Best Cynical Poems
From Pinnacle to Cynical
When we were young
We had our dreams
But, in our future we would find
That many times along the way
There were mountains, we must climb
But with the strength
That comes with youth
We foiled every peril
And hiked the broadways to the top
Until the path got narrow
Yes, in our way, we reached the top
And then became quite cynical
For our decline, we could not stop
In descending from that pinnacle
It matters not, how far we reached
Upon life's twisted routes and bends
It's knowing that we've seen the summit
And that our journey, must slow, then end
By JTCurtis
A Slightly Cynical Christmas
The day before Christmas,
My head’s in a whirl,
Trompsing through malls
With a two-year-old girl.
Rudolph and Frosty
Are far from my mind
It’s some weird talking Elmo
S’Got me standing in line.
The crappy store speakers
Playing “Joy to the World”
Heck, I’ll just be happy
If my Visa’s still good.
Mistletoe hanging
On doors here and there
But if someone dare kiss me
He gets decked “you know where!”
The cashier’s dressed like Santa
With a hat and a beard
Both me and my daughter get
Creeped out ‘cause its weird.
Now don’t get me wrong,
I’m no Grinch, I’m no Scrooge
But all this good cheer’s
Got me reaching for booze.
My gifts are now bought
And we head for the car
Visions of Egg Nog,
Perhaps a stop at a Bar?
We dash through the snow
And laugh all the way
The joy of the season
Momentarily got in my way.
We get into the car
And of course it won’t start
And there is a funny, weird smell
I think its elf farts.
So a quick text to Santa
And his eight tiny reindeer.
And next thing I know,
We’re high in the air.
And I waved to the mall
As we rode out of sight
And I thought to myself
It might be a good night
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE
Dreams…
Vague and Pure
Pieces of Miseries
Sad but Obscure
Dream of the wrong person
Live trying to be in the right.
Close your eyes shut
Sequel of puzzled dreams
You owe them explanations.
They can’t pay with a rewind.
Love is endless
Could be a river of sins
Or a plateau of pretensions.
How could I spell it out?
When my heart’s dry.
I once dream
T’was once a fantasy
I made it reality.
Walk Past like a nightmare
Now I reminisce with a bottle of LIGHT
Here’s to a box of life
Only escaping in dreams
Fear tied the realist
Close thy eyes til’ the innocents awake.
How can this be the land of the free home of the brave,
when less than two centuries ago this was the home of the slaves.
These leaders are just playing these games,
paving the way for our children to be subjected to cravings and rage.
Our lives might as well have been staged.
I know me and the rest of the world will never be on the same page.
Because I know the moment that we step out of line,
we will be confined,
and later thrown in a cage.
When will we realize that we are the ones with the power?
But they feed us these lies,
man,
mind over matter.
The ‘price of love’ rises just for one day of the year
Stick a cardboard heart on some merchandise - the price quadruples!
Every February we see ‘love’ lying in neat rows on the shop shelves
Cards, chocolates, flowers, perfume and cute fluffy toys
A sea of red roses that stretches as far as the eye can see
For some reason these roses are never Buy One Get One Free!!!!
The prices they charge rise quicker than a red heart shaped helium balloon
Yet on 15th February everything will be half price
Is this the price of true love or am I just a cynic?
I’ve never had a Valentine from my husband, or him from me
We don’t need to prove our love on just one day of the year
Jan Allison
3rd February 2016
red rose price rises
faster than flaccid todgers ~
a blooming rip off!!!
What is poetry
Is it merely a soft scented rose on a blissful summers day
Someone telling you, Better to have loved than lost
Or rather a delve into reality
Where the pretty appear gritty
And the point of relevant
No 1 can write
Because the words are all blurred
Who is going to listen
To poems without roses
And barmy summers days
In these cynical times
Depression is slowly creeping it's way in again. Mechanically making it through day after day. Keeping my soul and fears hidden from even myself. Holding responsibly so heavy I'm drowning in the rain of my own tears. The puddles slowly becoming the lakes of my own sorrow. The little voice saying we have been here before and made it out. But the light looks smaller and farther away than ever before. Feeling over run in a world of selfishness,empty sorries and self serving thank you's.
Have you found the rarest of four-leaf clovers
Or bent down to pick up a shiny lucky penny
Maybe you thought of those who may not have any
Or did you just look for the tarnish on the coin you turned over
Julia Ward free verse contest: Polly in politics
I'm Cynical of Polly
They say she's pretty, Polly,
even though she shits on the media,
content to repeat
whatever her keepers teach for a bit of golden carrot.
Yes --
she's a real polly-tician!
You realize your wild side
lies somewhere within the past.
And fantasy dreams soon fade,
even though you wish they'd last.
Your most precious memories
are but shadows, nonetheless.
And when reviewed countless times,
they tend to merge and digress.
Presumptions of who you are
and how you feel get explored.
And yet, doubts and misgivings
are oft discreetly ignored.
Cynical hearts question love;
despite its fragility.
And attempt to control it,
with rules of fidelity.
But hope allows lonely souls
to enter a bond of trust.
And encourages closeness,
outside the pleasures of lust.
She walks with pride,
Maybe she thinks of herself as queen.
It can happen with time,
Her mind plays a wicked game.
But nonetheless, I’m cynical of Polly.
With every click and flash she gives a sly smile,
Doesn’t anyone else notice?
Am I getting a wrong picture?
But then she winks at me.
She makes me mad, I’m cynical of Polly.
As the press pries prudently into Polly,
She rejects their questions with her steely eyes.
Head held so high, she can’t see it,
People cry in despair, doesn’t reach her ear.
She just doesn’t care, oh, I’m cynical of Polly!
All she knows is her precious votes,
Counting them on her fingers “One, two, three….”
Flings her purse, strides down the stairs,
Her heels ready to crush some souls.
She is evil in disguise. Damn right, I’m cynical of Polly.
The rich bow down to her, she has that aura,
I despise her but I envy her.
To have that power, I would go mad too,
Won’t I just do anything to be in her shoes?
She dazzles me yet I’m cynical of Polly.
Delicious corpulent prattle stuck
blustering with sins,
cynical posturing grins
slip quietly into the night.
I
'She's only a bird in a gilded cage,'
so a well-known song has once told.
She married a man well advanced in years
for the sake of his riches and gold.
II
The gentleman died, the cage opened wide,
the following verse is untold,
and a very rich chick was off mighty quick
before her dear husband was cold.
A wobble waiting in the shed
A joke cracked by Victorian comedians
A test of youthful instability
A trial by tarmac
An unyielding seat with changing views
A wetter way of travelling through rain
A soundless nemesis for pensioners
A tin-tack gathering machine
A complexity in ambulation
A tool used by the mad or desperate
A ticking mockery of balance
A frame for shaming the unfit
A creaking snail on hills
A public declaration of pretence or poverty
An undignified arrival and
A bait for thieves