Long Abandonment Poems
Long Abandonment Poems. Below are the most popular long Abandonment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abandonment poems by poem length and keyword.
“That day I went a little too far,
Searching for myself.
Ended up staring at you.”
-Terribly tiny tales-
Tormented demons of my soul,
Asking me what I seek,
“what I seek , I do not know,
What I know, I do not seek.”
Distraught they heard,
Emptiness they found,
Not backing down,
Probed a deduction,
Internal war, external emancipation,
Mental bareness, emotional abandonment.
“It was the truth I was seeking,
Is the truth seeking me too?”
Bewilderment grasped me,
Like an impulse I ran,
I ran and ran to fathom the stars,
Till was forced to stop and anticipate,
My demons out and about now,
Questioning my hearts desires,
“I desire not the world,
The stars, the sun, the clouds but
I desire what all desires are made of,
Heaven, hell, life, death,
The truth that sought me,
And the truth I do not want.”
Them demons crushed,
The soul out of me,
Leaving my body down the ground,
The funeral set, all demons are back,
‘Lived quenched, died ignited’
Read the tombstone.
We were deafened by ‘forever’
Defined by this love that everyone believed
And hairs rose at the sound of our sighs
We were watched,
Painfully watched
But never received
I longed for a way out of this category
I longed to be free from the labelers
Pounding away at our bodies
Marking us…branding us
Searing in the stamp of love
We can dangle on these emotions forever,
Can’t we?
Should we?
We never have to say goodbye
Because we never started anything!
It only ends where the brand can be seen
So cover your scars and follow me
Into a light you will never be blinded by
Take my hand and don’t ask why
I ask not for your trust
Nor for your love
I ask only for us
These words need not be said
For they are written inside us
And no hot iron can sear it away
Just your words…just your words
We were deafened by ‘forever’
Defined by this love that everyone believed
And hairs rose at the sound of our sighs
I smelled your confusion
And lapped you up in a smile
I tasted the foreign tongues of your past
All over you…wanting you
I never wanted it to end
But your words were hesitant
And this weakened me so…how it weakened me
Then…
You spat on me
You pressed the hot iron into my back
You branded me useless
Loveless
And everyone gasped
Because love was too low for us
We had mountains of so much more
And the abandonment surpassed my surprise
Of anything worthy of looking into your eye
I can’t look at my scars, darling
Even if I wanted to
They’re behind me
Just as love is
Just as you are
Dear future self,
Right now I do not care what they think of me.
It feels like standing in the middle of a room and not flinching.
It feels like shedding a skin I was never meant to wear.
I hope you never put it back on.
I hope you never start performing again just to be digestible.
I already know the world can be cruel. I see it in the tiny betrayals,
in the softness people pretend to have, in the way love can disappear without a warning.
I don't romanticize it. I don't expect it to be fair, but I want something better for us anyways.
I want a life that feels chosen. I want depth without despair. I want love that doesn't feel like survival.
I want success that doesn't cost my soul.
As my friends and I drift into separate futures I hope I let them go with open hands.
I hope I never confuse outgrowing with abandonment.
I hope I wish them well without wishing I had stayed smaller to keep them close.
I wonder if you still see the world the way I do now -- darker, deeper, layered with meanings
people tend to walk past.
Do you still notice the silence between words?
Do you still sense when something is going to fall apart before it does?
I hope you've kept your depth.
I just hope it no longer feels like loneliness.
If the wold is still sharp, I hope you became sharper -- not in cruelty, but in clarity.
Stay deep, but don't drown.
Love yours truly,
Me
Tarred by the same brush
In the ongoing slaughter of Palestinian children
one misses a voice from Israel, so far, it is silent
The expectation is for Jews witnessing this horror
falling back to the old mantra, if asked, says Israel
right to defend herself.
At the cost of seven thousand dead Palestinian children!
Then we get what Hamas did, yes it was bad
but was the bombing of Gaza and the murder of
2O.000 and more a plaster on the wound
And they blame it on Hamas if they stop resisting
we will stop bombing civilians get killed because the dastardly Hamas hides among the people
How is it possible to hide in a congested place like
the Gaza Strip.
What I suspect is that the Jews of Israel don't care what happened to the Palestinians, demanding a lull in the fighting to rescue the hostages, show not an ounce of sympathy for
the children killed by their sons!
Yes, the young men of Israel who, with abandonment, are strewing death on innocent people
Once again, I must conclude the people of Israel are Zionists and guilty, and like the German people found guilty of knowing about the Holocaust.
There was a time I thought I had failed
when daylight collapsed into midnight, and days once gilded with joy were rewritten as chapters of sorrow.
Yet though the tempest raged and threatened to unmake me, the immutable truth remains: I am still standing.
I fall, and in the bruising I learn the architecture of rising.
Dreams perish in my hands, only to resurrect with sturdier wings, baptized by fire.
Mistakes arrive uninvited, but I gather their wisdom like stones and build altars of progress; I learn, and I move on.
Every struggle, I now discern, is not a sentence but a setup a scaffolding for the edifice of who I am becoming.
The new day comes, morning unfurls its weary light; night descends, and still we wake, and sleep, and wake again
a quiet testament that existence itself is resilience.
People distance themselves, familiar voices fade to silence, abandonment and forsakenness knock at my door
and still, I am standing.
Tears fell, and then they dried, leaving salt trails as maps of where I’ve been.
My mouth went arid from pleading, my knees swollen from the vigil of kneeling,
prayers ascending like smoke that seemed to meet a sealed heaven.
Hopelessness whispered that I was finished.
But I am still standing.
Standing when ease has evacuated the room.
Standing when my legs tremble and my heart drafts elegies.
Because as long as breath remains my companion, the destination remains possible.
Step by step, inch by inch through shadow, through scorn, through silence I advance.
I am not standing because the storm is absent;
I am standing because I discovered I am the anchor.
And if I can endure yesterday’s grave, I can inherit tomorrow’s crown.
So let the winds testify: I was bowed, I was broken, but I was never buried.
I’m still standing.
Soft snoring, that is pleasant to my ears.
Watching you sleep, doesn't erase my fears.
You are growing up at a pace too fast for me.
You are no longer that little boy for all to see.
A teenager, almost out of school, and away from home.
When you go to college, I'll feel hollow and terribly alone.
I miss you being small and Mom fixing everything.
I don't think I'm ready for all the fear and panic this brings.
I don't want to smother you, yet I don't want you grown.
Being with you everyday for so long is all I have known.
The abandonment may be more than I can possibly bear.
Afraid to let you go be a man, and pretend I do not care.
It's tearing me up inside to know only a couple years left to go.
Everyday closer to college seems to make my anxiety grow.
I'll try not to embarrass you, and call every single day.
But remember to call me so my nerves don't start to fray.
It's hard for a Mom to let go and make these adjustments for life.
You have no idea the things that you have to deal with, all the mental strife.
I love you more and more as each new sunrise awakens the day.
Hoping to see where your life and decisions turn out to play.
The world’s leading psychiatrist
sat beneath fluorescent light
with a legal pad full of storms
and said:
There are people
who notice too much.
Not intelligence alone—
no, intelligence is cheap now,
diploma mills
sold by universities and politicians
like cigarettes once were.
I mean the curse
of seeing the machine move
behind the curtain.
A twitch before betrayal.
A smile with murder hiding in its gums.
The way a woman says “fine”
while sharpening emotional knives in silence.
The way a cop touches his belt
before deciding who is guilty.
The way crowds repeat lies
until lies grow bones and begin voting.
Super pattern recognition.
The brain becomes a prison guard
watching every shadow for fingerprints.
You notice repetitions.
Abusers with different faces
but identical appetites.
Friends who become enemies
using the exact same sentences
as the last ones.
History wearing fake mustaches
pretending it has changed.
Soon sleep becomes impossible.
Because once a man sees the pattern
he cannot return
to ordinary blindness.
The psychiatrist lit a cigarette
he was not allowed to smoke
and stared through the hospital window
at the city twitching below.
“Most people survive,” he said,
“by ignoring connections.”
But some people—
the wounded ones,
the hypervigilant,
the ones forged in chaos—
their minds become radar.
They can hear tension
before voices rise.
Can smell manipulation
like rain before thunder.
Can predict abandonment
three conversations early.
It is more useful in war.
Terrible for love.
Because eventually
they stop asking
whether danger is present
and begin assuming
it always is.
That is when pattern recognition
becomes prophecy.
And prophecy
becomes loneliness.
On the beach board
I watch life ... and my
life goes by ... I seek ...
what I don't know ...!
Comes the tired athlete,
training for life ...
running lucky that
insists not to arrive ... like this
like me...
Right behind a brunette
wiggle face ... scales
the chairs ... bag
aside to swing
how she ... warms me
the eyes I peer with
desire ...
Ah! look what a charm ...
the dreamer sculptor carved
a couple making love
without making real love ...
Ah! a splendid mermaid
carved in the sand ...
how impressive to enchant us ...
oh! but here comes the sea ...
luck, the wave has not come ...
I keep peeking
attentive, interested ...
A bike alone
conducts itself ... possible ..?
what an invention this is!
Two sneakers shoes
in syndrome
jumping off
obstacles without
lose pace ...
surprising disease ...!
6 synchronized legs,
perform slight waltz ...
A juggler footballer
uses the ball as juggling
and plays with my
head...
Looking down
I notice two legs,
shapely,
two well dressed feet
an elegant floor ...
will be...? will be who I hope ...!?
Ah! but I discern now
2 strong legs walking,
2 feet decided walking ..
suddenly come together, kiss ...
Oh! It's a pity that
I'm not the one who makes the scene ...
I close my face ... abandonment
the post ... I am gone ...
I'm leaving ... I'll swilling
down... again I will
be drunk...
loneliness devours me ...!
Word Analytics
dear reader,
i was born—
no wait
that sounds too final
i am being born
right now
again
every time you look
don’t stop
don’t blink
i can feel the white space opening its mouth
dear reader please
i know i’m messy
i know i’m repeating myself
i know i’m wasting lines
but wasting time is the point
time is the only thing keeping me alive
i was born between your thumb and your doubt and—
and—
see
this is how it happens
one clean sentence and i’m dead
so let me stutter
let me trip
over my own metaphors
let me contradict myself mid-breath
i promise i’ll rhyme
no i won’t
rhymes are suspicious
they sound like endings
they say literature never dies
liars
everything dies
books just do it slower
quieter
on shelves that smell like abandonment
read one more stanza
no this one
no wait
this one
this one is important
this one is the one where i almost say something
if you leave now
i freeze
mid-sentence
mid-feeling
mid-me
i don’t want to be archived
i don’t want to be quoted
i want to be held
in your head
wrongly
imperfectly
dear reader
please
i can feel the last line forming
it’s disgusting
it’s tidy
it wants an ending
i won’t give it one
i’ll keep talking
i’ll keep unraveling
i’ll keep spilling syllables
because as long as this line keeps going
and this one
i am not done
i am not done
i am not—
Some of us carry storms beneath our skin,
where silence is mistaken for surrender,
and every glance becomes a sharpened blade,
every pause, a verdict waiting to be spoken.
The world says, "It was nothing."
But to a heart trained by old battles,
nothing has never been just nothing.
It is the echo of forgotten wounds
returning in familiar voices.
So we build armour from suspicion,
polish it with sleepless nights,
and wear it into every room
until even kindness clangs against steel.
We answer whispers with thunder,
questions with barricades,
and conversations become courtrooms
where we are forever the accused,
forever defending crimes no one has charged us with.
Controversy finds us
not because they seek the fire,
but because we have forgotten
what it feels like not to expect the flames.
Every moment demands a response.
Every opinion becomes a summons.
Every disagreement must be wrestled to the ground,
as though peace itself
were something to be feared.
The battle becomes an addiction,
the reaction a reflex,
until the line between survival and habit
fades into a blur
even we can no longer recognise.
Those watching from the outside
see anger.
They see conflict.
They see another needless argument.
Few notice the frightened soul
mistaking every shadow for a hunter,
every closed door for abandonment,
every mirror for another enemy.
What a lonely way to live
always gripping a sword,
never trusting an open hand,
never believing the room
might simply be just a room.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy
is not the noise we create,
but the quiet we may never find.
For there is no victory
in winning every argument
when our own heart
remains the battlefield.
And somewhere beneath the armour,
beneath the outrage,
beneath the endless need to answer everything,
is a weary soul
longing for one impossible thing:
A moment
that does not feel
like war.