Long Cellulite Poems
Long Cellulite Poems. Below are the most popular long Cellulite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cellulite poems by poem length and keyword.
Discombobulation hammers (sic) kills, lacerates, peppers...
tuckered wayfarer
Blitzkrieg cacophony debilitates Earthling
spiritually, mentally, emotionally... castrates
analogous post traumatic stress disorder
status simulating shell shocked warrior
dizzily descending darkening dimension
aghast - weakly ejaculate wherefore art thou
Elysian Fields?
Mine skeletal atrophied, diseased, gnarled...
once muscular flesh now awful blight
trumpets, dons, bespeaks... existence
regarding barren toothless anchorite
desolate physical environment
offlimit superfund site
mirrors equivalent condemned
toxic physical body quite
piteous, hideous, atrocious...,
this human bag of lovely bones
can barely, limply, scratchily... write
forbidding natural geography might
best demarcate courtesy skull
and crossbones bleached white
optimally reflecting feasting
carrion did delight
post mortem cannibalized habeas corpus
can never know where Edenic Garden
bloomed ah... magnificent sight,
nor reckon eyes me
how poetry doth not excite
forever striking living daylight
emancipating soul joining spiritus mundi
relieving tortured corporeal skiff good night
amidst abandoned, desecrated,
gutted... wasteland rendered might
of mankind quest to tame and temper
breathless fecundity kickstarting
rejuvenation linked to potent Gaia despite
havoc wrought regenerative force
repurposes deadened muscle and cellulite
unbeknownst decomposed organisms
comprise yours truly, nor what bright
transformation new life subsequently results
will kindle, snapchat, tender... excite.
NEARLY PERFECT
I know I am not perfect now,
but I’m pretty bloody close.
if it wasn’t for my wrinkles
or my great long pointy nose.
My figure’s really hourglass
except for cellulite,
and in my hair, you’ll find no grey
if I have dyed it right.
My boobs they sit up perky too,
in my brand-new push up bra.
and my skin is always glowing with
my menopause not far.
My bum looks really great in jeans,
with elastic sided waist.
you’ll never see my tuckshop arms
my sleeves always encase.
My twenty, twenty, vision has
come down to number ten.
I need to put my glasses on
more often now than then.
.
My pearly whites live in a jar,
I take them out each night.
I know I am not perfect still,
but most things nearly right.
When I look into the mirror too
sometimes don’t recognise,
that woman staring back at me
with crow’s feet near her eyes.
I’d like to think I haven’t changed
but if I tell the truth,
old age has crept upon my bod
that once was flushed with youth.
Wolf whistles I still get sometimes
when mistaken for a girl,
but how it sets my heart alight
my lips with smile they'll curl.
Oh yes, I’m not so perfect now,
some changes do I see.
but can’t go back, so I’ll accept
just what is meant to be.
I’m getting fatter and fatter with each passing day,
And my chest looks like breasts perhaps a child might say,
But when I think of the people that cannot eat at all,
Who cannot work from trouble and the pain of life’s falls,
Then I tell you in an instant, I am thankful for every roll,
Cause it speaks to my privilege from much of life’s toll,
And though my bills are unpaid,
And my cat needs a cage,
As he stains up my carpet with the rage of an age,
And though my daughter’s converting,
To be a Catholic sage,
What me worry? I tell you!
For I bask in God’s glory,
And the rolls on my belly,
Like Santa Cluase Jelly,
Have me rolling in laughter,
Like a jolly old pastor,
So if disaster strikes you, like it has sometimes struck me,
And you are not so pretty or handsome to see,
Rejoice, I tell you in the fat and all that,
Cause at least you’re in the game and you’re up to bat,
And don’t think that tomorrow I won’t try to walk this off,
This cellulite that causes people to scoff,
But in the end my God loves me and that is enough,
That trumps being fat and all life’s little stuff,
That trumps being saddened by the ways of an age,
Cause hey, who knows at the turn of life’s page,
I’ll be back to 180 and benching 300,
And until then I’ll smile and rub on this tire,
I’ll run and perspire, and run and perspire,
And when it’s over, it’s over, and with an ado,
I’ll go home to the Lord and so will you!
My Interpretation Of Love:
Is being a true friend no matter what.
Is allowing yourself to love from your
soul.
Is giving of yourself self without taking.
Is being comfortable enough to bear it all
without any restrictions.
Is choosing to stay for the long haul in
spite of the imperfections.
Is learning new ways to be on a never
ending honeymoon.
Is willing to listen when you want
to run out the door.
Is embracing the good the bad and the
ugly.
Is willing to see past the wrinkles and
cellulite.
Is knowing that your heart has found a
home even in the midst of a storm.
Is not letting any outsider bring calamity
to your union.
Most of all I believe that love is all these things
and so much more.
Inspired by the “ What Is Your I Interpretation Of Love” contest
Sponsor: Bobby May
1-13-19
Bursts Of Creativity...
Asper myself tend
to occur late at night,
or early morn 'o follow
wing day unbeknownst
despite acute insight
how, when, where, why...
ideas swarm and bite
inspiration doth alight
try as I might to
coax, anchor right,
burning candlebox at
both ends during midnight
oil, and pry open hermetically airtight
noggin, where my poetic
(side) juices glommed up tight
blew silly blackened, and barbed
as though cold anthracite
ash coal lest futile effort
fueling mental cogs synaps (snaps),
sans each axon and dendrite,
and damn pinwheeling frenzied
writer's block won't budge,
no matter intense aghast fright
regarding drawing nothing,
but blank screen, an unpleasant sight
which activates greater fright
concentration stoppers appetite
to satiate agile literary skill
invoked with all mum might
encountering severe
resistance along well worn
nicked, pitted, rutted...
central processing unit abysmal sight
core cratered tracks analogous trite
other places blasted as if by dynamite
nanobot size infrastructure blight
hmm... huff frayed
to admit fifty plus shades
of grey pock marked beltway abustle
with at least bajillion
self important cosmopolite
avast friggin buzzfeed contrasted with bevy
of heavily rowdy, yet polite
sumo wrestlers exuding
spongy dimpled cellulite,
nonetheless grueling effort experienced
with craven half starved diabolical spite
undermining, jackknifing,
dogging... literary endeavor to expedite
satisfactory pièce de résistance flight
of fancy, though challenged
every step of the way,
once ambition fired up...at twilight
as mortal passion
unstoppable to complete
crafting daily poem
kindled with emotional lignite!
Oh, do you know of Ashley G?
My woman crush, it's plain to see
just why I think she must be heard
and that is why I pass the word
A woman brave and sexy strong
who tells the shamers, "You are wrong!"
There is no one way we should be
a size plus siren, look at me!
I live my life just as I please
without a care, so let them tease!
I have the looks; I have the curves
When you see me, you're bound to swerve
and take a second and third look
my beauty goes beyond the book
I'm gorgeous, sexy, here to say,
'Now love your body, all the way'
I love my curves and cellulite
My handles that are out of sight!
I flaunt, I strut, and let them stare
This plus sized model doesn't care!
I'm Ashley G, my swimsuit line
and lingerie make big girls shine!"
I follow Ashley on the gram
and love her dearly, that's no scam
Oh, Ashley G, you're meant to be
The icon for big girls like me!
Eileen Manassian
Year end draws nigh
bringing memories to heart's hearth.
Some are embers warm glow;
Others, ashes to be shifted through;
All trance inducing, as the past
flickers and flames in Technicolor--
Frame by frame of elusive times gone by.
Happy times of childhood and family
cuddle with years of loss and despair;
Prosperity’s cellulite spooned against poverty’s emaciation.
One would think the fat times more precious,
yet the small moments of the lean enriched us more.
Those times when we choose simple gifts for others,
and gave only ourselves to each other,
encapsulated rare beauty in the heartache.
It was then the true spirit of Christmas filled us most.
Stripped of all pretense and commercialism,
only love flourished.
Now we sit before the fire
our in between years upon us--
Neither young or old, children almost grown,
yet to be grandparents-- and I long
for a season of simplicity.
One that our children will remember
One to cherish, and teach.
There may not always be money, but
you are never poor if you have love,
for no gift is more valuable than yourself.
C is for the Cellulite on my hips dear
A is for my Abs which got so big
R is for the Rich food I've been eating
B is for the Bingeing like a pig
O is for the Oval shape of my body
H is for the Humungous meals I eat
Y is for You telling me I'm too fat dear
D is for Down below I can't see my feet
R is for the Raisins on my sundae
A is for the Apple in my pie
T is for the Tons of stuff I've eaten
E is for the Edibles without red dye
Put them altogether they spell CARBOHYDRATE
They can make you physically unfit
So, I am sitting here and wondering
Just how many are in my banana split.
The missus pounded mine posterior...
causing percussive rumpus
Meanwhile good n plenty vibrations resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),
but woody d'ya believe
drumming, flagellating
and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed pecker
(property yours truly).
Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking
undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
formerly cute palm pilot tushy,
now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest
against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin bloody murder in vain.
Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything
(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.
Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye
lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.
What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom
(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me bum
until flesh heavily
spindled, lacerated, and bruised.
I look in your eyes
what do I see
A shell of myself
who I used to be
A minuscule fragment
of who I was before
When red carpet
stretched out across my floor
A day and time
opportunities, abundant
Long before I became
hopelessly redundant
I see an array of patches
from my many mistakes
My eyes tell a story
of painful heartaches
A veil across my skin
of wrinkles and cellulite
Shards from the past
when my future was bright
Bags under my eyes
from restless nights
Not dead, but a disgrace
I've become a blight
My once white teeth
Now a yellowish tint
Thanks to years of smoking
to relax and vent
I despise you
for what you reveal to me
You show me ugly
and how it feels to be
Unheeding of the causes
for my bruises and scars
You show only the top layer
worn and charred
You are so vain
with your spotless surface
Come to think of it
you really serve no purpose
You make people conceited
More often, depressed
It doesn't effect you at all
you feel no distress
You hold your head high
As if your invincible
No one dare break you
Superstition or principal
But I can see through
As clear as glass
You have no soul
Just useless mass
You're a thief of identities
Because you haven't, your own
No personality to claim
An ever changing clone
Not a person or a place
Just a thing
With nothing to give
Nothing to bring
There will come a day
You will shatter to pieces
Your frame will fall apart
At the perfectly painted creases
There will be no memorial
They will trash your remains
No one will miss you
A thing without a name