Long Burnout Poems
Long Burnout Poems. Below are the most popular long Burnout by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Burnout poems by poem length and keyword.
Everyone called Joanna Wilde, Joanie, like an abbreviated crescent moon,
Of which she was much enamored, with its silky, maroon darkness tunes.
Pert Joanie was a young night owl, loving lone whip-poor-wills, singing,
And bewitching midnight stars of glitter, and a calm silence, for thinking.
Joanie was a successful librarian, and always dreamed of advancement;
And having the morning shift, she worked hard for career enhancement.
On weekends, Joanie and fatigued friends, had fun days in fresh flowers,
Below feathery clouds floating far, in warm honeyed sun, of tonic powers.
Sunshine fever fetched family and kisses, when flowers feigned fainting,
'Ere purple finches stood still at noon, in jade scenes, like fine paintings.
Joanie lived in the house of starry eclipse, of dusk and moon hiding sun;
The red, gold and purple not much missed, afore a rare night was done.
Sweet sounds and scents traveled far, along her street of silver willows.
And minty butterflies kept so busy, as sunbeams slept, on cloud pillows.
Neighbors brought their needlepoint, with news, on nice, nostalgic eves;
For nothing's as neat as nonstop conversation, like a chattering of leaves!
'Cuckoo' flowers denoted colorful hours, as 'busy Lizzy' steadily bloomed;
While mimosa blossoms wore lush silk in sun, in the teal world, perfumed.
Purple bleeding hearts mourned sunset, in the summer of vibrant sparkles.
Red carnations shone as if for queenly coronation, awash in gold marvels.
Joanie was finally up for promotion. That set her ruby heart to dreaming;
But, working nights, she suffered burnout, like grape sun, when scheming.
Her habits had to change-and soon! Like 12 hours spent amidst a lily moon.
She'd hence be a night owl only rarely; like a sable nightingale's new tune!
'Birds sing in the morn
To tell us to rise,
And he who sleeps late
Will never be wise.
For early to bed
And early to rise
Is the way to be healthy
And wealthy and wise.'
It all worked out for the best, to the pride and pleasure of Joanie's family;
Who loved her enough to be a part of, every heartache and fuchsia victory!
Observe and see
Festive cheer warms;
Spirits set free
~~~~~~~~~
Cherry blossoms
Pink carpet pathway;
Waiting patiently
~~~~~~~~~
Here's to you
Sakura moments;
Sparkling sunshine
~~~~~~~~~
Moon overhead
View from my window;
Tender conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Mahjong games
Relatives chit-chat;
My winning streak
~~~~~~~~~
Touch of magic
Spring wind rustles;
Cheery blossoms fall
~~~~~~~~~
Moonlight stroll
Old arch bridge;
Squeaky wood groans
~~~~~~~~~
Two cats sit
Eerie moon glow;
February interlude
~~~~~~~~~
Business sold
Fortune gained;
Hollow feeling
~~~~~~~~~
Here's to good cheer
Another year;
Grey hairs draw near
~~~~~~~~~
Old footpath short cut
Patient feet chiseled;
Old habits die hard
~~~~~~~~~
Memories unfurl
Grass verge updates;
Poignant moments
~~~~~~~~~
Joy greets sorrow
Sad together;
Melancholia sings
~~~~~~~~~
Elysia calls
Going home again;
Sudden departure
~~~~~~~~~
Photo album
Old era relatives;
Sepia burnout
~~~~~~~~~
Study abroad
Down Under Melbourne;
Kangaroo hop-scotch
~~~~~~~~~
Tinge of sadness
Stop to remember;
Fond times quicken
~~~~~~~~~
Airport terminal
Exquisite dine-in;
One for the road
~~~~~~~~~
Listless here
Holiday moods;
Mahjong punctuation
~~~~~~~~~
Toss of lucky food
Yu Sheng expose;
Fortune smiles
~~~~~~~~~
Words catch up
Meaning and motive;
Juxtapose
~~~~~~~~~
Spring season
Oriental red;
Chinatown tinctures
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
22 February 2015
Singapore
If you're a Carer or Empath, please remember to fill your own cup first... and put on your oxygen mask to ensure you're alive first before helping others.
It's too easy to keep giving and putting others in front of yourself and your needs...
But if we don't take care of ourselves, we are at risk of burnout and/or having some kind of physical or mental health issue developing.
Caring for others is lovely
By Michelle Morris
24/07/2024
It's great to be a giver
It's wonderful to care for all
But unless you take of yourself
You'll be heading for a fall
Caring for others is lovely
Being an Empath is a gift
But if our cups are left to empty
We can fall into an abyss
Health and wellbeing issues
Can creep in and affect our mood
We can't pour from endless cups
There's a need for balance to the good
You have to put on your oxygen mask
Breathe deeply and remain alive and thriving
You have to fill up your own cup with joy
And remember you're here to feel alive
Caring for others is lovely
Being an Empath is a special art
But remember that you're also important
Don't let your Light dim into Darkness
The more you fill your own cup
The better you fit that oxygen mask
Will equip you to reach your highest potential
And empower you to fulfil anything destiny asks
© Michelle Morris, 2024
I am like a snow flake falling recklessly in my winter.
I have no idea where im coming from nor where I am going to land.
I just keep falling without direction.
Without purpose.
You would think the further I fall, the clearer my destination is.
But no.
The father I fall, the more lost I feel.
I've been aimlessly falling for so long, that I don't remember why I began falling to begin with.
Did I fall with purpose?
I've been falling for so long, I don't feel like I belong anywhere anymore.
I don't exist If im not aimlessly falling.
Lost.
I don't belong in the sky, but I don't belong on the ground either.
I am not like a snow flake.
A snow flake is like me
I am like a snowflake
falling recklessly in my winter.
I have no idea where I am coming from
nor where I am going to land.
I just keep falling
without direction,
without purpose.
You would think the further I fall,
the clearer my destination becomes.
But no.
The further I fall,
the more lost I feel.
I have been falling for so long
I don’t remember
why I began falling
to begin with.
Did I fall with purpose?
I have been falling so long
I no longer feel like I belong
anywhere.
I don’t exist
if I am not falling.
Lost.
I do not belong in the sky,
but I do not belong on the ground either.
I am not like a snowflake.
A snowflake knows what it is.
I only know the fall..
Stark realization, I harbor sacrilegious objection...
Against merry christmas premature blowout,
(or otherwise) ejaculation galore burnout,
hence I feel like the odd man out
neither yours truly, nor the missus
spends money and/or
time at checkout
avoid madding crowds like the plague
elbowing, hustling, jostling,
pushing, racing, shoving...
seconds before blue
light special closeout,
though neither of us
reformed practicing Jews, nor devout
mass consumerism capitalistic fallout,
we steer clear taking refuge within
our underground (arched)
all in the family bunker hideout
remain hermetically sealed
courtesy NASA tested grout
hunkering inside spatially
roomy subterranean getaway
created viz 3d printing
immediately after rollout
ready to take nesty plunge
steeply, perpendicularly, giddily... south
to go down rabbit hole,
where we carouse, cavort,
thermally heated cavernous redoubt
reaping efforts after donning
(MAGA) hardhats constructing roustabout,
whereby protruding innocuous periscope
allows, enables, and provides
mean ways to scout,
since Marshall Mathers Law
declared, mandated trumpeted
courtesy special ops stakeout
regarding our subversive
passive actions hashtagged illegal
if perchance discovered vis a vis,
we Americans express timeout
before changing role as seekers
playing wargames no matter
suddenly Nor'easter creates whiteout
futile search until spring thaw
melting snow exhumes
mister and missus Santa Claus
thank you climate change
regarding attributed drought.
Last night my son stirred
between half wake and sleep.
I stroked his soft hair,
And I kissed his small cheek.
He said, “Mummy, these cuddles
tonight were the best”
and wished for forever
with him in our nest.
When a baby arrives
through the heart of their mother,
they’re laid on your chest —
you belong to each other.
There’s no room for choices,
for burnout or fear.
Your instinct is roaring:
just keep them near.
But life slowly loosens
the threads as they grow.
Your heart doesn’t want to,
your mind must let go.
They trust other people,
They want to explore.
New voices will teach them —
And guard every door.
When the nights feel too quiet,
the silence too deep,
I’ll remember that whisper
between half wake and sleep —
how he held me so close
in his small dreaming world,
and for one perfect moment,
love quietly unfurled.
The morning breaks not with light, but with a sound—
A low, vibrating hum beneath the floor,
The stress of deadlines, heavy and unbound,
That gather like a storm behind the door.
It is a phantom hand upon the throat,
A tightening of wires within the chest,
Where every frantic, scribbled morning note
Becomes a thief that steals the power to rest.
The shoulders rise to meet the burning ears,
The jaw is locked against a silent scream;
A calendar of mounting, modern fears
Has turned the waking world into a dream—
But not the kind where one might fly or drift,
Instead, a race through thickening, gray sand,
Waiting for the heavy fog to lift,
Or for a clock to stop its sweeping hand.
Then comes the moment when the tension snaps,
Not like a string, but like a melting frost.
The mind retreats from all its clever traps,
And counts the heavy price of being lost.
It starts within the lungs, a shallow well
That finally finds the depth to take a breath;
The ringing of a loud, internal bell
Signifies the frantic worry’s death.
The tension spills like water from a jar,
The iron in the muscles turns to oil.
The things that felt so heavy and so far
Begin to loosen from their frantic coil.
It is the cooling rain on sunbaked stone,
The sudden silence in a crowded street,
A sense of being centered and alone,
Where mind and body finally learn to meet.
The world is still the same, the tasks remain,
But now the hands are steady at the wheel.
There is a strange perspective born of pain,
A newfound grace in learning how to feel.
Relief is not the absence of the chore,
But knowing how to carry what we must,
To walk through every open, waiting door
With quiet strength and a weathered trust.
Put your chin up and stand tall
Your best foot forward to conqueror it all
Keep looking in the right direction don’t look back
When your ambitions are falling, kick them and pick up the slack
Your life long goal is closer than it seems
Reach out to grab them and pull in your dreams
If you want true love fight hard for it everyday
Open up your mind and don’t let anyone stand in your way
If you fall get right back up again
If you need help rely on your family or a best friend
Your life long goal is closer than it seems
Reach out to grab them and pull in your dreams
Keep your faith in your heart
Ask God for guidance but do your own part
Live for your passions and breathe your deepest desire
Never let this world burnout your inner driving fire
Your life long goal is closer than it seems
Reach out to grab them and pull in your dreams
Too Heavy for Small Shoulders
They rise before the sun has learned to smile,
bags of books like borrowed mountains on their backs,
dreams folded neatly between timetables
and the fear of falling behind.
At breakfast tables, silence studies harder than they do—
scores are served before love,
and questions sound like verdicts:
What rank? What future? What place in the world?
Classrooms become race tracks,
chalk dust thick with comparison.
A child is no longer a child,
but a number, a percentile,
a promise yet to prove its worth.
Society leans in, whispers loud:
Be brilliant. Be useful. Be fast.
There is no syllabus for breathing,
no exam on how to fail and stand again.
Parents, tired and hoping, mean no harm—
they sharpen their fears into expectations,
forgetting that pressure can crack diamonds
when applied too soon.
And the world waits with its cold arithmetic,
measuring value in salary slips and titles,
asking children to choose a lifetime
before they have learned who they are.
So anxiety learns to speak before confidence does,
sleepless nights pass every test,
and tears are hidden like contraband
in the pockets of young hearts.
Listen—
behind the marksheets and medals
are children asking softly, bravely:
Am I enough if I just exist?
Let us lighten their loads,
replace fear with faith,
teach them that worth is not earned—
it is born.
For a healthy mind
is the first success story,
and childhood
should never be the price
of the future.
Wake.
Commute.
Work.
Repeat.
They call this living?
I call it the hamster wheel—
spinning faster each year
while the cage only shrinks.
Three jobs to afford one roof.
Two hours of daylight between shifts.
One life slipping through fingers
calloused from climbing ladders
that only lead to more ladders.
We've normalized exhaustion,
wear our burnout like medals of honor.
"Busy" is our battle cry.
Our worth measured in productivity units,
our time sold at wholesale prices.
We scroll through highlight reels
of lives we're too tired to pursue,
while notifications remind us
there's always more to want,
always more to owe.
They say "Rise and grind"
But never ask
what's being ground down.
It's us.
Our dreams. Our wonder.
Our capacity to stare at stars
without calculating their worth.
When did we accept that breathing
was enough to call it living?
When did we decide that survival
was something we should be grateful for?
I want more than to exist in the margins
of my own life—
stealing moments between obligations,
budgeting minutes like loose change.
Living is not this endless math
of hours versus dollars.
Living is not this constant fear
that one misstep, one illness,
one market crash
could erase everything.
To merely survive
is to be haunted by the ghost
of the life you might have lived
if you weren't always running out of time,
running out of energy,
running out of hope.
We were meant for more than this—
More than automated responses.
More than weekend recoveries.
More than counting down days
until we're free, at last,
too old to use that freedom.
So tell me,
when do we stop surviving
and start living?
When do we reclaim our heartbeats
from the timeclocks?
When do we refuse to measure our worth
by our economic output?
Because I am not a machine
designed for consumption and production.
I am flesh and blood and wonder.
And I want my life back.
I want all of our lives back.
This existence of barely making it—
it's not life.
It's a sentence.
And I'm demanding a pardon.
Right now.
Today.
Before the next alarm.
Before the next bill.
Before the next "I'll live later."
Because later keeps getting later,
until later becomes never.
And I refuse to call my one wild existence
a mere survival story.