Long Addicts Poems
Long Addicts Poems. Below are the most popular long Addicts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Addicts poems by poem length and keyword.
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
Expectation one: stop expecting anything, because what you want, they will rarely be.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
As a child of an addict, you may fear that their addiction is tradition, that one day you will be in that position.
Fear not! The cards have not been dealt, I know how you have felt, running from that rust belt to be free, away with your lock to find a key.
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
As a child of an addict, you must have more ambition, hold onto a goal and set off on a mission.
Seizing control of your future, yet wondering: is this all I’ll ever be? A compilation of all my tragedy. Will they ever truly see what I was meant to be, simply me?
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
As a child of an addict, we do not wonder when we will see our parent, but if the price of their condition has demanded submission as its tuition.
If— when that phone rings, will they have finally paid the fee?
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
You cannot waste your life waiting for someone else to pay a debt yet due, so you move through and forward to your transition.
Flee the debris of their memory without a final decree while you hope their condition doesn’t affect your mission to be free.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
You have entered the world alone, working with hyper vigilance and absolute precision.
Working toward a life time guarantee that you are your life’s grantee.
When you dearly know an addict there are few things you start and stop expecting, with no condition.
What to expect when expecting: the addict edition. Call it sedition, my contrition for the statistical division.
I have observed that some of the wars of Israel, both ancient and modern, have been recorded and demonstrate a CELESTIAL infiltration greatly assisting and enabling their victory. Of course, there are those who always project such engagement of the supernatural as fairy tales and BESMIRCH the true history of the Israelite people. I prefer to believe in the biblical accounts than those of revisionist historians. I am forever anticipating the everlasting God who strengthens his people both Jews and Gentiles like the PINION of an eagle, enabling us to reach mountain heights otherwise impossible. I refuse to allow the impassioned THROES of hatred to blind the reality of love's immortal quest to restore all mankind to our original design and purpose. Not only God but nature itself pleas with us to make our short individual SOJOURN upon the earth count for something far bigger than ourselves. Indeed, may we allow God to reignite the light that was infused within us at creation. That light, so cleverly dimmed, smothered, and put out in Adam and Eve, must become LISSOME once more. When such becomes the state of mankind, the FIRMAMENT will give consent, and haters, greed-addicts, and power mongers will disappear like vapor from heated waters. Then, the lion will eat straw and cease the hunt for meaty prey. Then, weapons of war will be turned into pruning hooks. We will study war no more, and mankind the world over will REPOSE.
05222018PSContest, 8- Word Challenge 4, John Hamilton, 5P
In London
A young woman
walks the streets
Laddered tights
Swollen feet.
Sells her body
So her kids can eat.
Is She the one to Blame?
In Gambia
A man so poor
Addicts his children
To Heroine
To keep their bellies
Full within.
He works all day and night
How are they meant to live.
When all he earns
Is all he gives.
Is he the one to Blame?
In Glasgow
An underground society
A depth of drugs
So high their free
A family bond
A unity
The streets alive with poverty.
Yet people see what they want to see.
Are they the ones to Blame.
In India
How can it be?
that a country where
beliefs are strong.
Through religious eyes they
could see.
How cruel their flesh and blood could be.
When 3 girls aged 3-8
Awaited such an awful fate.
Were tortured, raped and murdered.
Then thrown into a well.
How could that man, then pray to God
To save his soul from Hell.
Was he to Blame?
In Pakistan
Many marry very young
To a person they don't know
For love will come
Throughout the years
Each seed you plant will grow.
Yet some are beaten everyday
Raped in their own beds.
For her husband held all the power
In the hands she'd come to dread.
To live a life just like a slave
Is that not hell on earth?
To have a body without a soul
Never knowing what it's worth.
She was Modest and good
She worshiped Allah each day.
But her culture stole her religion away.
Was she the one to Blame?
In America
A Mother hates her child so
As depressions eats away her soul
She couldn't stay to hear
him cry.
She drank so much
The years flew by
Her child un loved
yearned for his Mum.
Her hatred like vomit
Churned with the Rum.
No one knew or realised
how much the child had the eyes
of her rapist
Who stole her pride.
Two lives that led to suicide.
Was she to Blame?
Us
We live
Despite our contradictions
Selfish morals
Our self inflictions
If kindness
Made you rich or poor.
Would we feel such pain
Would there be a war.
It doesn't matter where you live
Flag or countries name.
Open up your eyes
All poverties the same.
Did we not create this world
Are we not all to Blame?
Form:
Being fed when corrupt
agents gather junk sick
fentanyl addicts functioning
only by giving false confusion
in exchange for a cup of
coffee at Denny’s bus tickets
from Alabama to Nashville
to Chicago where informants
are being tossed in front of
moving cars faceless
unrecognisable finally the
ultimate what’s in the box
it’s a human skull on a sidewalk
trick of treat jay Townsend
Johnson Henry swooning
Special agent Paula Brand
where does it all end increase
in fentanyl overdoses deaths
in Chicago being FED rat poison
Suffocating fear envy and denial
stop exploiting mentally Ill fentanyl
addicts homeless hoarders in Chicago
Have a happy Halloween check all
your candy for fentanyl
I thought that I may once again
try making soup to entertain.
Poetry Soup I’ll serve once more
and place it freshly at your door.
Brewed in the cauldron of my mind
I’m sure that to your taste you’ll find
refreshing thoughts for you to savour,
with subtleties in every flavour.
I know that I have been away
and never found the time to say
the things that should be said in rhyme
but let them simmer for some time.
But now the pot’s back on the boil
that simmering soup I left to spoil
should be stirred in rhyming puddle
of bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
So if you care to look back soon
l would suggest you bring a spoon
but careful just how deep you sup
for addicts cannot give it up!
Ivor G Davies
Drugs are a menace to society and environment,
after dark streets are dominated by addicts;
this is the new crime that can't be fought...
there they shoot and smoke with winking lids.
Kids have fun now, pay the prize with your lives,
rebel against your parents, abuse them and then run to the enemy;
the sacrifice they have made for you is worthless...
your greedy thoughts are set on disobedience rather than mercy.
These run-away teens are too young, they have no future,
and to keep up their expensive habit they beg, rob and kill;
they have no home, they have no dreams, no one to care...
they aren't nice but cruel, they have lost control of their will.
Kids have fun now, pay the prize with your lives already at stake,
streets may teach you how to survive, they can offer nothing but death;
bulging, sniffing and smoking will put you to sleep to never awake,
when will you learn to value life and feel its sweet taste on your breath?
Kids have fun now and pay the prize with your lives later,
smart and diligent kids play baseball, basketball and soccer...
you play with death, not giving a thought to any danger;
even returning home is as impossible as ending your fear.
"I've tasted love heroin and will never have that high again"..
(paraphrased quote one from "Notting Hill")
Love heroin is very potent stuff.
It’s not like other drugs; it is for free.
There is no ban on it, but it is tough
to keep that high. It has no guarantee.
Some folks I know can make it last and last.
With just one hit, they’re good for sometimes years!
For most, this drug’s effects can wear off fast,
and then withdrawal brings them pain and tears.
Love heroin can bring such fevered bliss,
some addicts wreck their lives for it, or worse,
would kill for it, so I can tell you this -
expecting it to last is its great curse.
I’ve heard of people my age finding it.
I sure would like myself just one more hit!
Dec. 8, 2016 for the Three Choices Plus Two Which Equals Five
Or I Haven't Got a Clue Contest of Sara Kendrick
Go-go gadget, withdrawals no more,
a toast to addicts—there’s treasure on the floor.
X marks the spot, scribbled in Crayola,
connect all the dots—ecstasy, the night is over.
From Rock ’em Sock ’em robots to rocks in socks, a show-off,
hungry hungry Zippos, the money swells my lymph nodes, a lovely something sent ghosts—
right outside your windows,
trust no one, innuendo,
the night piggybacks the sickos.
I feel far from home, yet remotely close to sin,
my coffin’s so inviting—volunteer, I jump right in.
Fundamental frequency, but I only hit the high note,
incidental contingencies, lies in every word that she spoke.
Intentional indecency—my clip could use a reload,
a spectacle illegally, items bought without a barcode.
I yearn for entertainment, chose the red pill, hide from agents,
time’s complacent, me and drugs—true love, it’s our engagement.
And if I ever said “drugs make me a better me,”
I’m sorry that I lied—every night,
I cry myself to sleep.
Market stall sellers, spewing out cheap tat, for bargain hunting peabrains parting with their cash; items disintegrating from one single use.
City traders impress with tall tales of the day, lapping up each others crap enjoying it's scent and taste; not caring for the common man whose lives they have wrecked.
Office workers looking grey, another mundane day. Sitting at their desks, day-dreaming of a different life while listening to bosses drivel on about deadlines.
Shop workers getting by, mastering people skills, satisfying customers; some are born to please but for others it's just painful.
Buskers playing tunes, some are good, some are not. They enjoy what they do, even to an audience unattentive to the soundtrack of their day.
Beggars in doorways trying to prise money from our wallets but who are the genuine needy? Alcoholics, drug addicts or rich Romanian gangs who treat it as a living.
Cyclists whizz past, jumping the red lights. An obstacle for pedestrians and motorists alike; two wheeled accidents waiting to happen.
Motorists zoom past at speed with arrogance and aggression; the survivors way to driving through city streets. A combination with potential for fatal consequences.
Some walk through the streets, head down, oblivious to all around, focusing on getting to their destination. Others soak it all in; buskers, coffee shops, the bustle of life.
If you're in the city, enjoy the city, even with the smog. Life's too short to be annoyed with the things that irritate us. Embrace what's on offer but accept you'll be ripped off!
From a teen of 18, for the next six years,
my life and time were given to broken men.
Some of that time was also given to the lives
of kids who were the 'would be broken' men
unless they encountered some kind of intervention.
They were drug addicts, alcoholics, and gang members.
One never forgets the look of emptiness in the eyes of an
alcoholic, or the visible tracks and scars left behind on the arms
of heroin addicts. Nor can one mute the voices of an addict who says,
"My past is behind me, and my life has been changed, but these scars
that remain need never be removed because they are reminders of my past.
Our lives are indeed a journey, ever mobile and in a constant state of navigation. Like the Japanese art of Kintsugi and Kintsukuroi*, some wounds and breakages in life require repairs but need not be hidden, disguised, or covered with masks. They are indeed very much a part of our history that flows with us into the future.
081621PSCtest, Broken, Craig Cornish
*Kintsugi (???, "golden joinery"), also known as kintsukuroi (???, "golden repair"), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. Kintsugi - Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi