Long Daunted Poems
Long Daunted Poems. Below are the most popular long Daunted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Daunted poems by poem length and keyword.
A composition on canvas; lyrics written for a song
Tortured was a soul asking, "Where do I belong?"
Daunted with a fragile mind but never was he blind
to being rejected although his love for her was true.
In oils squeezed upon a palette, did he seek to find
peace in such a hostile world, he painted cobalt blue.
Don Mclean denied accusers of Van Gogh's insanity,
Windswept clouds were part of his artistic humanity.
Brush strokes of sadness were not proof of madness.
With such a depth of emotions, why did no one see
the hand of one who created the abstract landscape
unlocked Vincent's prison door so he could escape?
His visions of dark shadowed hills and starry skies,
were boldly brushed with sighs and wearied eyes.
A tapestry he left behind; a life of angst and regret.
Yet, no one listened before he took his final breath.
Van Gogh sought freedom but only found it in death.
A tragedy that can never be compensated or offset.
I've always been bothered by that old saying
that we should accept things we cannot change.
It should also say, "and things we can't rearrange."
A friend suggested we should be content with "things"
instead of being worrisome watchdogs
like those eager elves, the irascible imps sitting on shelves
with gremlin grins on their cheeky faces.
In part, he meant we shouldn't take seriously
what others say or think about us.
We can't control tittering tongues
or those who are dubious doubters of what we say or do.
It's all about the big "A" word... Attitude.
I'm not promoting another 'A' word... apathy.
Of course, we should care about things we cannot change,
but maybe it's worse to care too much.
We don't live in a fairytale fantasy world
in which everything has a happy ever after ending,
but we can be more content in life if we stop fretting
by not forgetting that there are many situations
and people we cannot control... nor should we want to.
All causes of stress, I must confess, are hazards to our health,
but having knowledge of Shikata Ga Nai can ease strife,
making life more pleasant. So, why don't we give it a try?
Have a 'Hakuna Matata' moment ~ a "problem free philosophy."
Adopt the ability to accept the inevitable
by avoiding the adrenaline rush, the cranial crush
that transpires in our brains when we remain daunted,
anxiously apprehensive over not being able to alter things
we cannot adjust, such as the neurosis of a nervous twitch
when we cannot switch things around to suit our wants.
If something is Shikata Ga Nai and cannot be helped,
the change that needs to occur must come within us.
I'm reminded of another Disney movie, Frozen,
in which Elsa sings, 'Let it go.'
That's good advice to remember and follow.
When failure hits you hard,
you realise you have played all your cards.
Stuck in a room with just yourself,
you inner voice filled with hatred can turn you deaf.
Time that's passed makes you guilty.
The achievements of others makes you feel filthy.
Standing on the edge you realise what you lost,
you fret every second for the opportunity you flippantly tossed.
The smile you give camouflaging your sadness is ephemeral,
it's followed by a night which leaves you devasted and vulnerable.
You are daunted by the future and its uncertainty.
You look out of the window remorsefully.
You wonder will life ever give you another chance?
Will you forever be stuck at this mediocrity or will you ever advance?
There's this feeling inside you which makes you feel worthless.
You try to shut it but you are helpless.
Self love seems like an imaginary concept.
Optimism seems something you cannot accept.
My tunnel has turned into a maize with no light at the end.
I am too exhausted to keep smiling and pretend.
Jack awoke in his usual pain, un-
daunted by it. We're all gonna die
someday is his morning mantra these days.
Isolate the variable, anything
you do to one side of the equation
you gotta do to the other. Practice
zen, eat less, an empty belly's holy.
These are the rules for old men waiting.
On the other hand, attachment to self
and to things to do. Clean the house, watch for war.
Count syllables, teach English to immigrants
from Slovakia or Syria.
Advocate vocational education
in the schools. Jack has much to do, a new
administration, low social security.
He goes slow as the day will allow.
When we travel through the solitary road
Not taken by many of those happy crowd
Hardly we glimpse the direction board
Rather drench in the showers of depreciative words
Pondering over our desired destination
Wondering about the mystical citations
Dreading the results of our action
We may feel perturbed and agitated
Like a daunted child
Abandoned in the field wild
We feel exhausted and dejected
At this crucial time, will emerge an angel
Like the god who appears in a child's dream
To make him smile like a sunbeam
arises as an angel, our inner strength
Help us traverse the road lengthy
The spirit inside us hauls
good spirits and souls
Who will travel along with us
To make our journey successful
So when we travel through the solitary road
Not taken by many of those happy crowd
Never look up for the direction board
Do not carry those depreciative words
Rather kindle your inner force
For the road's end, it foresees
And drive you complete the course
May 9 2022
What If Destiny...
Deeded Mine Singular Default Mode To...
Communicate (temporarily,
strictly and hypothetically)
merely allowing me to burble
essentially rendering, limiting,
and fixing me tubby nonverbal,
where frustration ensued -
inducing passivity, asper myself
shrugging shoulders in resignation
coon sitter ring thy fate
nsync with that of a gerbil?
Thus codifying, con
fining, and consigning
stricture to a sorry lot
perhaps finding me
envying fun
Gus of ergot,
which organism at least participates
in a pro active life cycle,
though one may say,
said organism doth rot.
Now...all Joe King aside,
an attempt will be made tried
though daunted to cogitate beside
Ritch ching deep inside
and remain on - ride
ding the straight and true
so please dont chide
restricting me to bide
with guise of seriousness,
when aye decide
did to complete on
par tragedy thalidomide
wrought, yet this poem, though belied
and bedeviled pondering
how Yukon not induce tongue re:
totally tubularly restrained,
sans tubby unable to talk
plus afflicted with autism,
hence guide
did through extreme effort
pretending, thus
to feign being denied
critical skill to chat
with a snap allied
(NOT with van knit tee),
but dead seriousness try
ying with futility hypothetically
impossible to imagine tubby
accursed without means to speak
compounded by autism,
an immeasurable frustration
must mount inside,
viz unfortunate behavioral demeanor,
nonetheless I cried
inside when the limp deceased body of
six year old
Maddox Ritch – already died,
drowned mainly supposedly,
when dashing ahead,
he didst play hide
with his father (Ian Ritch),
while the special needs child
(unknowingly) both spent
final hours together
bonding at Rankin
Lake Park in Gastonia
within North Carolina.
On a cold Winter day, the couple went for a walk.
Shelby and Andrew held hands, and their talk
soon turned to starting a family. Shelby wanted
children, but Andrew's smile disappeared, daunted
by her eagerness since they married two years ago.
"Slow down, Shelby. I thought we'd take it slow."
Her heart beat quickened, annoyed at his reply.
Thunder rumbled, and dark clouds filled the sky.
Raindrops felt like knives piercing Shelby's face.
They sheltered in Rank's Tunnel, a cold, dismal place.
Her tears of sorrow showed the depth of her pain.
Andrew said, "We're gonna go through this again?"
She reminded him they agreed before they married,
to have children, but Andrew turned away, harried.
"Andy, tell me what's made you change your mind?"
He had to confess his affair. To that he was resigned.
He told her of his adultery. There was more to say,
but Shelby was devastated and tried to run away.
Andrew reached for her, but he slipped and fell
on the tunnel floor, where water began to swell.
His head was bleeding, he was alive but dazed.
Shelby reached for a rock. In anger and half-crazed,
she struck the wound again and again. How he bled!
Andrew's body was limp, and she knew he was dead.
The rain continued falling; water rising in the tunnel.
It was swiftly moving, like a small stream, a runnel.
Shelby walked away, not regretting what she'd done,
glad that she hadn't yet told him she carried his son.
She reported him missing, and when he was found
it was deemed Andrew had hit his head and drowned.
Erase The Human Race
With one empty space
I can erase the human race
From the daze of the gray haze
When the days create the case
For an ironic song of wrongly structured
Verbs where every line is on the curb
With one solitary tap of the keyboard
I can record morbid and sordid chords
Abhorred by the hordes of lords
Who were painted so high on the fly
Like false dimes in time to rhyme
On the memory of a fallen poet
And we could surely blow it
We all know it
With one line we define our humanity
On the pages of insanity
Locked in the basement of vanity
Our fingers feverishly fingering
A fake falsetto
Over orange skies
Like flies we flock to the newest thing
Which brings us to sing of rings and bling
While we fling the wings of the king
The keys are falling all around
Found and bound and bounced
And flaunted by the haunted and daunted
Who thought they could do the right thing
When the fight tonight on this moonlight sonata
Could bring the end to our technological structure
It's with one empty space
That I can erase the human race
I am here on an archaeological quest,
to satisfy many a curious mind's request
for knowledge on antiques and artifacts
of Egypt's long extinct historical facts,
in treasured sands buried, like gold mines earnestly
sought for in stories shrouded in mythology.
With a large contingent just as curious as I,
hardly daunted by curses, but with shoulders high,
we went to the field, the sun baking us chaps
to a baker's delight. With our rumpled maps,
we searched every clue, and were bitten perhaps
by a million flies. Getting relief from sunless skies
in times of fair weather, whilst hoping something lies
in the depths of the hot sands for our very eyes
to see. With my tools by hard work and search worn out,
I brushed to full view, the tomb, brilliantly carved out
of young blue blooded Tut, regally laid to rest.
To my wearied colleagues, I spoke in real earnest:
'To exhume the past, we are here at last.'
Form:
The Last Flower
For centuries there thrived a magnificent garden
But decades of decay made the ground harden
And year after year more flowers began to wilt
Coinciding with monoliths recently built
Some people have the audacity to ask why
While others insist all that exists will one day die
But when the sun is hidden by smog
It obfuscates life like fog
We suffer today and sell tomorrow
For future generations will feel that sorrow
In a world without any power
And eventually a world without any flowers
For centuries there thrived a magnificent garden
But decades of decay made the ground harden
And the last flower has begun to wilt
As the monoliths collapse do you feel any guilt?
And they'll tell you they tried and tried
As the Earth cried and cried
Your children's future was sold for profit
Because green gold is the modern prophet
In this moonlit masquerade are a lot of dancers
Feeding the frenzied fury of a thousand cancers
Perhaps humanity's greatest blunder
Is bumbling along as it all goes under
The reality is that nobody cried
When the last flower finally died
But the reality is it left us daunted
And all a little haunted
For centuries there thrived a magnificent garden
But decades of decay made the ground harden
The death of the last flower left us without rhyme
As we truly begin to run out of time...