i know you don’t really regret any of it. i know what we’ve birthed from the sadness that trailed down our tailbones patterned from dysfunctional upbringings held out to be intentions pure, offered for a ravaging love. i saw it, felt it the years that led us to the altar and the years witnessed by those housewalls, those fall afternoons the three of us napped in the same room as a family.



there’s 6 days before our anniversary and i’ve finally got it right.

10 years too late.

forgive me for longing, but i think it’s only right that i make do with what was saved from the skeletal framework of bruised years;

the gold ring i’ve strung on a necklace.

the state magnets from our old refrigerator.

the photo album filled with pictures from that white sand beach on our honeymoon.

the pinstriped tie you made me wear on my first day at my third job.

even the way you used to hog the covers and how you’d tend to burn the breakfast eggs.



there’s six days before our anniversary and now, i’ve finally gotten it right.

10 years too late.





“our relics are still yet to meet their grave. but their epitaph would read happy anniversary”.
Mick Feb 2020
A dress for every me
I couldn't be with you
Wrote this one a very long time ago after a breakup.
Your Wreath, Un-Thrifting Essence, bears his Name
And Fine be your Acts soothe such Heavy Hand
Which Time boost as his Protector and Sage
Skimming the Dirt infect his Rising Sand
Though one would Wonder why such Blogger speak
Of Secrets known must bequeath to the Few
Though in your Boy's Best Fate subdue the Meek
Out of Best Concern his Wild Growth does stew
So persistent be our same Wonder at
Those Keys deserved should never be Endorsed
For his own Respect; As ours Mature that
Let the Gentleman go if his Plays be Forced.
My Loyalty, still, Un-Conditioned will be
Though Swords still stab on such Smile you Reprieve.
#tomdaley1994 #tomdaleytv #toniacouch
Tanya Chaudhary Sep 2014
Somewhere between coffee and stupid talks
And infinite random city tours & walks.

The movie marathons and midday naps
Exquisite food and memories gift wrapped.

G-talk sessions and plane tickets to anywhere with you along
While in the journey, discovering our new favorite song.

Imaginary burn books and death glares,
Silent sentences spoken through stares.

Late night calls and whispers in the dark,
Threatening any guy who dares to break our heart.

Never judging each other and reading one’s mind
My love for ***** and your love for Wine.

“I am undateable” to “Open Up” monologues.
Putting up with the drama of all the loves lost.

Making pop culture references and finding it normal.
I don’t remember the last time we were ever formal.

Of making our fool in front of the ‘classy’ audience
And continuing doing that with elan and confidence.

Our love for wanderlust. Places far and bizarre.
To spend thrifting and getting broke in a hep bazaar.

Overeating and then cribbing about our weight.
To consoling ourselves that “him” is worth the wait.

Of nagging parents and relatives that crib.
Of closing our eyes and letting things slip.

Quick fights and quicker reconciliation.
Sharing deep secrets & deeper confessions.

It is between being mistaken for Lesbians
And being mistaken for Sisters.

Our ballad is a roller coaster ride that only goes up
Our ballad is all these things & more, ready to erupt.
INFINITEabyss Aug 2016
It's the last night  ill make love to you. Frank ocean's Godspeed will play, loud enough to drown out the countless failed efforts. We pushed our luck.Ill let go of my claim for you; its a free world. It cant even escape our lips that we didnt try. Ive been thrifting too long, I dont wanna have to always make something out of the old. I need that new new. And no one can say we didnt try.   Ill make love to you and what other lips couldnt say these will say. Smoke something, with me you could always  let the tears shed. We'LL dance with tears in our eyes and better love at our finger tips. Youll find better and ill stop thrifting find that new new, where I love you isnt an apology.
Zane Smith Jan 2021
with someone to have a good time.

Romanticize simplicity with yourself

Go to the grocery store
Get some coffee
Go to a view
Find a new place you've never been
Buy art supplies
Get lunch
Find a recipe
Go thrifting
Hang out at a park
Watch a movie
Read a book
Smoke
Listen to music
Go somewhere you haven't in awhile
Feel the energy in a metaphysical shop
Doodle on something random
Wake up early
Make a charcuterie board
Light a candle
Affirmations.
You attract what you put forward to the universe.
Annaleisa Dec 2011
Thrifting through men
Nothing unique
Pathetic ***** want ***.
Binary Code Mar 2015
Why is coeds so. Good at poem sew you ask?


Ha
What a stupid one you are guy


Ime thw voice of the nation, you know that's true.        But thing is ya know I'm grea, do you filled

Have you Ben stein watch going on Henry'



Whom thrifting is unmatched  laddie

I dell,chomp you know thei is ri

Atiocorrdt doesn't exactly ymwor doff name beaut I like is all the maybe


Hohe man I'm phony bad I'm goooîd
I'm is hoards guy I'm joking
Flaws Oct 2015
Nights spent pulling away pieces of my skin remind me of trimming fabric from unwanted articals of clothing

My exterior does not define me
But I despise what's underneath

Maybe if I peel back far enough
And glare at the bare contents of my being
I'll see something worth saving

Thrifting, and scrapbooking my flaws

I do not enjoy this
I do not want to be this
These torn up jeans
This torn up soul

So I scratch off the scabs from every wound
Reopening my problems, exposing them to my ever changing mind

This scar stings my eyes the way the sun used to when I was a child

This scar has been there since I was a child

I believe that thought is called an epiphany
But I never wanted to realize these things about myself
So I throw them out
Leaving me hollow

Maybe something or someone can fill the cavity I myself carved from my chest

Maybe nothing and no one ever will

It's hard to tell

I feel nothing

I am nothing
Look to blue stained greys
Raise your eyes and see
A teetering balance
Between drops of rain
And clear, happy skies

Look between the clouds
See past reflections
And tricks of light
Beyond our skies
And to the stars

Hold your hand
Ground you close
As fears rise
Thrifting your own
Stifle cries

There are worlds
Beyond what you see
More than you can allow
I can't give you dreams
But show you the way
Slightly Lovely Mar 2022
You deserved so much more than what you were given,
My love,
You deserve the smell of rain on concrete,
Of crying in a lover’s arms,
Hands through your hair,
Hugs from behind,
Swaying in an embrace as you make pasta,
Pj days and thrifting hauls,
And someone who will pick up your room and bring you cocoa when you can’t get out of bed.
My Darling,
You deserve the world,
And everything it has to offer.
dissociating again.
once again.
but this should be a happy moment
at brusters ice cream.
you're so heckin cute.
you like thrifting too?
and to think..
i almost blew you off completely..
because online you seemed
just like an average guy.
but heck;
im an average girl
aren't i?
but we can't stop talking.
we giggle during what would be
awkward silences.
wow.
and Aquarius;
just the thought of you is..
dreamy..
well here i am,
kissing you goodbye,
outside ulta
at 12:30
georgia sophie Jun 2018
let's go to the markets
thrifting
star gazing
road tripping
wandering through forests
staying in motels
music festivals
travel to new towns
i long for those things
with you
I wanna work at a laundromat
Where the carpets are flat flat flat
And the washers are egg shell white
Soon to find me there overnight

I wanna work across the street
In the dollar store off the beat
Thrifting modernist wood-grain hats
Someone even sold their cat cat cat

Come on and find me with the Pet Stop freaks
Canary’s and wild flowers leased in heaps
Pleased to find something that’s pink pink pink
Pleased to come to find that it’s extinct

I wanna work at the registry park
Renewing leaves for sharks sharks sharks
I’ll speak softly but make them spat
For the last pen in their habitat

By night I will toil beneath a black sky
Cough cough and inhale my pride pride pride
Watching the men in my watch-men-machine
Living towers where you build your dreams

Somehow, somewhere is a job for me
Come the morning I will scrounge and I’ll bleed
But I’ll look great as I rise to the sky
As there to catch me is that twelve ninety-five
Finished March 13, 2018
kain Mar 2020
I start telling you a story
You break out into song
You say you're not around
Because of that one special person
The one you hate oh so much
Everyone else believes you
Frankly I don't care anymore
You bring me nothing but apathy
I'm tired of getting excited
When you say we should go thrifting
Then we never do
I might care about what you think
If it was more than empty words
Every time you speak it's nothing
Meaningless interrupting
Say whatever you want
I'm not listening anymore
I frankly just could not give less of a **** about what's going on with them anymore. I don't care whose fault it is. I'm ******* sick of this.
Chameleon Jun 2019
Somehow it’s so easy to lose track
of myself.
Don’t seem to notice until it’s too late
that it’s been awhile since I’ve been okay.
So I’ll search for new music,
go thrifting
and start a skin care routine.
Read a book and spend some time alone
and slowly I’ll start to feel like myself again.
Leslie Castaneda Aug 2019
Once the sun says goodnight
and the moon starts to shine
I start to think of the finer things in life.
Like the fact that we both sleep under the same sky. You and I we should dream of the happiest things. Might we try something light just for tonight?

Like a walk on the beach with our toes in the sand. Or a cruise through the streets both hand in hand. We can go to a diner and dress really nice. Or dance without caring if we get the steps right. Stargazing and thinking “are we all that there is? ” Or go thrifting to see who can find the nicer fit. Maybe skating or bowling whatever you’d like.

But if that’s all too much and you’d prefer to stay simple. We can just stay inside, and call it a date night.

At home close together a movie on screen.
Cuddling with you our breaths start to sync.
My head on your shoulder your head on mine.
I look up at your eyes what a pretty sight.
We kiss under sheets while Lovesong is playing.
The credits start rolling the movie has ended.
How crazy it’d be if this wasn’t a dream.
Baby this could be us if you’d just stop playing.

Now the moons said good bye and surely the sun will soon rise. Sadly it’s time to wake up, from what I wish was true life. But for now I can dream, of the finer things. And just hope that one day I’ll wake up by your side.
Caro Jun 29
Lately I’ve been letting my hair grow
My leg hair has caused me consistent unrest in my life
Shaving and plucking and waxing only for it to bristle again 30 minutes later
Coming in dark on my pale skin
Sharp and tough as cactus spears
So I’m letting it grow
And wearing shorts
I went to a friends house with my hairy legs and he was shocked
He wondered out loud “you go out like that?”
That time around my grown out leg hair only lasted a month
I wonder how long this phase will last
Maybe I’ll never shave it again
Wouldn’t that be easy?

I feel the same about a wild lawn
Of uncut grass
Growing in thickets and patches
Different species and colors and lengths
Catching the light
Being divine
Maybe my leg hair can be like this

I emerge from the dock barefoot in a t shirt
And find my sister talking to neighbors
They’re wearing shoes with their hair done
I wonder how wild I look
Not as wild as I am

They’re teachers too
My bare hairy legs reveal
That I’m a feminist
She clocked the legs and didn’t have to
Take a moment to let it sink in
As my friend from college did when I went thrifting with her last week
She started at them and then quieted herself
But this lovely woman in hot pink
Gave me her approval
She said I’ll be okay teaching
I can handle myself she said
I’m a feminist

Reactions from women
About my hairy legs
Are becoming
So fun

— The End —