Long Compulsive Poems
Long Compulsive Poems. Below are the most popular long Compulsive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compulsive poems by poem length and keyword.
Cage of compulsive personality we live in
Machine of love ensnare us
Desires become restless to mingle
With the spring grass there in the field
Leading me to feel I am green grass too
My wife asks me to switch on the TV
Window shuts and I am behind the bar
Amidst a lavish lifestyle
Surrounded by the same suits and boots
The esophageal tickle by the same whiskey and beer
On the same edges of the cup, pale yellow kisses
The same eyes and speeches moving in the room
The same bed refusing the same front and back
The bird seeks songs in its bar of cage
The other day when you asked
To come to 'silence club' to live a community life
I was a bit confused thinking what would happen
To the Facebook, WhatsApp and You Tube
How would live the balcony plants
But somehow something propelled me towards
The quest of freedom for almost nothing
At the same time it was freedom for something
Nothing was free to dictate me to do this and that
No words, no speech, not the least pressure on the vocal cord
No set time to take food and water to keep going
Just keep focused on whatever the mind comes across
Like Freudian free association, free from all identities
With your eyes open just looking at the self
Here is the freedom to defocus from the existential anxiety
Instead the freedom to expand the self through the universe
In unison with the stars and planets, the oceans and hills
Sharp edges of daily needs and tension of spider's web disappear
Whether you wear a branded shirt and tie becomes immaterial
You get moments to blend your finite things into vast nothingness
A kiss lifted from this freedom and planted on your cheek
Attains a splendour of multidimensional love
One after one the mask of who you are dropping down
Leaving just a calm candle light to feel the darkness
For the sake of new beams of freedom
_______________________________________________________
April 3, 2019
Freedom to nothing to something Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Delilah Ventura
Trudging as a scorched weary traveler
in the wilderness of the desiccated life,
I wander in the shifting maze of your deceptive shadow.
Enticed, I’m seduced by the mirage of your flashing face,
confused, I don’t know where I should be going to belong.
As I disintegrate in myriad illusions into drifting dust
in the desolate wasteland of my life, I see transformed,
my broken heart I scatter as debris on your obscure trail.
I let the hard times of denial profoundly strike me,
ever so strongly that my yearning space is shattered.
I strive to preserve the shards of battered essence
in the inner sanctum of instinctive quietude.
I build a boundless wall seemingly impenetrable,
creating the compulsive cocoon of imposed isolation
to contain the cacophony of pervasive chaos
for the soul to get suffused in calm insulation.
As I become a lone prisoner of my making,
force me to be a captive behind the wall I construct
with the fortification of the false sense of pride,
I find you disappear like mist in gale beyond my garden,
taking the fragrance of flowers I love to see blossom.
I’m caught in the dichotomy web of entangled uncertainty:
break the wall, walk away free into oblivion,
or stay secluded, obscure within the cage I’ve built.
A light summer rain falls across distant blue mountains.
I have a pretty cottage by a winding stream.
This evening I recline in a garden chair
on a sloping lawn.
I merely need to think of a Martini
and here it is at my side,
a full glass and a dish of fresh green olives.
Lots of folks I had known in my earth existence are here,
old girlfriends of course,
chums from my youth,
work associates, pals from the golf and gun club.
In fact, I can’t think of anyone
that died and did not end up here.
Strange but I like a few more now,
then I ever did back then.
We are all younger and look splendid.
I guess that Hades is not quite what you,
who still walk that inclement
chaotic Earth imagined it might be,
but I can assure you,
that you have nothing to fear
should you find yourself in this realm.
However, I cannot vouchsafe
for your continued happiness
should you choose to be
in that place some have imagined to be heaven.
I’m told that the food is awfully plain
and the décor, by and large, uninspired.
You will also need much patience
to abide with the harp playing toadies,
the self-help grifters,
the compulsive do-gooders,
the many fake guru’s and the religious zealots
who I’m told run a very tight ship.
All the best, and remember we all have a choice
regarding which reality we wish to be true for us.
Love me or hate me
few people can take me
plain, unadulterated, true to myself
their compulsive need to gussy me up
or completely disguise me
gives me nightmares...
Horrible- horrible!
The worst is where
they try to make me
Savory.
Suffocated in sauces, sweet relish
and pickled beets
garnished with green olives
and fussy-cut vienna sausages
all dancing in fancy chorus lines
on top of me
Oh No! I can't take it...
It just can't be!
What are they thinking?!
I awake with a snug sensation
as something warmish
drapes and
drizzles
down my back
AAAAAHHH!
Caramel sauce-
Thank God!
' Better to walk out than to live in Fool’s Paradise.' - Poet
She had full faith that her love was honoured,
but marital life stood on bricks of lie.
Hit of thunderbolt from clear cloudless sky.
knocking her down on shock to paralyse.
She lived happily in Fool's Paradise.
Wheel of truth whirling just automatic.
She faced bare fact and acted pragmatic.
To drag conjugal life turned awkward.
Compulsive ' Break Up ' to proceed onward
Emptiness embowered: : She wished to cry,
but controlled herself and just said ' Good Bye' '
No question to adjust or to compromise.
So far, amour to appear as fake guise.
Inevitable divorce to discard.
She holds my hand like I’d never
wake up after passing -out and drinking
one last lick from a broken bottle, only to
find myself needing another round of gin.
Yet, my woman cuddles me as if this
hair isn't filthy even though I haven't
hit the showers, even though I can’t
take my body to rest, to act functional.
And she gleams like she can't smell
the reek of alcohol I am breathing…
how my heart aches for the last time
her mouth kissed me on the face
after I broke a promise I couldn’t
possibly fulfill-- a lowlife freak, rogue of a man,
disappearing into bars and more bars
to silence fears so I cannot hear
old ghosts on the walls, in nightmares,
within her embrace,
… but still
I can’t love myself the same way that
she loves me like I never
screamed,
denied,
told her to go lose herself,
banging the door--
telling her that she was worse
than my compulsive urge.
She loves me -- a reckless quirk--
believing I will see THAT day
when I can Change.
.......................
11.17.2016
Creep Contest for Silent One
No logical place for this line in another scribing on the
same theme, so I put it down here, looked at it for a moment.
Decided to let it stick, not raise the bar or ante because there’s really nothing more to it.
Yet, I wonder if you might like it or if you think it needs a different treatment.
Perhaps it only deserves a parenthetical mention in a margin somewhere,
a fringe note on someone else’s clatter?
(But I try pretty hard never to criticize another’s work.)
What more to it than this desire to judge and be judged,
compete for air space and time?
After all the world seems to be getting
quite crowded with talent or advanced ideas.
Mediocrity just isn’t cutting it any more.
So, if a neck sticks out for you, perhaps it is only because
it’s dog tired and don’t want to fight you anymore,
mastered a waste of time,
it seems, to some degree, a pedigree.
Does this consummation constitute a talent?
Perhaps patience requires waiting for the virtuous topic to
suggest itself, but if I lay in wait I might never write anything at
all, and then who would I be?
How to begin…
Trying – whole thoughtless years, then,
Boom compulsive composition.
Perhaps there’s something –
Here, what do you think?
Adumbrated aeration regarding...
crafting reasonable poetic rhyme
nothing to sneeze... at chew
asthma lingua franca –
acts as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious glue
inspiring me to skip to my loo,
and ye to play altruist gist
imagining how and why I still rue
cashing mucho moolah legal tender
courtesy bitcoin cryptocurrency,
which absolute zero funds recouped,
nevertheless dumbfoundedness ironically
found steely mettle to get smart
courtesy posting gofundme page
(titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth)
on my part already got told to you
dear readers visiting my literary endeavor
written within vernacular English
spoken amidst human zoo.
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking and savings accounts averred
asked from one
FaceBook English literary
Jim Hensen creation and
Sesame Street resident Big Bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin (means 'pure' in Sanskrit
and another name for Hindu God, Shiva.
The most famous Sachin
ranks as recently retired
Indian cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar).
Impossible mission to expunge poison
regarding stupidity and never be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen plus three
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with profuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed.
We lived about a hundred miles Northwest of Chicago It was the winter of '73, and snow was covering the roads
In the land of cheese and phesants, the air was crisp and cold Surely, I must have been bored; or more likely, I was a lunatic
I should have relaxed on that quiet day with my lovely and wise wife who pleaded with me not to drive on such icy roadways.
I was convinced that duty demanded I balance the books. I deemed myself important and vital for the success of our
drug prevention program. Yes, I was obsessed with my work and blind to any and everything else that tried to change me.
I was in love with my wife, but I was also having an unhealthy affair. I had heard of extra marital affairs, but no one told this 23 year old about obsessive affairs on the side. How could my premarital counsellor
have overlooked such crucial fine print and denied me of such vital details? Why wasn't I informed that I could be driven by an unseen combustible
engine inside my brain, compelling me to committ forbidden and obsessive actions? How was I to know that I could be so wrapped up by my job?
Not to be denied though, I would soon learned the hard way which is probably
the only way I was going to learn anyway. Less than a mile up the icy road, my vehicle's tire blew; I went into a spin, knocking down a mail box; and the next voice I heard was not an audible one, but my own mind speaking. "You should have listened to your wife!!!". I was all ears and sitting quietly in my 'upside down vehicle'. The only injury was my bruised pride.
That was my first bout with my form of obsessive compulsive behavior which was before the term was even invented.
71917PSContest, Obsessions, Silent One, P2
Discolored ,broken sea-shells
scattered through an unprestine sand,
while those sea-gulls feast on wiggling fish;
remainants of what once was
life tossed ashore:
where the observant
wasn't clement
as if they serve no purpose...
Polluted beach, where folks bake
confidently in the sizzling heat,
not far from discarded and
stenching beer bottles;
it is the perfect oasis
of a compulsive drunken
who drank excessively
regardless of a ban!
Is he that beach bum who sleeps and eats
in a tent made of different materials like silk?
I gaze around this untidy place,
and to the right a gorgeous town
awakens to sound,stretching out to the busy bay
guarded by a white-wash light-house
as that police helicopter thrusts itself
through a nebulous athmosphere,
hiding from its limited sight
the blinding solar light...
Yesterday, the gray-winged swans
bathed in soft-rolling waves;
they jolted when they heard
the children's screams
while the splashing,salt water
got in their excited pupils:
it certainly was
an unexpected surprise...
I imagined to be the boldest captain
when this harbor brought in ships
for a long stay,giving sailors
a chance to roam in town
to find romance:
until their stamina wore off,
forgetting about the guilt
or the vows they solemnly took...
I greeted the park ranger
with a cordial good-morning,
he responded with warmth;
he carried his wide,green hat
in his right swinging hand
and gladly smiled while sweat
ran down his shiny,shaved head!
He continued his long walk by scanning
with his vigilant eyes: everything
from bridges to shore...
Polluted beach,where I couldn't
lie down and idle away
my worry-free afternoon;
it's so strange to see weeds grow on it,
and people still spread their long towels
like they had run out of places to tan!
I'll find another beach
cleaner than the one I've seen,
without the annoying bugs
that make me itch...