Best Repression Poems
The world is so absurd
people think their wishes Trump
true freedoms
honourable freedoms
They detest
education
women's rights
minority rights
Science, vaccines, empathy
freedom of children not to be shot in schools
They distort and lie
and lie and lie
Their tin foil hats of hate
the manifesto of all extremists
who need guns to be men
Beware someone who screeches "freedom"
then takes away yours
Those who care so much for the unborn
do zero for the born and the needy
socialism is against their freedoms
Western nations laugh as they proclaim
dire sadness
at the ludicrousness
of the Taliban and USA
allies in repression of freedom
in the name of freedom
Caught up in Lifehouse's beautiful love song, First Time....
Then catching out of these eyes a very pretty lady with her man
Crossing from her bus stop through their park; carrying boxes filled
With another's donated food ? Whirlwinds arise be they thoughts both bright
Mingled amid this mire feeling while noticing a daughter's slight pangs ?
Its easy to be broken easier to hide holding my breath still, burning inside saying
Save all the starman crack aside your trillion dollar pet peeve scientific bing bang slang
We didn't stand above these stars amid the arms of ET; but I did stand within, Their Creator's....
Sending one message reserved for his moment in time today: Love, nay illusion nor delusion, humanity.
Note: You Just Like Your Daddy, Know, Who You Are!
The sharp blade cuts through
The boulders crush the wind out
Life comes to an end.
My daddy—he once told me
don’t ever play with nuns
they’ll hit you with their rulers
it won’t be any fun
I snuck out of that prison
and now I’m on the run
Once freed from that schoolhouse
I sunbathed in the sun
I stayed out late, I went on dates
looking out for number-one
When I think of what I went through
of all the tired repressive lies
I keep running wise, in slick disguise
my purpose is renewed
Don’t ever let ‘em tell you
you can’t have any fun
If they preach that hackneyed drivel
grab some things and run
.
.
Songs for this:
Cold Heart (PNAU Remix) by Elton John & Dua Lipa
I'm Still Standing by Elton John
Webster: hackneyed = uninteresting, unfun, dull and unoriginal.
*stolen almost directly, in spirit anyway, from that freewheeling rebel, Johnny Cash
**My first 8 years of school were parochial
In your heels
In your lips
Your tight belly
Your pantyhose
I owned you
and disdained you
I didn’t believe
what I knew
I held you outside
my busy greedy
expanses
Guilty
I said you were lovely
but I never could be seen
with you
Like a phobic fascist
I hated you for what
I did
And never comprehended
my reflex
Instead
in terrorized dreams
I always fled my police
Repressing old memories,
Past pictures burnt and torn.
Finding the love of my life
And never wanting anything more.
Sitting here wondering
If this is how it was meant to be.
He is my life
And all he will ever need is me.
Holding him close,
Never feeling us drift.
Shifting back and forth,
Shuffling in my head.
Repressed desire causes one such awful anxiety
Even though keeping it well hidden inside,
It also has a major effect on our sobriety
The heart cannot contain it, many have tried.
Even though keeping it well hidden inside
Repressed desire does irreparable damage,
The heart cannot contain it, many have tried
Sometimes sending our emotions on a rampage.
Repressed desire does irreparable damage
We cannot simply bottle up our inner feeling,
Sometimes sending our emotions on a rampage
Releasing them in a rush that sends us reeling.
We cannot simply bottle up our inner feeling
The repressed desire has a way of escaping,
Releasing itself in a rush that sends us reeling
It can become mental anguish in the making.
The repressed desire has a way of escaping
It also has a major effect on our sobriety,
It can become mental anguish in the making
Repressed desire causes one such awful anxiety.
SECOND PLACE WINNER
Written September 11, 2022
Submitted to: "Pick-a-Title Vol 32" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
It’s hard to breathe when I know I’m not myself anymore,
To know what you did, you brought me to my knees
with burning tears stinging down my face,
and the agony of rage bursting in my chest.
it’s hard to sleep when I am haunted everyday by a nightmare,
It can’t be repressed,
and It can’t be spoken of,
For it is the definition of hell.
It’s hard to live knowing I can’t change anything that happened,
where my body wasn’t my own and where no never applied to you,
the sight of your blue eyes and shaved head makes me cringe,
the sound of your voice saying “it’ll be fine” makes me mask my body with more of a blanket than ever before
do my silent screams and muffled “no’s” haunt you?
you told me you wanted to die afterwards,
but how can you turn everything to you?
how can you feel so bad when your privacy wasn’t invaded and your temple didn’t get torn down and left to ash.
It’s hard to tell what happened that warm, sunny day,
where outside the birds were singing and the trees were swaying,
but inside that room the storm was brewing.
You became a tornado, destroying everything in your path,
your 100 mile-per hour winds smelt like the strong dank you smoked and the cologne you wore.
my world and my life destroyed in the wreck,
My thoughts and my mind slipped while My innocence and confidence were stolen away from me,
I am completely broken with my pieces scattered about, unable to repair the wreckage you made, tell me, How does it feel shattering my life?
fade the tyrant to black
to snap a people's slide to hopeless
when the down trodden gasp for frenzied gulps of air
freedom's fullness lost
authoritarian arms in perversions of civic life
that bash the rush of free expression
when the hatchet faced boss combats thought
like a burning bacteria that drains color from life
Is the brute a man at all but a boot on the world?
blunt force trauma in jaws snapped shut
calculated state control celebrating callousness
to smear malice that slackens one's soul
citizens cower in concealed shelter, encased in
black-boxed fear
eclipse of the sun from the tyrant's grip
sooty nights of sirens wailing
when a protest fist rising means life severed
push back possible in the timeless fury of revolution
from rebellion whispering in moonless corners
but only when a people's survival is a silenced cry
we hear
Poem composed August 28/21
The High Inquisitor is being assigned this week
to determine who is able to meet criteria
and who shall be sent into exile
the details are simple
and rely on the ‘bending of a knee’
the ‘kissing of a ring’
the ability to follow orders without question
versus some, obscure thing written somewhere
about ‘free speech’, ‘free press’, ‘shall not be infringed’
these must be some ‘irrelevant’ statements,
outdated concepts
that no longer apply
only loyalty matters
an oath, a duty
to subserve
beware the wrath of this new whip master
or face
the lash.
I assume that my limerick obsession
has to do with aggression repression.
I compose and compose,
and I never repose.
This prevents my aggression’s expression.
I scrubbed the shame from under my fingernails,
as if guilt could be washed like dirt.
Cold showers never baptized the ache;
just gave it discipline,
a neat little collar for the beast inside.
They called me godly.
I stood on pulpits of silence,
hiding my hard truths in folded hands
and stitched lips.
“Virtue,” I said once,
like it was a sword I forged from purity.
But truth?
I was celibate because I was afraid.
Afraid that my hunger would make the church tremble.
Afraid of the moan
that would betray my masculinity,
that would out the softness
under my well-pressed sermons.
You were my fifth year of Sunday bests and unwashed bedsheets,
a ghost in my room,
waiting for me to touch you
with more than doctrine.
“You’re mistaking sexual sparks for soul,”
I told you once,
coldly, like I had never burned for you.
But I had.
God knows,
I choked on the fire every night.
You slammed the door with your back turned,
spat,
“The sex only felt euphoric because I was starving everywhere else.”
Your words landed like psalms of rebellion.
And maybe you were right.
Because in my celibate kingdom,
I reigned alone.
Hard, holy, and unheld.
They told me it was wisdom.
That lust is a devil’s whisper,
not knowing it’s also a scream of aliveness.
But is virtue still virtue
if it silences the body
just to please the soul?
I have loved with my eyes shut tight,
and prayed the ******** away;
but my prayers stank of fear,
not faith.
Let’s not pretend,
that choosing not to
makes me cleaner than the one who moaned last night
with the lights on
and the shame off.
This is not
an altar call to purity culture.
This is not
a hymn of repression.
This is me,
uncloaked,
a sinner in skin,
redefining holiness in the mirror.
Touché,
you said.
And I bled truth
for the first time
without guilt.
Somethings in my life are to complex to give expression to
Somethings are too tense and tangled
I contemplate on reasons and questions, beliefs and griefs'
I keep them to my chest turning in my sleep
Like a trinket, lockets or Kolesnikov's
Cause at times they are too tender to surrender to time
And other times they haunt and encircle me like ghastly clay pigeons
I was told to die for what you love or love what you'd die for
Most times I'm engulfed in repressions in corners on cold floors
Relief feels like falling through air
I breakdown into tears
Like glass breaks into shards
Splintering my heart beyond repair
And I can't even speak when I need to
At times I displace me when I need you
Cause somethings I can't express or give expression to
Somethings I bottle in me to protect you
Undeva departe
Emo?iile ?i-au facut adapost
Afara ploua ?i e frig..
Ele, tremura, sperând la un anotimp mai bun
Înainte de pisc, au fost îndrumate de un calugar
El le-a urnit din loc ?i le-a dat direc?ia spre Vârful Exprimarii
Dar când au ajuns acolo, le-a parasit cum s-a înnoptat
Iar ele înca se întreaba daca e pentru ca a ajuns sa le cunoasca
Tremurând, î?i spun pove?tile lor personale
De la întâmplari fericite ?i pâna la trairi terifiante
?i în tot acest timp afara e bezna
Iar ploaia devine zapada
Diminea?a vine cu o întrebare:
"Ramânem pe Vârful Exprimarii sau coborâm în Valea Reprimarii?"
Acolo în vale este cald ?i tihna.
Nu e nicio durere, dar ?i nicio placere.
Oare cum e mai bine?
Aici sau acolo? Acum sau mai încolo?
Oare mai au o cale? O cale ?esuta din pove?tile pe care tocmai ?i le-au spus?
Dupa ce au fugit de Valea Reprimarii ?i au suferit pe Vârful Exprimarii, care e calea catre Marele Echilibru Interior?
secret tattoos
a three-masted schooner tattoo on his bare chest
my father tosses us each
high into the air and we squeal with delight
make it sail for us.
he rubs his ocean belly and his ship rolls swoons
dips for us and we
dont know he is fading like the lines of the ink
geisha with parasol seducing
on his right arm or blue-red butterfly on his left calf
that doesn’t fly like he no longer
can and sailor you never told us how you raced
behind marines on strange pacific beaches
tagging mates to live and fleeing their dying
screams: at sixteen summers young
nebraska boy belongs in fields of wheat or corn
or a soda shop on main street.
their bone splinters and flesh shreds mingling with sand
still cry in his ears save me brother
help me mother oh god please shoot me bob don’t
leave me leave me. leave me.
tides lapping at the shores of his memory will wash
his secret tattoos.
Rb 90
for my father, a Navy corpsman who served
in two wars.