Best Alienating Poems
There has to be another way
cause I fear staying will only break me quicker
I'll snap like a twig
therefore I'm consumed by my meds
Doctors think i'm crazy
Just cause i'm sad
A kid is supposed to be happy
Atleast that's what they keep telling me
my parents lose sleep cause I won't just pretend
Their so stuck being normal
that they never realized they made me this way
So they should stop alienating me
Cause genetics is genetics
I heard my mom was strung out on weed
before she even knew I was developing in her belly
Dad was a young Alchoholic
yet he doesn't understand why I get thirsty
Now i'm not tryna be like them so don't get me wrong
It's just that they try to cover it up like they were perfect
Cleaned their act up before I was old enough to understand
So now I take this pill
Doctors claim it will heal me
It'll destroy everything that's consuming me
Will it make my parents accept me?
Will it make them finally take some of the blame?
Will it make them tell me they love me?
I doubt it.
I won't pick out one special Poetry Soup poet
None of us are worthy of being a poet Laureate
Choosing just one who has skills shouldn't be a goal
It's like separating a favorite sheep from the foal
Saying its wool has the most beautiful fleece
doesn't seem to be the right way to have peace
There are many poets who write with quality
and if I choose only one, I'd owe an apology
to those I didn't honor by using their name
I don't want to be guilty and won't take the blame
for entering any contest on Poetry Soup
that might hurt someone's feelings in the group
Picking a favorite could cause further division
I don't think alienating any poet is a good decision
Congrats to those who earn it with great writing
No one deserves to be overlooked by slighting
It's my opinion so I have the freedom to say
If peace is to exist in PS, it won't be found this way
Some great poems are written as lyrics to a song
but naming one above the others seems wrong
Tell those you admire by making kind comments
Prevent hurt feelings and ill will before it ferments
Such divisiveness might hurt another poet's heart
It's not pleasant to taste buds, too sour and too tart
"Dead leaves lay still, even the last flower is withered: yet there is a beauty in decayed imperfection." Taken from a quote by _Constance La France
On an orbital rotation around our planet every day, nothing stays the same. We change our surroundings change, our thoughts change, constantly evolving into what we are and what we will be tomorrow.
Everything changes. Some things grow bigger or older, some are renewed, restored or replaced, some break or decay. Nothing stays exactly the same. Therefore we are never finished changing. As it was intended, or broken, still nothing is perfect forever. Regrettably Rolls Royce rust.
Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
The old woman replied. ”Didn’t you notice I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
All these beautiful flowers are because of you."
Knowing a fault and making use of it, not alienating the item because of its fault but accentuating it, creates joy.
"When you were perfect, I loved you when you were not, I loved you more.”
The old woman kept the withered pressed bouquet, it’s in a box displayed on the shelf. From their wedding day, glorious red roses, now in decay. She smiles as she remembers its beauty and that of herself.
The flowers she kept, emphasizing their imperfections caused by age, give her joy.
She loved them when they were perfect, their beauty actually means more to her now that they are not perfect, as their remnants have lasted all these years.
All things must be looked upon as spiritually one and of use either aesthetically or practically, (or able to be recycled).
safe haven for poets once existed
till destructive forces came on board
those who seek just to hurt others
end up harming themselves
several such people have inflicted pain here
though no one would call them “writers”
juvenile antics and hateful comments
are their only legacies
through profanity and threats
digging holes to poetry’s Armageddon
alienating those who won’t strike back
or resort to petty, personal attacks
they say, "You're the most despised among the soup clan"
spew lava-like proclamations
hold grudges for years when they don't place
in a contest where only quality work won
evil doers adopt numerous aliases
to favorite each of their own poems
but poets can easily identify them
as their “attempts” at poems all sound the same
if one who can’t write, gives you a contest win
what is it you have really won
their friendship? No, they don’t have friends
do you compare your poetry to theirs
who wants to share on such a site
where mean-spirited people call the shots
other places enforce rules to promote civility
let your conscience guide you to these sites
August 18, 2014
He's running out of Colour.
*eternity eternal mind over matter
*He forms combative images of daffodils and lilac hedges
The Grey Seeps From his Eyes.
* His heart holds abundance, life close, close as a shield
Nature is Turning Black.
* All of the mind intent melds a joyfull palette into an encompassing black
- Can't You Smell Their bitter Entrails?
* Retching he adds fodder to ripen the ground for rebirth.
He Could. He felt them weave
*Balance sought to assert dominance over discord with the Fathers hand.
In and out of His Senses,
*Mesmerizing optiforms presenting themselves
Alienating his Perceptions.
* He strains to hold human concepts dear.
- Count the Bodies, Count the Women
and The New-Borns if You Want?
* From Death, Life, from Life, Death
*the endless circle sustains his weakening heart.
It's Just Math. No longer
*The count down, or up? continues…….
Did Time Stress Relevance.
The Sky was Red: and Empty.
*Empty, yet, the promise of nature abhorrence of a vacuum ..screams.
- If You Wait, They'll Come Back for You
*And you, son of God, child of the Mother will deal……-
He Walked Through Various Flesh
*Seeing the shell for what it was …casing of soul…..
Obscenities, Traveling for Miles.
*Caricatures of Man, insults only to ego long gone.
But The Smell, The Smell Had Followed Him.
- Where's Your God Now?
*………………Now and forever, his soul answers, eternal in the heart of man
*……………………beating with the pulse of the Universe……..
*…………………………Ashes to ashes…..dust to God……….-
*I felt it necessary for my soul to reply, please forgive me Conor? A month of wicked was
too much without a reply.
The streets of yesterday, comforting
The landscape of tomorrow, forbidding
Familiar foods rouse fond memories
Tampering with tradition, disapproval
My well-worn armchair's form-fitted to me
That new recliner, stiff as a bad knee
Your scent, your aura, ingratiating
All others, alienating
Like a tree in spring
we start out as buds
yearning to become leaves.
In summer we flourish
soaking up the sunlight
with absorbing passion.
.
In fall we transform
alienating our brothers
by position, and color.
In winter we equalize
mounds withered, and brown
at the mercy of the wind.
A prom date led me to an enchanted time
when you tenderly grasped my hand
and nestled me closer around your waist,
rendering breath and heart to pulsate
in flickers of eyes drawn like hazy moths.
The hours whirled in young love’s surrender…
entwined by rhythms of autumn flames
that I yielded to your musky charms
only to leave me lifeless in the dark.
Although I found that special someone
and the years between us had drained away,
alienating us both our entwined lives
those deep reveries, those autumn nights...
have managed to linger deep
within my thoughts.
Free Verse On Love
Contest Sponsored by Laura Loo
Re-posted 7/9/2017
Adam, take the dust and
blow into tomorrow's winter world
the intruding consciousness
is evolving, embroiling a vainity of values,
who are we now, why this
language of redemption ?
the truth hurts once we
were exhiled from God's perfect garden,
the roads behind are
cold and alone, its you and me against the wind,
Adam, how will we survive
the hail, and 40 days of raging rain ?
In every emerging
evening I see a new face when I close my eyes
my intuitions are crystal
clear, Adam
I can feel the needing
agony of anticipation from my womb,
these shoes are worn out
from this journey, lets build
I will praise the
callouses of your hands once the walls reach heaven,
lets ride, make new
native noise, simply splashing love
lets harvest the future
drink from the wealth of cheap wine,
making choices knowing right - to wrong
Now that we are free, we
can enjoy the goodness before it fades,
the voices inside are
called, they can befit the beast
God intended us to be angels, alienating us away
lets grow upward,
testing the sound of silence, I want to eliminate the echoes,
with the sounds of laughter and tears,
I'm willing to take a greater
risk of falling,
hurry Adam, put a child
in my arms, and soothe the agony of absence,
its time to grow and generate
the human race,
this is my new chapter, unfolding
the Continuing Saga
By Poet - Eve
Have you asked yourself...
How do I percieve the world,
what is object reality?
What are these sources
of abject identity,
alienating values which
further seperate sensible unity...
significant to whom and what,
obligatory to how and when,
the free spirit of autonomy versus,
past bondage and expectation...
What is the subject matter,
of objectifying principles...
differing as such,in regards to
ethical and moral sentiments,
obviously,the same rules
don't neccesarily apply equally,
schema's presentation of schisms...
what it is,or what it isn't?
So...what is object reality,
but also,why does it differentiate and alienate ?
If one has free access to well being,and
another is deprived of similar opportunity,
is the one whom benefits,made impervious
to the slow decay of others...or,
do we all share equally,the natural balance...
as one concerns itself with progress,yet
impedes the progress of others,
what sort of real progress is being made...
wouldn't that be then,the creation of abject identity?
...and for what purpose,
a ready made low wage labor market?
So,again...what is object reality,and
what does it mean to you...fundamentally,
what do you identify with...and why ?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
" 'till now man has been up against nature,
from now on he will be up against his own nature..." Dennis Gabor
By alienating from nature, Man, with the passing of time, the beast in him allowed to grow!
(c) Demetrios Trifiatis
04 July 2014
O, yes, he is exclusively competent
as the national leader
that tightly compatible and coherent
with his time and national traditions.
He had done all for the rise our stupid ambition
and blind glory, post-soviet and post-tsarists illusions
as the perfect relict from past and wild centuries
when cruelty and mercilessness had been justified
for the price of surviving the nation.
Yes, he was merely anachronism and pure extra-rodent,
but also the perfect master of alienating
and usurping all our national richness and rights -
he just took all this things from us
transforming himself for the strong geopolitical figure
and enslaved our fragile society
quenching processes of democratizations deliberately
for the personal influence and welfare.
He was not just the most atavistical president,
previously completely unknown
as one faceless agent from intelligent services
he was exclusively competent
as the politic-relict from past centuries
as genius of that retrograde power and glare.
Two days ago, I decided
To realise
Some cherished memories
Of my beloved little pueblo;
So I drank about five glasses
Of Monteviejo
In preparation for
The rediscovery of
The town of my heart.
Firstly, I sat in the bar
Where I used to meet
All my friends,
And was assaulted
By the prices of the drinks
And the volume of the music.
I searched the place
With my eyes
For the innocence and laughter
Of yesteryear, but in vain.
The young people are forced
Into tight little groups,
So atmosphere
Is ponderous and alienating.
Where is the fun?
The wild and foolish socialising?
The comic local music?
All gone. I could cry.
Oh, these nerves, this living death.
I am so full of fear,
Lethargy and fury,
I can hardly function.
There's a lack of innocence
Of simplicity
And is this change
From deep within me?
The freedom,
The spark of youth
Is gone,
Or have I merely lost it?
Sophistication spoils,
The city ravages,
Senses refined
By knowledge and wine.
(Based on an unfinished story written either in the late '70s or early '80s, in the spirit of the would-be "tortured artist", absurd, melodramatic.)
Fling open these gates of purgatory
In the sharp corner of a deserted hell to see
Behold, the office of the dull-eyed in an overloaded ark
Nearly concealed by a screen of dusty cobwebs
This soul perching on the cliff ledge
In mournful tears at merriment of grief
Never in danger of falling from sheer exhaustion
A pitiful victim of siren wailing unshaded tears
Mingled with compassionate grief of victims
A lullaby of tribute the still one can't bluff
As floods of mockery roll down scaled cheeks
Clogging down eyelids like an oasis of shame
Refusing partnership in the merchandise of wickedness
But foreseeing an approaching explosion of fake tears
Patriotic beasts in custody genuinely opens up
Lending out in all directions unequaled cries
Which rather heightened the unmarried thoughts
Of aging sapiens in their profession of pretense
And poisoned their delight in the un-haste of the kill
As their visual aids dilate nowhere to everywhere
Dart of a towel rolled hot mucus on quivering lips
With the skill a cat licks her young kittens
Alienating their minds to tracing smokes
From huts the aura of stewed beast emanate
Even though laid mute whom could have jolt
The corners of our mouths into a funny jolly grin
At night, these crickets sang melodies of mockery
During day, all manner of creeping, crawling things
Rustled forth into the hot baking sun
Aha! this grief that grips loose when huts breath smokes.
Freedom is an alter ego like a mask
Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies.
Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly
The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ...
You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I
Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea.
I sometimes see me in the mirror of words
And cannot recognize who I am
How many points of light forms my face alone
Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense
Are these suppose to be revelations
For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn
The stillness of that eternity frightens me
Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent
So many symbols, and everyone alienating
Why can't we tell truth in Images
Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence
And through all the purposes of each motion
Phases of a common solution?
Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing
Let culture preserve what it will
My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be
For I must preserve truly if only preserve me
And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I
That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie
Broken mirrors make distinctions
A thousand shards point their image at a single eye
But feel, when you cannot see
Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes
In the solvents of our meaning
You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging
I love the breaking of isolation
The conversation dissolving us again
Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain
Our life is fragment of everything now
Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith
Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates
The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here
To haunts us till we make it right
I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear
And long to break the mirror too
And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness.
Wait for me, brother. I am coming too
Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew.
Measured in unmeasured meter
Defying our partition into syllables of spoon
Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon
Everything in this solution is never abstraction
Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions
I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation
And the water shall turn to wine.