Long Adolescent Poems
Long Adolescent Poems. Below are the most popular long Adolescent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adolescent poems by poem length and keyword.
When I Give You My Heart…
The love I give to you dear one,
Is love I know belongs to me,
To think that it is yours alone
Is adolescent fantasy.
For if this love weren’t really mine
How could it then be mine to give?
If heart is always True Love’s home,
Without a heart how could I live?
It may not bring you comfort love
And you may never feel secure,
But dreams my heart is only yours,
Reveal a heart that’s immature.
For you to tell me that’s your gift,
Suggests that you’re naïve at best,
For even if you think it’s true,
The emperor is still undressed!*
At least most men aren’t made that way,
Our futures never are for sure.
And pleasures taken while we can
While praying there might be a cure.
A sick child cause our love to end,
Even our jobs drive us apart,
Though no one plans on stuff like this,
It spells disaster for the heart.
A partner that decides they’re gay,
Somehow an accidental death,
The day your spouse does not come home,
The world can take away your breath.
So when I ‘just’ give you my love
Please check your heart to know it’s true
And realize that lover’s chose,
It’s really all that one can do.
A witches spell, a chain of fire
Cannot restrain decay to dust,
A lifetime all we have to live,
Where good days start with hope and trust.
Brian Johnston
August 29, 2014
Poet's Notes:
* ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ – A tale by Hans Christian Anderson about two weavers who promise an Emperor a new suit of clothes that is invisible to those unfit for their positions, stupid, or incompetent. When the Emperor parades before his subjects in his new clothes, a child cries out, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!" The tale has been translated into over a hundred languages. From ‘Wikipedia.'
Few go into a relationship with the expectation of love not lasting a lifetime, and yet we all know our relationship too will end, sooner or later, hopefully the latter. The time spent may be quality time or more of a learning experience, usually a mixture of both. But nothing can totally prepare us for the future except to be honest with ourselves and to admit, we are not really in control. That understanding can make things easier for those able to embrace it. Failure may always be failure, but being able and willing to forgive, to love yourself too, is the only path to future happiness in my experience.
So, I guess a 12 year old
American brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
is outside your boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
Well, I can see why you would need
to draw your boundary
for healthy rationality
outside his grassy field of fire-armed play.
I can see why we need to draw this line
of "only predictably SWM domesticated life matters"
the way we do
to look our friends and children in the eyes
while saying,
"I can accept this loss
as one caused by an unfortunately timed
dual act of accidental wildness;"
But is it not significantly wilder
to fire ballistics at youth
than for youth to fire only ballistic imagination?
I can see that we need to doubt
reasonable risks of public recreation
for some lives
differently than other lives
and times
to gaze into our social-cultural mirror
with both eyes
fully comprehending compassionate integrity:
"We accept that Black Adolescent Lives Splatter
loss across our leaking shared loves and livelihoods,
thereby wilting our collective mental health,
starving our social wealth for future regeneration,
and yet hope we still dream
of somehow re-transposing,
All Lives Matter
in current US ReligiousRight culture.
Now that is egocentric mendacity;
not even Anthro-centric integrity.
We each and all must hunt our way
toward facing our fear of ourselves
our lack of empathy
and mind positive passions
and body healing pleasures
surpassing our neglectful lack of fully activating
Win/Win panentheistic wisdom.
Some hunting ways bring further AnthroSupremacist
Business As Usual
cognitive-affective dissonance;
further failure of Earth's polycultural integrity,
further degenerative ego-traumatizing stasis.
Some hunting ways promise more co-operative co-arising ballast
for culturally active hope.
It is this ballast we seek
between our self/other-reflecting eyes,
hoping to discover peace within as justice without,
and not more enslaving reductive addiction
to ballistics of overly-automated violence
Silent souls
full-will impassioned pleasures
without sufficient time to assess full-intent,
responding to fear of fear ourselves,
right between our blindered eyes
So it becomes challenging to see
a brown male playing by himself
with a toy gun
as well within our mental health care boundary
for normal early-adolescent activity.
Israel Beckoned...In A Dream
This secular skeptic beheld,
eyes hallucinated, harried, felled
and haunted by
holographic images gelled
that didst silently scream herald
ding exhaustively
roaming, schlepping, meld
ding and trudging across
elapsed, nor quelled
blinkered, bloodied dead souls
across fractured wartorn veld,
where bludgeoned ghastly
eons of pain did weld
throbbing inside my
scepter templed mount, aye
vicariously experienced
cumulative historical grief
past to present anti
semitism I decry
incomprehensible genocide, (though
not necessarily exclusive domain
of Moses troopers), nonetheless I
find mine existence
ably linkedin sigh
lent lee to the
bosom of Abraham,
no matter such
quasi confession doth fly
in the face, despite devout atheism,
a genealogical kinship inherently
peppers the genetic
mind of this
questioning (authority type) guy,
whose lack of
religion cannot dispel
no matter fuzzy, gauzy,
hazy, et cetera,
asper the existence
of heaven or hell,
and no idea what
will become of
Matthew Scott Harris, when bell
doth toll mine death knell
though methinks, i.e. this fell
low will merely decompose
forever oblivious to
global pell mell,
whose corporeal essence will spell
reincarnation relegating molecular
composition of this aging
ordinary physical being
whose existence particularly,
poignantly, and plaintively
punctuated with delicately
framed psychological housing
twilight years echoing
punitive hardship just barely shaking
free, whence adolescent
aborted suicidal effort
near cleft flickr ring,
anorexia almost got life
extinguished, gut wrenching
yank key undergo wing
life and death struggle rattling
the long gone souls
figurative rusted empty cages,
whose legacy aching Diaspora, ages
ago scattered tribes, especially sages
Exodus to Babylonian Captivity,
(c. 12th to 6th centuries BC),
proud unknown forebears rages
against contemporary
Hebrews existential wages
of experienced unfair recent gauges
(recording heinous twentieth century)
opprobrious persecution quashing
valuable vital and voluminous
absent contribution Jews
never written pages
forever hidebound historical legacy
unfairly demonized ever since pre
Biblical epoch anonymous stages.
Gardens,
like dreams
and other multiculturing complexities,
process
and sometimes progress into becoming ripe,
then unbecoming dormancy,
advent of and for regardening
redreaming seeds
preparing to further process
Perennial primal roots deepening into
new spring's progressive attachment
network of polycultural dream garden nutrition,
aesthetic nurture,
ethical nature,
animating spirit of Earth's co-arising power life.
Eden's original rising
and subsequent falling Garden
surrounds our GreenTribal Tree
of Ego/Eco-centering Life and WinterDeath.
The Creator's forbidden foreshadow Tree
of Good and Evil
is a secondary,
yet divinely co-inspired, Tree
on our LeftBrain monocultural way
toward reducing Life to Good
and seducing Death through Evil--
Dreaming up and down
Win to Lose evolutionary models
and capitalism's mono-atheistic further investments
in secularizing-commodifying Life
while spiritualizing accommodating Death;
praising win-win peace
while raising lose-lose Falls
re-enacting retributive divine greed,
detached disdaining injustice,
childish, perhaps adolescent at best, pettiness.
Evil, like Death,
is no more original
than the Great Fall and Eternal Winter,
whether we see and hear,
taste and touch
as divine Gardeners
or merely regenesis EarthTribal dreamers
of generic Spring uprisings
and Summer sensory climaxes
for Eden's Tree of cooperatively original EcoLife,
and secondarily hibernating shadows of Ego-Death
Waiting
like an original Falling spring
for our ecofeminist deep green learning RightBrain
Rising Up
like a new spring garden,
like a dreaming root-systemic Tree
of GoodLife win-win cooperative processes
and EvilDeath lose-lose competitive climate pathology
of and for further revolutionary
divinely inspired creations,
re-creations,
evolutions and devolutions
in Eden Gardens,
regenerative and degenerative dreams
co-arising good and evil fruit
absorbed by ecofeminists
and devoured by patriarchs
Together
equally interdependent
in good life
through evil death
EarthTribal loyalty,
interdependent global patriotism,
universal solidarity,
compassion,
love,
energy,
Original humane/divine co-arising attachment
and secondary wealth detachment
and tertiary green health reinvestment
in full garden cooperative enchantments.
Whar art mine fervent zeal for Marx Brothers?
While figuratively trout fishing
for ideas to write about
analogous (hook, line and sinker)
idea wormed itself into mind with clout
moment of awareness arose
without shadow of doubt.
As a long haired pencil necked teenage geek
zany Harpo, Groucho, Chico ranked as idols
mine most favorite slap stick until I reached
cusp of early adulthood, yet of lately uptick
regarding said comedic acts unexpectedly a
rose, spurring me to revisit adolescent mem
rubble entertainers overarching unstoppable
nostalgic ache for their nonpareil antics did
pang ping pong within mine corporeal esse
Scents trademarked and christened Matthew
Scott Harris, somewhat alleviated watching
courtesy Internet random You Bet Your Life
momentarily experiencing giddiness bursting
with laughter - shy kid relishing hearing quip
lightning fast barbs oft imitated sporting his
greasepaint moustache nsync with cigar size
of small walking stick renown world over an
American iconic figure (+entire motley crew)
lively bunch post World War II boys groomed
since birth begat Minnie Marx (born Miene
Schönberg, 9 November 1864 or 1865 – 13
September 1929) mother and manager of the
Marx Brothers, a family of vaudevillians,
Broadway and film actors, she dominated
band of five boisterous and hilarious brothers
who dominated silver screen more'n nearly 3
4ths century ago sired by patriarch Sam Marx.
No particular rhyme nor reason explains why
aforementioned nitty gritty personal trivia thy
actually more accurately & specifically yours
truly metaphorically unexpectedly did qualify
as teetotaling poetaster to craft poem well nigh
acknowledge inexplicable passion regarding my
heartfelt affection constituting zany wily troupe
linkedin with baker's dozen films iterated wild
3 ringed circus antics did all these years schtick
well lodged within me noggin + gamut of stars
whose career launched during quaint silent film
era albeit (Betzwood, one time, between 1912
and 1924), one of the largest film studios in the
world located in downtown Philadelphia and
their studio lot in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania,
right next to the park, I kid ye not, and... take
look see for yourself by visiting following link.
https://americasbesthistory.com/
spotlight2017-11.html
1 man
all by himself no one understands
The government even determine when he can see his kid
Now he got a bunch of stuff running through his head
Streets getting wild
Never knew he wasn’t my mans
I was in denial
But Before I give you up to oops
I’ll cut off my hand
Split decisions
I cried every second time moved another hand
Praying the deputy don’t stop me
cuz these tags are dead
I had a few neutrals with me
Im lost in a perfect world of sin
You don’t really love me or would like to see me win
I wanted to commit suicide
Did you see how I pretend
To be happy
I’m tired but I could never seem to bend
At capacity
they still let me and my girl in
she snuck in through the back with me
I lost my mommy and a few of my best friends
What’s life
i just entered a movie
Shrimp over rice
cold nights
I feel like I’m losing
Battling depression since an adolescent the only thing kept me moving
was my smooth sense of humor
and how the women with big influence
Pick and choose me
It’s not enough knowing my equations not adding up
my father alive we never hugged
I just dap him up
Traveling far in the woods to free the demons that’s attached to us
Everything I harvested
around the tree of knowledge
I crafted something
I will never make it out the jungle because I actually love it
This irrational function
I see dragons let em get a pass
Just to watch the volcano erupt
Without the money who famous as us
People left me hungry they prolly thought I was on angel dust
Child support will always haunt me
I ran it up but did not flaunt it
I cried so many nights in my closet
I can’t even breathe without Tosha
I created a suicide letter trashed it
Then I went to work
Bragging about who car the fastest
I crashed 3 whips in 2021
My last whip caught on fire
I sat in it till a civilian pulled me out
I rather sit in flames thinking when I die they’ll love me now
Peace I’m much better with peace
Peace to my friends
I feel less better with Greeks
I’m a god I’m much better than these
Pions
I remember I used to tell that to breeze
No fraternity will ever love me more than the team
I don’t even know who supporting my dreams
I got my toes in the sand watching the flow of the stream
How to Feel When Your House Burns Down
The home you are raised in is a mother tongue.
I was four when it was built, an age when innocence
turns river water and all that lives within to blood.
First birthdays and first dances fortify the mantel.
This home transports milestones, our own vessel
to move us from sidewalk chalk to the attempt to outrun
the stagnancy found only in the debilitation of the long run.
At seven, I held him in my arms and love upon my tongue.
Promises danced on my lips and ran rampant on my vessels.
College funds started in a baby bottle, tiny wishes held in a cent.
I remember grappling with his growth, attempting to mantle
the affinity we pinky promised deep into our own blood.
At twelve, my father taught me to dance in the blood
and glass on the hardwood. Still, I watch his fingers run
to sow flowers in my mother's hair, her back, mantling,
the image of infatuation, true love, in our minds. A tongue
of tenderness has our childlike innocence
giggling and shouting at the inamoratas and the vessel
of devotion in which each of us was vesselled
into this life. Each of us was born in the fervor of blood,
so sweet. My mother threaded honey, burned incense,
and chewed lemon slices whole to hold us near. She ran
baths of salts and oils, to cleanse the ever growing tongue
of infernos that caressed, more captivated, our mantel
of consciousness. For many years, we tied sheets to mantels.
With pillows and blankets, we’d build ourselves a vessel
to a land of fairies and warriors who shared the same tongue.
Pool noodles became swords. Here we spilled blood,
convincing ourselves if we were to sprint, leap, run
fast enough we too could fly amongst the rest, innocent
to the world around us. At nineteen, I watch the innocence
leave our home. Adolescent memories that kiss the mantel
turn to sharp licks in the wild fire that is running
through the bones of our sweltering home, the vessel
of affinities, dances, compassion, imagination, and the blood
that connects it all, now lapped up with tongues,
too heavy for the innocent, a cancerous burn in our vessels.
The mantle of snow is no relief to the flames that drip like blood.
And still, we do not run, we wait for the final lick of a mother's tongue.
When I was around 14, I attended a church youth conference that summer,
sleeping in a dorm at a college campus and attending fun events with kids of my
same religion. The group I was with one day was strolling along a green shady path
when ahead of me I spied a young man, very tall, slender, and blonde. He had a
Justin Bieber kind of face but with cool piercing eyes, to put almost any young girl’s
heart aflutter. I immediately began to think of a way to meet him, and to my
surprise, I noticed that he was also noticing me!
Meanwhile, another boy, also with a strikingly cute looking face, appeared at my
side and began walking with me. He introduced himself as John Spencer. I would
compare him to an elf because his features were so delicate. His ears were elflike
and his doll face reminded me of the face of an angel. His body was extremely thin
and later I learned that he worried so much for his family and friends that he had
given himself ulcers before the age of 14! As we talked, I kept looking ahead at the
blonde boy, whose name I later learned was Chris. Upon seeing me with John, the
incredibly gorgeous Chris gave me a disapproving look and vanished into the crowd.
After that, I soon realized that John and I were turning into a “couple” and the rest
of my waking moments at the conference I would have my “Johnny Angel”
constantly by my side.
It was young love, first love, fresh, and sweet, and holding hands with John I felt
electrifying chemistry as we intertwined our fingers, playing “handsies,” my favorite
new activity! We ate together and attended together all the activities planned for
our group, and so my first time with a boyfriend was like an extended date, lasting
from the beginning of the week until the end when we rode home together
snuggling on the bus and planning when we would see each other again.
John lived one town away from mine, in the same city where Chris, the blonde
boy, lived too. At future monthly church dances in their city, Davenport, Iowa, I
would see them both and learn more about both boys. They became a big part of
my newly blossoming adolescent life and the romantic way I was feeling about boys,
but that is saved for chapter two of my story!
For Carol Brown's "My First Date" Contest
Breathing, looking, feeling and walking
Deciding, choosing, living and talking
Just like a developing child; an adolescent learning
Just like an endless beginning a genuine yearning
Independent, supported or alone
Beg, borrow, or maybe one day I'll even own
There is definitely a light and it is calling me
Close my eyes spread my wings and I will fly free
No more shame, pretend, cheap smiles and lies
No more ifs, buts, maybes or whys?
Who are you? What do you want? How do you sleep?
I know now I am not your possession to abuse and keep
You were right, it's dramatic, and all for show
But it was you in the lead role, so desperate to grow
Like a parasite you tried to consume and destroy my life
Like a human being I tried to be your daughter,and friend
Go back to where you came from; it is what you do best
Go back to being nothing,; an annoying little pest
And when you get there be sure look up high
Can you see me beaming brightly, lighting up the sky
Each night I am reminded that you are evil, selfish and vile
Each night I am reminded how lucky I am, blessed and smile
You should see us now you've gone; happy, confident and born again
All our own work, they erased you and survived any pain
It was much easier than I thought; you can't miss what was never there
But unlike you, I did feel love, I wanted to grow, experience and share
What a waste, a pointless thought and an unwanted gift
All you saw was credibility, an excuse and blame to shift
It is getting closer, that beautiful light calling me
Close my eyes spread my wings and I am flying free
It's over, just give up and please let us be
Never again imprisoned, now and forever I'm holding the key
Your self-pity and fairy tales fall on deaf ears
I geuss ive just filtered you out after all these years
Your stories and lies create no sympathetic tears
One by one everyone is hearing the truth
T.R.U.T.H. comes with REAL evidence and proof
I swear this is the final night you will give me no sleep
There's no master plan or cunning revenge for me to reap
You are a lonely now,an idiot, bully,and gambling fool
You've lost again; I've got it all
Do you feel small?
Pathetic and cruel
Down, down you fall
At last I am standing tall
...We've got it all
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
await him.
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."