Best Complain Poems
Grown men today will always complain
About how much their paid a wage
When the same men in their lane are paid
At the same rate but dont say anyway.
Don’t!
Don’t put your thoughts on paper
Don’t dare to think out loud
Don’t express on social media
Don’t put them up in cloud
Don’t criticize the useless
Don’t voice a point of view
Don’t flex your vocal cord
Don’t think you’re immune
Six burly officers are coming
Because of something you said
They crash the door early morning
And they’ll tear you from your bed
They’ll whisk you down the bridewell
Slam you in a six foot by eight
The CID will make you confess
About all the things that you hate
You can shop lift for a past time
Carry a machete along the road
Threaten cut all white throats
And never do as your told
Keep your gob shut firm and tight
Take the pen and put it down
Don’t tweet early morn or late night
Decent is only for a clown.
David Cox 29/03/25
I am strong,
and I won't complain.
The light may shine,
blinding my eyes,
but no I won't complain.
Eternity and destiny,
are my right and left,
so no, I won't complain.
Till my last breath,
of paining vain,
I won't complain .
Why?
Why won't I complain?
Agonize till unbearable,
and still,
why won't I complain?
Simplicity,
lies in the answer,
I won't complain,
I feel gratitude,
to what happens...
I feel special...
I feel unique...
That things, only happen to me.
as my heart is a home for God.
Blessings are my gift,
so why should I complain?
Before you say any unkind word
Think of some one who can't speak.
Before yo complain about the taste of your food
Think of someone who has nothing to eat.
Before you complain about your husband or wife
Think of some one who is crying out to God for a companion
Today before you complain about life and it hardship
Think of those who died so young unlike you.
Before you complain about your children
Whether ugly or handsome, stubborn or imbecile
Think of those who are desirous for children
But they are barren and hopeless.
Before complaining of the distance you drive
Think of someone who walked the same distance with his feet.
He never complain nor give up in his quest rather
His mind and spirit walked alongside with him
Encouraging his humble heart to wearing not.
Before you complain of your job
Think of the unemployed, the disable and those
Who wish they could have your kind of job but
Could not because of one problem or the other.
Before you condemn another, remember no one is perfect
Under the sun covered with evil and darkness.
YOur heart is your love and ambition your aspiration.
Destiny has it own way of governing individual
Stand tall and complain not because your life is virtue
Of honour and it has a price to pay.
In my anger and self pity I wallow,
for the wrong done to me.
Unappreciated, taking for granted,
no entitlement of regard and respect given
and the list goes on.......
Oh the pain..... Woe is me!
As I turn from my belly onto my back and
face upward towards the vast blue sky,
a thought occurred.... who am I to complain,
this has been since the beginning of our time.
For the Giver of every good and perfect gift
has suffered this same pain and much worse,
there are many who put everything before Him,
when in everything He should be put first.
So I roll from my back and onto my knees
and supplicate to Him for His forgiveness,
for of such selfish acts.... I am also guilty.
Oh the pain of trying to extract the rafter
from my own blind eye is worse than
the pain of any wrong done to me.
So instead...for Our Heavenly Father I cry...
By; JoanMarie Peranteau
We Complain
By Franklin Price
7/16/2015
We complain about the President.
We complain about the Hill.
We complain about all government;
I guess we always will.
There's a lot there to complain about
'cause it isn't mighty fine,
Now we have to ask the question;
did we make them toe the line?
Did we cast our votes to get them,
or did we stay home and complain?
When we saw that things were going bad,
did we write them or refrain?
Did we call them, make a visit?
Did we make our voices heard?
Did we follow what was being done,
or told by a little bird?
We the people are the government.
The Constitution tells us that.
When things aren't going as they should,
we should say, “I think I smell a rat!”
If we look real closely,
it's not Cinderella's mouse.
It could just be the squeak-less one
who's living in your house.
Democracy's not magic.
The squeaking wheel will get the grease.
If we want to make it better,
must be involved and never cease.
Friday Night Check-ins
The days have been calm and collected.
The guests have been happy, content.
The weekday staff scurry out from the hotel
To avoid the upcoming event.
Weekend receptionists tremble
As the Friday night check-ins approach,
Fearing the tsunami of wrinklies
On their three-day excursions-by-coach.
The first vehicle’s brakes squeal their warning
As its door opens up with a sigh.
The girl at the desk and her male teammate
Watch the porchway with dread in their eyes.
The first wrinkly disembarks backwards,
Reaching up to be handed her Zimmer.
The scowl on her face giving more than a hint
Of the litany of protests within her.
Slowly the vehicle disgorges
Its fifty malcontent arrivals.
The front desk staff offer a brief heartfelt prayer
For their sanity, composure, survival.
Like an unerring wave of displeasure
The wrinklies shuffle in through the door,
Shoving aside anyone heading out –
They’ve made this manoeuvre before.
The party’s predominantly female,
Determined and far from benign.
Apart from one chap, in windcheater and cap
Looking hen-pecked and toeing the line.
They descend on reception like locusts,
Complaining, demanding and cackling.
The staff at the desk have nowhere to hide
From the surge of objections they’re tackling.
Ground floor room! No steps! Wheelchair access!
Why no lift? Single occupant! Porter!
The tottery old girl with the big Zimmer frame
Demands a young man to escort her.
The onslaught is tough and relentless
As the wrinklies press home their attack.
Then, deftly dealt-with, the tidal wave thins
As they head to their rooms to unpack.
Pleased with the way things were handled,
The reception-staff think they’ve survived.
But outside the lobby, brakes hissing with glee,
Another full coach has arrived…
up in the sky
someone sit high
he is in control
that's the way it goes
he heal pain
makes it snow and rain
so
DON'T COMPLAIN
(* This I wrote after my previous poem "GODS QUESTIONS", as I felt that it was a more realistic and honest way in which we try to understand God... both poems express different sides of the story)
God could you please convey
what it was I heard you say
why do children die so young
what of worldly wars unsung
who allows the poor to starve
when pain and illness make life hard
Oh God please could I complain?
you have grafted my soul through your grief
yet worldly pain steals our faith and belief
sons with failures--liars and foolish
thieves will always stray
ailing ramblers--lost and found
friends will still betray
whores and angels—cheating men
leavers never stay
separated--young orphan lives
twisted forever grey
racial haters—war creators
politicians get their way
lonely widows—distant fathers
givers move away
soulful saints—fallen warriors
preachers always pray
cynic doubters—fearful mothers
faith tested every day
Please explain- Mercy, Grace, Peace and Love in Your Eternal land above
© Kim van Breda—March 2014
They complain in the morning because their night was a fright
They complain at noon because their school lunch was not right.
They complain to everyone who enters their sight
They complain and complain, long into the night.
At first these complainers are rather entertaining
They complain about their umbrellas, and the fact that it’s raining
They complain about others, not ever refraining.
But after a while, others run away from their constant complaining
They complain about the traffic, and see others as bad.
They complain about their children, whose lives must be sad.
They complain about their parents, their mom more than their dad.
They complain until they lose every almost-friend they ever had.
They complain about their life, and the heat of the sun.
They take away our energy, zap our strength, and sour our fun.
They complain about their hot dog, and its tasteless bun.
If you see one, get out of there, fast, on a dead run.
Quite often, I hear many complaints
When it comes to Godly “restraints.”
Often, things of God are
called “bigotry.”
AS much of this nation indulges
In idolatry!
God? Well, “we just don’t
need him!”
”Why should anyone ever believe him?”
Many churches provide
very little Godly direction.
They’re more concerned about
“getting people’s attention.”
No wonder why many don't
know what to believe!.
Drugs and sex is what many
want to achieve!
God is what is really what’s needed!
Without him, our life is
never completed!
Rather than complain…
We need to praise him!
One day… We shall all
kneel down before him!
It’s only in Christ…
We have purpose and hope!
Without him… We’re on a
“slippery slope.”
Won’t you come and invite
the Lord Jesus in?
He’ll bless your life
again and again!
He gives true life! That’s everlasting!
It can be yours! Just for the asking!
By Jim Pemberton
To be. To feel.
To feel, to love,
To love. To rage,
To rage, to die
Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this,
Ghosting about
Like a loose plastic bag
That flaps on a windy night
Under a sodium street lamp’s
Eerie all-submerging light.
O Shakespeare, pity us,
O Wilkes, O Pope,
O Voltaire, O Heine,
O Byron. O Shelley,
Shed tears for us.
We have mislaid the liberties
You fought for.
And the truths you taught us.
The Board of Standardisation
In the interests of this nation
Will suppress the imagination.
Like ranters at Hyde Park
We’re still good for a Sunday lark.
Our patrons are benign
as long as we are innocuous.
They’ll allow a little room for satire
(as long as we keep our hats on)
Just to show what sports they are.
Toothless protest’s just a cliché,
But don’t let slip a waspish quip,
Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!”
Tow the line. That’s fine.
“Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir,
Or the neighbours will complain.”
A D-Notice served on the brain
deadens every joy and pan.
Cross the heart with this red pencil
And with this stencil write:
THE END OF ART.”
When Thy Chains Are Too Heavy, Do Not Complain
(read of thy sins and weep)
When thy chains are too heavy, do not complain
for thy heart cried out for that slavish embrace.
Thou art in truth as dark as is thy black stain
thinking thy greatness nobody can replace.
On devil's altar thou burned innocent life
and in arrogance praised thy unholy acts.
In deep blindness, ignored thy sins that were rife
with lies destroying pure innocence and facts.
Hidden in that dark shroud thy beloved *pall*
casting cruel words, those that show thy intense hate.
Yet thy cruelty will bring on thy great fall
no human can escape crushing hands of Fate.
In empty chambers black soul cries for relief
denied because thy treasures only brought grief.
Robert J. Lindley, 11-15-2016
Sonnet Lin 11
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11 11 11 0 11 11
Total # Syllables: 154
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 114
Note- (1.)
Definitions of pall:
(1.) ** noun: burial garment in which a corpse is wrapped **
noun: a sudden numbing dread
noun: hanging cloth used as a blind (especially for a window)
verb: lose strength or effectiveness; become or appear boring, insipid, or tiresome (to)
the reason you
I want for you
it’s more loot
should be happy
don’t complain
it’s well
it’s well thing for you
Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.