The more unwanted a desire is the more likely it will come back to you if you try to throw it away....
Some feelings are like a boomerang
You can try to face it head on but it sticks its tounge out at you in the mirror and calls you names
It lurks in your cabinets and takes up space in your refrigerator
It sings to you in the shower and turns your internal radio to a station you'd never voluntarily listen to
Every word you ever said plays on repeat, oh would you like all the things you regret 24/7 commercial free
hurting your own feelings is now included with your paid subscription to abject misery
Sometimes it seems like theres no end in sight and the service charges keep changing
I'd like to cancel my membership please
Does anyone know how to log out of their anxiety?
From bathroom pipes, kitchen sinks
From inside cabinets, drain and sewer points
The cockroach approaches in a flash of time.
Once sighted, woman gets scared and yelp
A chance for the brave husband to help
And to flaunt his bravery and might.
Seizes the broom sitting at the corner
When the brave man comes with the broom
The sly cockroach is already lost from sight
The brave man hits at every nook and corner
Misses the target, and the mission to kill, fails
Leaves his wife in utter despair and anger.
Finds the pest below the cot and hits it hard
The cockroach struggled but did not die
Broom snaps, pest flees without a trace
Nastiest pest, nocturnal in habit
The insect at its best at night
Rarely surfaces in broad daylight
Finds escape routes to hide from sight.
The insect loves and lives in grime and filth
Ill at ease in open space and broad daylight
Always in hiding and retreating to dark
Pale tan , reddish brown, glossy dark to black
Shades of repulsive colours, gross to look
Notorious for infestations and spreads diseases
Now hogging limelight in media discourse.
Plodding through desert land
Thirsting for a sip of water
I came across a wishing bottle
Inviting me to see my daughter
I lost her long ago, in many ways
With each person who bid me adieu
Never thinking her presence a nuisance
But watching the flick of the finger shaped like a shoo
...shut down
She is me, I am her, again and again
My mother sits as her, wanting sincere care
Grandma has arisen from her grave
And she's brought her own chair
Wait! She's wielding a whip of control
Her face is angry, eyes still and dead
She has filing cabinets against the wall
Keeping account of every word that's ever been said
...stone cold
No one ever wanted anyone that came
Did they all just endure and treat
Wound after wound healed and scarred
While cracked heels and blistered feet
Walk on..walk on...never relief
The promise of water is nothing but hot sand
And generations of daughters yearn
To be held by a masculine man
...transformed
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07-14-2026
all my work flaws written as statements locked in dust covered cabinets
Cabinets of plenty
Are only in dreams
For por folk
Of meager means
Sustenance becomes game
The one with the money reins
Obligation yields just enough
To wet the thickened veins
Movement around food
Becomes slithering on the board
If you are going to win
Subtleties can never be ignored
Hyper-vigilance at the core
Influencing the communication without
Never allowing true desire
To flaunt the heart about
This may be news to regular folk
Who have never known scarcity
To eat and drink without thought
Is truly a precious gift of rarity
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-23-2026
To upgrade a kitchen,
Most people I know
Would hire an expert
And work with a pro.
I live in a rental,
Which limits the range
Of the choices I have
If I’m wanting a change.
So to spiff up my cabinets,
Boring and plain,
I decided that I’d go
Against the, um, grain.
For, instead of cheap plywood
Or particle board,
Some rustic aesthetic
Was what I aimed toward.
I found what I needed
And measured and cut.
The kitchen looks better
(At least to me!), but
I have to fess up
For it didn’t take much.
Contact paper provided
That cool farmhouse touch!
My eyes have keys.
My eyes have locks.
My keys don’t fit my locks.
Eyes are made to look out
So, only out I gazed, I sought.
Others’ eyes held their own locks,
A gallery, magnificent and varied.
In those foreign yet familiar clasps, my keys tarried,
Then with a bit of work, they married—
To treasure chests filled with grand memories
To chains tight and binding
To foggy rooms with dim outlines
To hope chests crammed with keepsake findings
To storage cabinets and their appliances
To showcases bright with earnings
To boxes of hats, masks, and glasses
To cages cold with yearnings
Countless lock types I’ve encountered and
Countless locks have crumbled.
But, behind my doors are mysteries
My locks still waiting to tumble.
Within our warm homes, we humans continued to croak,
cursing the chill and calculations of snow.
Outside, imbedded in terra firma, the groundfolk,
like crocus awaited in their underground chateau.
They coped without complaint, chancing to poke
their heads out, earlier than we imagine or know.
We humans envy their energy, expecting the best
as winter dies out. Spring buds have a heyday
signalled by wavering winds warmed in the west.
Why not spring forth cleaning, throwing winter away -
closets, carpets, kitchen cabinets addressed, un-messed?
Flowers flourish as they foresee the coming of May
yellow leaves hang like old flyers
for bands that broke up decades ago
orange veins split
along the cold ground’s scars,
last color before the gray takes hold
a cool breeze
threads the season’s last breath
through busted porch screens
now the country coughs again
through exhaust and empty cabinets,
through plastic flags
flapping over pawnshops
still—those yellow leaves,
they don’t quit easy
~Brent R. Grimes
Tucked away in one of the dusty corners
of my my deceased mother’s old curio cabinets
sits a somewhat peculiar perfume bottle
among a small collection of other vials
devoid of the fragrances they so long ago retained.
This particular bottle that my gaze has rested on
has the shape of a woman’s lower leg.
What catches the eye
is the golden high heel it rests upon.
Tiny beads of glittery green
adorn its vamp and finishing edge.
I think of my dear mother
dressed for a night out on the town
in her mid-calf sparkly satin gown,
gliding smoothly on heels of gold which enhanced
the elegance of her long, slender legs.
As she paused at the door,
she’d kiss us on the cheek,
departing in a trail
of Chantilly.
Ghosts that haunt empty spaces
Like objects in cabinets
that drift on window pains
As light out places the things
left in the corners of
attics and In-between
the walls and hidden faces,
memories like objects
that linger as bookmarks
to someone's history,
yellowing pages,
trinkets and toys,
old books and broken vases
sit like old photos faded,
memories of something
best left untouched or forgotten,
never stated, between the moments of memory
Like things left in shadows last and fated,
ghosts linger here and there,
pale movements in the Either,
objects of history,
a fall of light, a twist of shadow,
objects that haunt
like old souls in empty spaces…
Writer’s block is a horrible thing.
Like cabinets slamming shut.
So the writer’s block begins.
Day one of writer’s block.
Nothing except single words.
And then single letters scattered.
Sitting on the couch.
Sighing slightly.
Nothing is fun anymore.
I could cook a slice of toast.
Or simply order pizza.
Nothing comes to mind.
Except the hunger.
Under the sink, it is leaking slowly.
Scratching my back.
Trying to grasp the bugs.
I have writer’s block.
And it will never go away.
I got in my car to head to the store.
I bought things I didn’t need.
Coupons expire.
Grocery carts squeal.
Go home to the writer’s block.
Go to bed and have a dream of words and phrases.
Draining slowly.
They say writer’s block is a horrible thing.
And that’s all I can say.
These memories will never go away,
That girl has my soul and my heart she stole.
Burdens i carry, haunt me to this day,
It seems that even love, will take its toll.
I tried and tried to make her stay
But now my heart has this whole
I fall apart at night, lost in moonlight,
waiting for the sun to come reignite
Il put my pain in these words and hope it never returns
I'm disgusted at myself and all of my habits
I'm still trying to heal from all of lifes burns
But im stuck here with my empty medicine cabinets
I feel the earth in rotation , as it slowly turns
My heart races looking at you, we are like rabbits
I learned over time that nothing lasts forever
Like a moment lost in time that youl always treasure
If I were a Victorian naturalist
I would have pinned bugs
in their boxed cabinets
and tabulated them all,
because where I place favored items
they must belong there in perpetuity.
I once dreamt that The Goddess of Mercy
had found a place for me
in the temple of Her glowing heart.
However, I fidgeted much,
shuffling from the right side to the left
trying out the snug-ability
of this place and that.
Compassionately,
Guanyin pinned me down at last
among all those that belonged to Her
in perpetuity.
Last night, I dreamt I was a parrot.
I spent my days in a cage and my nights in a rage
And all I could ever say was what I’d been told.
Every few weeks, when there was company,
and the doors and windows were surely locked
The man would let me out
And I’d fly into the kitchen cabinets and those hard-to-reach places,
and sing the words he’d never been proud of
Until I was in his grasp
and in my cage again.
What a nightmare.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.