Long Abbreviations Poems
Long Abbreviations Poems. Below are the most popular long Abbreviations by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abbreviations poems by poem length and keyword.
MY AGE
My age is nothing but a number, nothing but a slumber that I can’t wake from, this is what I’ve done. I’ve looked around and found that the matter of the fact is life isn’t what it’s supposed to be for me.
The average teenager spends most of their lifetime looking at their phones and when it’s time to learn something new their minds have already grown. Absorbing every single thing that they are sold, having a twelve year old’s body and the mind of a twenty one year old.
Social media doesn’t help the situation, it only changes how the different problems are situated. It has stolen complete sentences and created abbreviations, shortcuts of a language used by my generation. You could be laughing out loud when in reality you’re crying, saying TBH to be honest when in actual fact you’re actually lying.
And to that you can’t say anything because if LIFE was abbreviated it would stand for Living In Fear of Everything.
This is what I go through, in addition the music industry has had a major breakthrough. It has managed to be more influential promoting sex, drugs and slurs that are racial. “Making money moves” is about dancing on a pole, “Smoke weed everyday” is the daily intake of dope and this is said all while mentioning the one African American slave term that we all know. My nig-...I can’t say it though. So why do you. You have no idea who that affects. Sometimes we need to learn to be more politically correct.
They say that euphoria is just around the corner, behind the school building in a midst of vape. These are the lies they create, saying everything is ok. Just inhale it once and you’ll be done. I’m sorry, you can call me a loner but don’t mistake me for a stoner. One shot, two shots, three shots, four, hard. Call me antisocial but I’ve never drank before and I’m not about to start.
Society is full of influences, temptations and choices. However people like me always end up being voiceless. They think we’re too young to have any serious issues, that’s just another excuse for not wanting to accept the truth. You choose to change the subject to something totally unrelated, “We don’t have many problems?” well isn’t that an understatement?
You say that it will change, you say it’s just a phase, you say it’s another page in my story, no, this stage, right here...
This is MY AGE!
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .
‘It’ is something many computer salesman don’t know exists
but our laptops wouldn’t be secure without 'it'.
‘It’ is a tiny component, vital for the stability of our computers
Without ‘it’ they would wobble about.
I learned about ‘it’ from our friend Malc
I was thinking of getting a new laptop
He advised me to ask the salesman if it had LRF
Malc is very knowledgeable, so I asked the salesman
Does it have LRF? My friend Malc says it must have 'it'
The salesman scratched his chin and looked puzzled
LRF – I’ve never heard of ‘it’, are you sure ‘it’ is vital
I persisted and said Malc had insisted my laptop MUST have ‘it’
I said I couldn’t buy the computer if it didn’t have LRF
and could he find out for me…
The salesman found his boss and he hadn’t heard of ‘it’ either
So I rang Malc’s mobile
Said I had a problem as the salesman couldn’t confirm the laptop had ‘it’
Malc said he’d come to the store to check
He arrived…
Turned the laptop over and peered at the base…
Yes this one is fine; I see it has LRF
The salesman looked perplexed,
explaining he’d worked in computers for years and had never heard of ‘it’
Please tell me, what ‘it’ is, he asked
Malc grinned and looked him straight in the eye
‘Little Rubber Feet’, he said … ‘it’ is a vital component!
Now, hands up….
How many of you have just felt the corner of your laptop to see if yours has ‘it’!
IT Poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
11-25-17
Fiction write but based on a true story. Our friend Malc worked in IT and got fed up of salesman bombarding people with ‘technospeak’ especially three letter abbreviations so LRF was his little joke at getting back at them.
The deep, heartfelt ache,
heaviness piled onto shoulders;
the feeling of unattainable past experiences,
the moments of mere temporary bliss,
the unavoidable changes.
No permanency tacked down,
solely feelings of mourn for the moments that no longer exist.
Nights spent lying awake,
eyes crusty and tired,
thinking of the next moment that will slip away.
Consistency lacking:
no apple is as crispy as the next,
or light lit the same way.
Clouds shifting shapes at every glance:
there’s no sense of consistency.
These words, though.
These words have persisted;
through centuries and lives.
The meaning transforms with language,
significance, thought, and interpretation.
Forever, there will be folkloric tales eternally told.
Scrawled opinions tucked in the margins,
taking note of the emotion felt in the morning light,
because it might change by the evening glow.
The printed text, however,
persists with its’ permanency.
Letters written to lovers,
etched into the front flap of a cover.
Used novels with broken spines,
gifted with notes crammed between paragraphs:
practically a physical confession of love.
A concept so difficult to grasp:
mortality bearing the gift of abbreviations,
but words made of ink and laid on pieces of parchment,
battle the non-permanency of humanity,
with its consistent sense of corporality.
Thoughts of interpretation,
bare a human’s soul.
The dedication,
of a timeless work of words,
bare a human’s soul.
When she really wanted to grow up,
she used to think it must be easier
to be grown than to be small.
She used to think, and she had faith in it,
that if she were a little more skillful,
dreaming would be worth it,
because the girl used to believe
that dreamed dreams
became true
with time.
And all the girl wanted then
was to see all of her dreams
racing through time
so they could become reality.
She became less confused
when a wise teacher
helped her understand
that we grow up faster
the more perfect
our learning is.
In every possible way
the child wanted to learn.
She wanted to know everything,
not just the fact, but the reason
for stars hanging in the sky,
for gravity and centifugal force,
for storms and for flowering.
The more the time passed,
the more she tried to learn.
And she touched everything
and she felt everything
and she read everything.
She used to eat
with the hunger of someone who wants to have
ideas,
and to understand them,
science and philosophy,
arts and eruptions,
names and abbreviations.
But when girl had finally grown up
as all creatures
do
a deep sadness
overtook her completely.
Now that she knew
about colors and transparent colors,
about Gregorian chant and itchy skin
about moons and circumferences,
about the world, about onomatopeia,
she could easily understand
that dream and reality
are parallel lines.
Last week I was shopping for ideas on the corner of metaphor and allegory,
Rummaging through a pile of discount words to help me tell a story.
A shelf of very expensive words caught my eye because they were so flirty,
Then a drawer of words that must have fallen down because they were so dirty.
There were several words in a mark down bin and they were really cheap,
And even though they didn’t quite fit I decided that I would keep…. them.
I could bend them down and twist them around until the sentence was a maze,
With just a little bit of reworking I found that I could shape them into a phrase.
I’d have to wrestle with a word sometimes until my huffing face turned purple,
Then I‘d have to resort to telling lies like, an aglet is also called a nerple.
Remember when you’re shopping for words that orange creates angst,
And that a poem is never really done until the subject is properly thanksed.
The word store sent me a coupon in the mail showing the fifty percent off it gives,
It says that this is the greatest sale of all time so I went looking for superlatives.
But when I got there I found out that the sale had several misrepresentations.
It seems the promised discount was only good on words with abbreviations.
Words,
And more words.
Written in a binary code of zeros and ones,
Appearing on a computer screen
In a language everyone can understand.
Translated into a structured story,
Speaking to the reader with an easily
Understood message, making
Paper obsolete.
Words can move through space and
Give a person reason to believe that they
Are all true,
Nothing left to the imagination.
Correspondence with a purpose,
Codified abbreviations in a short version
Expose a secret, and tell the reader
More than they wanted to know.
Everyone’s need to be involved
Is satiated by reading the words of
Strangers that shape the
Endless universe of clutter, inhabited by
Uninvited guests who want to be heard.
All the 0’s and 1’s,
Pushed through invisible lines buried beneath the
Earth’s crust, bouncing off into
Intergalactic space,
The eternal region of knowing everyone’s opinion.
Correspondence school, where flashing letters on a
Computer screen have nonconsenting intercourse
Transformed into words that dance off the
Fingertips of legions of anonymous correspondents.
All waiting to read everyone’s next utterance,
Making it easy to strike the
Delete key and watch the words
Disappear when there is nothing more to say.
If I have to move on/regardless won’t lose myself/ alarming like Charlie Chaplin/took a while to get a reaction/ hogging the role of who loves me the most/narcissistic or action figure/ we all gotta grow /if I turn Muslim would god give me stories unmask the beast Goldie Israel black Wall Street I’ve already done it/double up everything it/charge the game up/ any ring or trigger finger could give a who’s with her/blow abbreviations misses don’t be a roach and get caught up slipping /sacrifice me my conscious high jacks anybody/ in a regular mood had insecurity issues/ it’s strange how valuable food/ digest in your system/ get it?/give to charity more and you increase overall income/ over your shoulder cuz facts will target your feelings/turn to gadgets and drown all your freedom. its bull how now your awoke/suddenly just a victim/ opportunity goals position I team up/ the youth looking good/ first look at yourself and then lead them. I’m drinking a lot more but I blaze the weed up/ I sleep less all my battles keep me edgy/focus fines
People tell me to try and be happy
and for them I try
yet how can I
What ways can I
I'm drowning in the cards
Karma dealt to me
I can't drown out the noises, the voices
the candle that burned out
from the overdose of a thousand lies
The wind can't appreciate a moment alone
the last night I had to say goodbye
I had to close the wounds before
the drainage started
Forget everything
Yours to hold, nothing more than a misconception
Agitation of the abbreviations
my reward for sacrificing myself
putting everyone else first instead of myself
My reward is a chain of misery
pain and suffering
I can hear the talk
but I'll walk over the edge
without a splat cause I hate it like that
Trap me in a room with anybody that hates me
and I'll be an animal in a cage
full of rage and hate
Too late for me to change
can't hold me
Rather be under a shady tree but shady made me
Despite the hidden rain
despite the look in my eyes
I'm dying on the inside
I have a friend who I visit regularly,
He calls me Smith the Grocer, STG for short,
And when I text him, I sign off with STG,
Sometimes I add other abbreviations for him to guess,
A bit of harmless fun between friends.
Little did I know that a mix up with a text accidentally sent to my daughter,
Would lead to STG being interpreted to mean Sausage Tasted Good.
It came about in this way,
My daughter and her partner brought us over some flavoursome sausages,
So, it was not surprising that the next day when my daughter,
Got a three-letter text STG,
It was not unreasonable for her to conclude STG to mean
Sausage Tasted Good ,
And for me to get a text back that she was glad I liked The Sausage.
Needless, to say I did not attempt to correct the impression,
As, if I had thought about it,
I might well have sent that or a similar text on purpose,
And the sausages did taste good.
A case I think for a white lie, not doing any harm.