Best Cramping Poems
Cheap wine dimmed in the candle light thinking my life's bleak like her dreams keep cramping my sleep and I've had it with uncleaned teeth clamping when they bite like a dog with a lock jaw slamming tight.
Remote needs batteries check her sock draw and I'll find a rabbit with a new batch of soft **** man will like.
Is she into man or d***
Bet you a dime she likes both now we're slapping high fives and I try and cope.
Leaving alone this whole mess that she has evoked.
I'm only mentioning sexuality as a joke, I know she likes men, she likes those who can fly a fist.
Getting high and pissed meant we'd f*** first then fight and kiss.
I'm acting like a scientist leading this experiment where she became the guinea pig feeding my intelligence.
Sent as a saviour they processed her papers. I almost fled home from her reckless behaviour.
The police came arrested her later and she became exactly what they meant by it's heinous. It's crazy we did time from flipping out big time, no big crime though still kept remanded for street fights.
Now I'm out of D side nothing can hold me down so where's my polar cloud sound of shadows feet creeping up. Strengthening the tone of the voice saying keep in touch.
I may have won the battle though I lost what I'd always loved.
Calm before the storm where I'd walk with my wolf we'd strut.
Talk tongue in cheek to those speaking some awful stuff with a forked tongue and a weak performance, just fools who wanna reak the rewards for some cheap decorum.
My requirements particular it's the mind I'm born with.
Giving sincerity, acceptance, respect and integrity.
Serenity prayer on my ribs so remember me.
I've been through some hard times in hell and kept going till I past it.
The ***** tried to harm my existence and this time I stayed calm got her evicted.
This is one minute of my story so listen up.
Failures not fatal, success ain't permanent.
It's not giving up what matters and I'm sure of it.
Categories:
cramping, break up, courage, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme
Sitting on this roof,
seeing the colored lights in neighboring windows
finding frosted panes in abstract happiness,
as winter’s wind howls about my face
Speakers blare in cramping holiday tones,
(What’s so wonderful about it - this time of year?)
Shingles damp and slippery,
still I hold on for dear life
Fingers numb but clinging,
for without my seated sadness
on this peak above chimney ash
watching streams finding the edge
how else would those muddied
tear drop icicles form?
-
Then I hear it on shivering vibrations
A voice from - out there - somewhere
A shadow beneath a flickering street light
Footprints in circles about the square
Moving in my direction
My silhouette on white cloud shimmies
A little to the side, for a better view
Wings - it has - she has wings
I blink a frozen eyelash - she is sitting next to me
A warm, feathery quilted wing about my shoulders
Chilled cheeks burn as I smile
and my heart melts as she whispers to me
“No more icicles”
Categories:
cramping, love, sad, winter,
Form:
Free verse
When dulled down shock painfully became
a pickaxe ache behind shimmering eyes,
the bludgeoning screen hammered memory cells
repeatedly, over and over.
Tears exploded, soft rain dampened flame,
the grumbling dust cloud debris disguised
broken hearts bursting in agonised swells
searching for life confirmation.
Crashed vultures, evil in senseless flight,
beating humanity for hours like a drum,
cramping the breath with holocaust claws,
gleefully gloating, gloating.
Yet humanity does not die in the night,
by the warped wicked ways of fanatical scum,
humanity fades not, nor crawls on all fours
the prey of abomination.
Could Hitler pulverise humanity dead,
could Stalin annihilate it's very soul,
could Hussein defile it's essence to dust,
could they, hell.
It arises from rubble and ashes instead,
steel resurrection, reassembled whole,
in the love and pride of people it must
elicit restoration.
Beneath the veil of despair-crippled night
a broken city seethed neon 'till morning,
mortal wounds blazed and shone in rebirth,
defiantly living, living.
And hope prevailed in each bulb burning bright,
in each filament, tube, each spark a new dawning
of all that Heaven allows on Earth,
a prayer-shot inspiration.
The carnage of angels bedazzled with pain,
yet the courage and conscience of saints empowered
a neon-lit love of brother for brother,
a blinding, blinding sight.
From sorrow and sacrilege raining again
humanity's wonder, upon them was showered
the love of the brave and the just for each other
that they become the light.
Categories:
cramping, death, history, people, uplifting,
Form:
Verse
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
Categories:
cramping, muse,
Form:
Rhyme
Where once I could only taste
Sweet as sweetness should be,
Now there is only but
A sense of hostility
Towards me.
Perhaps you should but could not;
I say, “please, ” but you would not
Say goodbye.
Now you say it is not over
And that I should wait;
So I do so,
But is it in vain?
Like in slow motion,
Falling in mid-air,
Faster and faster;
Till the ground meets me
And my body shatters and breaks.
It’s been so long since I last saw you,
My heart is now cramping in ache;
But the ground has not yet met me,
So as you say so,
Here I lie and wait.
I miss you,
And shall keep missing you,
Till the time comes
When I will miss
Missing you.
Categories:
cramping, lost love, sad,
Form:
Free verse
She turns up the blue flames,
lowers the chops.
Dripping crackles, iron is fat licked -
grease on her fingers.
The meat finds its voice,
splutters of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom.
The animal inside the flesh
disappearing.
The meat opening
florets of aroma.
My stomach is cramping,
not with anticipation,
but with an acidic hopelessness.
Mother turns from the gas burner;
splattered apron - flushed cheeks.
She smiles, not looking at me,
but seeing a man
who will be home soon.
“He will love these.”
I pretend not to hear, but wonder
if there will be milk with
my cornflakes.
Categories:
cramping, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
The court was a refuge for my thoughts and aspirations
An explosion of apprehensive sensations
Breathing in the moment which I couldn’t fathom
My own doubts being my one and only phantom
Told by the media that I didn’t belong
Told that my skin and my height was all wrong
One-hundred twenty invited from Northern California
To achieve the same mission that was only a dream
Is it really just a joke or a chance to redeem?
Walking in the doors I see a congregation of talent
Feeling the source of the youth
There was only one truth
Only one vision in midst of our righteous division
The court sings a beautiful song
The bouncing of rhythm and the shoes screeching along
A home hoteling hints of hopeful hallucinations
Creating competitive hate-love relations
NBA doesn’t stand for National Basketball Association
The name itself cries No Babies Allowed without determination
Walking in I stand in shock
Seeing nervous written on the countenance of the flock
Strangled by the frozen clock
I can barely talk
Playing on the smells of the newly wiped floors
All we wish is to not look like beasts playing on all-fours
In Cupertino being tall was no trouble
Walking in was the pop of my physical bubble
Tasting the sweat that drips from my face
The cramping of the base
Oxygen something you learn to embrace
Putting fifteen on the scoreboard in the second showcase
Tells the room it doesn’t matter about the color of my face
Being asian ain’t no disgrace
Do what you love and show that you know your place
The court is where my thoughts are formed
My passion transformed
Into a fundamental dance performed
From the buzz of the start to the buzz of the finish
I truly am in my own heaven
So let me tell you of this place I call home
It’s not just a sport
But a place I can always resort
To persevere until the day I fall short
With the urgency like a jobless father trying to support
Categories:
cramping, hope, inspirational, life, passion,
Form:
Free verse
This pain is not my fault
I was just unlucky
It brings my life to holt
Each stabbing pain, twisting ache
Strikes as hard as a lightening bolt
This cramping is so hard to shake
Endometriosis is its name
We're not playing this is no game
It takes away so many things
Each person its sorrow it brings
To know what we go through
If you only knew
You see sometimes we can't do much
Apart from lay in the fetal position
People judge as such
Oh she has that condition
Never fully understanding just what it takes to paint her face
And show the world she's not a waste of space.
So to you fellow endo sisters
Out there
Your not your illness
Your beautifully flawed and are so very strong
We are here for each other in this mess
I'm sorry this poem is very long
So I hope these words have helped you know. Each time you get told your lazy, making it up
go and prove them wrong
We are survivors and we know
That this awareness for this condition should grow
From one endo sister to another with love ??????
Categories:
cramping, emotions, for her,
Form:
Rhyme
Having leg pain
May mean legs not getting
Proper blood flow
Called Peripheral Arterial Disease (PAD)
What is PAD
With PAD arteries that carry blood to your legs
Feet or arms clogged with fats, others
Can slow or even stop blood flow
Common sign of PAD leg pain or cramping
Pain comes when you move
As you Walk, climb stairs or exercise
May go away when you rest
Treating PAD
Healthy lifestyle can help
Provider may ask you to
Get regular exercise
Eat a heart healthy diet
Quit smoking
Important to control problems
Like
High Blood Pressure
Unhealthy cholesterol
Sometimes medicine
Surgery is needed for PAD
4142013
Categories:
cramping, child, dad, family, football,
Form:
Lanterne
Upon his grandfather's rocking chair
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.
His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood
by pulling it apart from its protective bark
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!
Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.
Beautiful just like the ones his gram
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.
Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3
Categories:
cramping, grandfather, grandmother, imagination, tree,
Form:
Free verse
There I’ve said it out loud
Having it does not make me proud
I get obsessed with certain things
Like writing poetry or buying rings
I change my compulsions now and then
Sometimes it just happens on a whim
I might want to go to yard sales every week
To buy old things that I will want to keep
Or go shopping for lovely new clothes
My closet(s) are completed filled with those
It was a man named Dennis for a while
Now he is just cramping my style
My hair is growing out right now
When it gets longer, I will cut it any how
Shoes are one thing I think I will want next
Cause it has been a while since my last fix
OCD has taken control, don’t you see?
It makes me crazy, but it makes me…me!
Categories:
cramping, funny, health, me,
Form:
Couplet
I really believe poetry contests are beneficial
But I find myself writing lines so artificial
Trying to win a fleeting notice or score a trophy
That I lose sight of writing good, quality poetry.
Various requirements sometimes put me off
I think I’d rather be on the links playing golf
Instead of spending hours cramping my style
Writing a poem that might only bring a smile.
I desire to write some memorable, quality lines
Not limited to theme, or odd-prompt, confines
And think I’ve written something that will last
Even coveting a rare place with greats of the past.
Of course, I know the best wrote some apologies
That only a few of their poems made anthologies
Many never read until the poet was long gone
We never saw those poems meriting only a yawn.
So, I’m going to turn over a new leaf and see
If writing poems I like makes for a happier me
Entering only contests accepting the poems I write
Instead of writing poems a “sponsor” will cite.
written October 29, 2021
Categories:
cramping, how i feel, poems,
Form:
Light Verse
My favorite fruit is the onion.
That might sound silly, to you,
But I find it simply astounding
What the humble Allium cepa can do.
I've seen it bring grown men to tears--
Men far to manly to cry.
"It's only the onion," they shamefully claim,
As they sniffle and snuffle, and mop at their eyes.
If someone is giving you trouble;
If they constantly get in your face,
Eat an onion a day; that will keep them away,
And stop their habitual cramping your space.
Now, peaches are peachy, but fuzzy,
And apples delicious, it's true,
But my favorite fruit is the onion--
I'll send a bouquet of green onions to you.
Categories:
cramping, food, children, funny, fruit,
Form:
Medical Marvels
Medics in a clinic in Honda,
Columbia – way south of our border
Helped a young woman who’s HooHa
Seemed a bit – well – out of order
It seemed she had green vines protruding
Where green vines should never have been
Twas from a potato now sprouting
That her mother had had her place in
Her mother said it was protection
An organic grown IUD
The sight of a vine from that region
I know would sure do it for me
The doctors said it was unhealthy
Removed it and all of its sprouts
They said she was now back to normal
But me; well, I still have some doubts
Another young woman in Bishkek
Somewhere in Europe I guess
Complained of severe stomach cramping
And seemed to be under some stress
She had a bad habit of chewing
Discarded hair and her own
And all that hair she had been chewing
Had gathered in her stomach zone
The doctors performed hair removal
An 8.8 pound ball of fur
She’s since cut her hair in a pixie
In case the urge should reoccur
Categories:
cramping, hair, health, woman,
Form:
Rhyme
There is a certain pride in my heart,
Deep in the gut of my soul,
And in every moving cell working for the other
That preaches and presses in a padded jail
Where no other living soul can hear
Treasurable, valuable words being uttered
With conviction and every golden verdict
It is a silent pride, and a sad one at times,
Longing to be heard, though it cannot reveal
Longing to be shared with a parched mind
That can only reveal itself through the continual
Ritual of living each day
I want to share with utter integrity and light,
With a full heart, to activate the gentle expansion
Of freeing, outstretched wings
You cannot listen to these truths I scream
Because I am closed away by this pride,
My cognizance and cruel prudence imprisons me,
And at times I am happily bound
This pride, this opulent air of knowing
Restlessly deepens within
It seeps deeper inside,
Because I doubt any will quite understand
And appreciate
Through the lens of pure honesty
This pride is fearful and selfish
We do not want to be seen as a fool
I want these confessions to feel
Omnipotent, and apart from my emotions
Pure honesty reminds me
That without emotions, without feeling…
This knowledge, this enlightenment
Cannot be expressed
Unless fear, cramping the soul
Leaves this prison
If love eases breakage to flow into tender ears
To compassionate minds,
And perceptive hearts
Categories:
cramping, courage, freedom, life, lonely,
Form:
Free verse