Best Unforgiving Poems
You think you know him
But you refuse to see
The artful way he abuses me
He captivates my mind
He traps my soul
He pins my arms to my side
When I tell him just to go
He uses knife like words
To slice me with his tongue
His eyes are like daggers
Causing me to come undone
Harsh fingers press against my face
Proving im a Doll
To play with as he choses
Or throw against the wall
He taunts with cruel intentions
To make my heart bleed
Playing Devils advocate
Once I cry myself to sleep
Soft and bitter sweet
In an instant he turns to stone
A heart as cold as ice
Mean down to the bone
But you refuse to see
You glance the other way
And listen to his words
You join in his game
Each word he says is now a jest
Each look is a mistake
And when he grips painfully
He just meant to play
Close your eyes to his work
It really is an art
But no matter how you spin it
Inside he is an abusive jerk
Life can be beautiful and long. Or life could be short and depressing. Some people
act happy when they are sad. Their anger will grow and only get mad. Fear to live
can be so strong. Some people will cut life short before they're time. They feel
the only way out is suicide. For death is a gift that God gave us. But love is a
choice that some don't follow. The hatred rejection breathes can turn you hallow.
Your eyes tell the truth of an unforgiving soul. The darkness you seek is out of
control. One day at a time it consumes you. Then at last your finally threw. You
are bitter and heartless, angered, and cold. Sooner or later your evil will unfold.
You have gone into hiding and left the light. Any chance you get you try to fight.
The pain you buried so many years ago. The scars and fears of an unforgiving soul.
Your day will come and you will forgive. The child you saved was abandoned and
hide. Your life is peaceful and calm. Your little baby will grow up happy and
strong. You saved a life and got yours back. You had so much pain and rage filled
attacks. You can sleep without the dreams of a viscous man. Everything is Better
now you can finally think. You stop and wonder why he took that last drink? Why he
abused your young body? Where he was when he hid? Why he did the things he did?
In your parched desert land
As the pendulum swings
And your friends are all gone
Still you’re moving right along
Like it doesn’t mean a thing
In your parched desert land
Thinking life’s unforgiving
Why not swallow your pride
Take an honest look inside
Join the land of the living
In your parched desert land
Your manufactured death valley
Kind response was so important
Yet your manner was discordant
Isolation’s blind alley
In your parched desert land
When they take the final tally
You’ll surrender the fight
Find exquisite delight
In your brokered finale
March 9, 2020
F F I series FINALE
Brian Strand, sponsor
Unforgiving Reflections
by Odin Roark
Life’s not a bowl of cherries,
It’s a comedy of errors.
Like a corpse refusing to die,
An attempted burial forever postponed,
Past mistakes appear to never realize interment,
Self-loathing, the death defying destroyer, seems forever.
How pervasive our hording of errors,
Fault’s buried-deep-admonition
Denying mistakes deserve closure,
Goading us instead to carry the extra baggage
As guilt laden badges of honor.
How tenacious the hiding…
These mirrored shadows,
Revealing how meticulously faults are collected.
From the daily shave for some,
The application of make-up for others,
All serve our self-adjudicated punishment,
Guilt’s aging toll most apparent in dry wrinkled faces,
Folds of decaying sags beneath fastidiously groomed beards,
And gray strands hidden amongst obsessively coiffed hair.
Have they no closure,
These undying blunders,
These reflections of self
That remain unforgiving?
Was Freud right?
What if id and ego’s right and wrong debate is eternal?
After all, the superego, our patient judge,
Has no where else to go,
Nothing more to do.
****…
Maybe it’s time to destroy all mirrors.
Good idea?
You're not a coward
having shown a great lack of intelligence
or common sense within arrogance towards another opinion
For that which matters deeply disturbed blocked out
hard hitting truth in evidence reads between the lines,
Micky mouse can clearly see the victim trapped
pushing false agendas that promote hate
Inside the visible truth we can see lost
closed doors behind the veil a bully in words
to speak correctly toned casting names of judgement
condemning wisdom hitting a brick wall
chained prisoner of deception
Killing every fact as if tortured behind the mask
attacking victims whom are silent ghosts
Violence towards another being is the code you live by
its easier to eat humble pie and admit defeat
there is no getting through and saving these souls
Brainwashed against the word of God
what can you say about that which matters
"Shadows of yesteryears rise up again on All Hallows Eve,
to roam the streets and parks, to whisper in the trees."
Quote by _Constance
In a church cemetery rest the dead
until Halloween night,
when coffins open and they tread
at midnight.
Among the living they look so creepy
but some are still weepy,
full of gloom and sad words unsaid
gone is inner light.
Ghoulish and eerie they walk with the living
oh, death is unforgiving,
to meet one fills you with dread
and they give a fright.
Terrifying and frightening scary shadows
walking streets and meadows,
stumbling through a flowerbed
silhouettes not right.
In darkness under the moon they stroll
searching for their lost soul,
then, with descending moon they have fled
before the sun is bright.
__________________________
October 31, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/Oh, Death is Unforgiving
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1498-081-31
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
With ten required words
Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
Written for the Premiere contest, Halloween Poetry
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 11/30/2022
First Place
Unforgiving
like unceasing wildfires
raging out of control.
Unforgiving
like a ferocious avalanche
engulfing everything in its path.
Unforgiving
like a wind-blown blizzard
in bone-chilling winter.
She turns a deaf ear
to his entreaties
for forgiveness.
The death knell
has sounded
on their union.
Wronged
just once;
once was enough.
Submitted for...
Strand Select Q,Any Form ,Any Theme Poetry Contest (Honorable Mention)
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date: 02/16/2020
Date written: 02/05/2020
The wind whispers curses into the trees,
As I look out the windows of my room.
Snow keeps falling through the relentless breeze,
And the sky’s a prison of darkened gloom.
Thin ice has now covered much of the earth,
With our lakes getting frozen all around.
Harsh winds work at delaying spring’s rebirth,
Causing the trees to sway above the ground.
Sensing the cold air surging up my spine,
My body shutters from the chilling blast.
I see animals scurry up a pine,
As another day flees into the past.
I've found myself trapped right in the center
Of this cruel and unforgiving winter.
© 2014
Festival of-
earthen lamps.
Separating the grain from chaff.
*
Pigeons will-
not be let out to fly.
It is going to be a moonless night.
*
The skin has peeled off.
Time to move on.
The bared trees.
Satish Verma
It's six days since
the Hole was dug...
First frost clings now
to newly turned earth,
to shunted sod,
to stones, to pebbles.
A grave grows colder
today than yet it's been...
Hearts grow busy, too.
Supplanting last images
with happier ones.
The heart and mind curate
a story to tell and re-tell;
to tell ourselves. To hold back
the ghosts.
~~~
It’s a year and some four months
since its been six days,
today.
The field, once buttercupped,
had been for Iris to wander.
His field, unbuttered.
She ignored what he’d eat.
A square of yellow beside a square of green.
(If only you’d seen!)
Her white, stark, above the fresh-cut ginger yellow
field.
Then, in a month of summer, her field...
greened.
She a cloud above a lawn.
He a sienna burning in the
Summer sun.
His field daisied and hers green.
The yellow square now green.
The green square now white.
She in her place.
He in his.
Trading primaries.
Today, the buttercups began to return to his green-then-white
field.
The place where his grave is.
I notice,
through tears,
that none have grown over his grave.
Ghosts, perhaps,
are flowers.
The beauty returning,
from seeds buried.
Our Past Is Unforgiving
Miracle Man
4/23/2023
We squander our time
when we venture into the waste land of life
inhabited by the what-if’s, and if I’d only.
Time is not a granter of mulligans,
so the past is unforgiving.
Mistakes or bad decisions are a part of life,
and leaves collateral damage which affects others.
Any mistakes should be viewed as teaching tools.
It’s all come back around again
From friends to lovers and back to friends
And though we may try to pretend
We both know this game has to end
Though my heart is wrapped in yours so tight
And I think of you constantly day and night,
Try and try with all our might
Truth and reality must shed its light
Our responsibility outweighs our desire
Even while we play with fire
But my heart is balancing on this wire
And to me the circumstances are dire
We can’t go on pretending its okay
And I know we both want to stay
But it will never work this way
I am weak, please be strong and walk away.
Be dignified and say you’re free
Enjoy the peace and sanity
Find someone that lets you be who you want to be
But please don’t forget to think of me
Just know that in my heart you'll always be mine
And although life has given us bad time
I’ll always love you and I won’t ever mind
Forever yours, forever thine
07-21-2009
How can you say
every life should be saved
when you have no concern for the living,
for the hungry and poor
you have saved that life for
yet find yourself so unforgiving?
~Jeannie Cronin
Born on a spring cyclone from Kansas' stormy rain,
awoken now in low growl, slowly reversing.,
down a low ramp, like a movie star rehearsing,
at new shore in sunshine with an exotic name.
Just like a kid in love all over again..
learning her games in many a winding curve,
perhaps proof enough I haven't lost my nerve,
shyly look back at such a refined rear end.
Lola isn't very patient or forgiving,
one who oversteers her with attitude,
puts her in a dangerous sashaying mood..
to cut short a man's simple days in living.
Let me tell ya what's so precious,
she purrs, just like a kitten..
tear'g through each firm shift given,
in silky thrusting gear meshes.
Oh, it's a fact.., she's known other men's hands
hit such dizzying heights on their track,
though promising never to look back,
my careful repair strokes her will demands.
Safe from boredom all my loving hands touch,
ev'ry square inch of Monaco White body showing,
hot turbocharged exhaust pipes ready and glowing,
hearts pounding in high revving double clutch.
Lola thrives on top tier 91 octane's heady drink,
sipping imperial ounces at each injection,
she's never known any salad days in rejection,
smooth cylinder walls bathed in sweetest crude oil and zinc.
Have you guessed at her qualifying past?
heart like a wheel.., all alone in a class..
smart dressed in Kevlar reinforced fiberglas
Hethel's english dream finally mine at last.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets
And little man, little Lola wants you
Make up your mind to have
No regrets
Recline yourself, resign yourself,
you're through"
* Whatever Lola Wants by Richard Adler and Jerry Ross for the 1955 musical play Damn Yankees
I have a passion, a passion to write.
Sometimes it’s hard and turns into fights.
With everything starving for my precious time,
Sitting down is hard, let alone a rhyme.
But the poetry inside rears its evil head,
It feels ignored, especially when I’m in bed.
While on the job my mind begins to race,
Tumbling through rhymes, staring me in the face.
There’s nothing I can do while on the clock,
Maybe sneak a few lines and not get caught.
My job has been very demanding,
With poetry not understanding.
Now that I’ve started I just can’t stop,
Fifty poems down and starting to rock.
My mind fills prisoned by this unnatural beast,
When will the rhymes of mine begin to cease.
For every thought that runs through my head,
Begins and ends with a rhyme instead.
Sometimes it’s crazy and drives me nuts,
The words speak truth and hits home in the gut.
This is my gift or maybe my curse,
Is my glass half full or empty at worst?
Nathan Bane Leccese
© All Rights Reserved 06/11/09