Long Deprecation Poems
Long Deprecation Poems. Below are the most popular long Deprecation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deprecation poems by poem length and keyword.
Your name is Dawn.
I know you hate my nose!
And I have mother-of-pearl
Snaps
On my clothes,
But truth is,
Seven months I have been waiting,
To ask you out!
(Don’t know for sure ‘f your folks
Will welcome dating)
BUT
I haven’t got a Chance
Of forgetting you,
So, if you think, ‘no’,
Just… before you do,
Remember,
I am not all that I seem.
I think of you,
And float into a dream
I see your eyes, as green
As unripe, exotic wood,
And wonder whether you feel seen,
Feel understood
I look at you,
And Have to catch my breath!
I admit, I have hope fluttering in my heart!
You smiled at me,
My heart wrenched right
(And that’s no shibboleth)
Okay, I hope that helps… that you have heard,
And will respond by saying ‘yes’!
Heartfully Signed,
And hoping to be undeferred
Andy
A glint in the black, like stars
Pearly, polished, pointy peaks of a fiend
Fangs of self-deprecation, puncturing every effort
Coursing the flow of doubt, discouragement and defeat
I may not see your face, beast, but your teeth betray you in darkness
Dripping with the blood of my best effort and intention
Inexperience and ignorance, clotting ...
I am but a babe in the woods of poetic expression
Searching like Hansel, for crumbs of excuse and artistic insight
Oh, I see your vestiges, hear the gnawing of your dismal disregard
And your umbra shades every scribble ... every keystroke
But I know you well ... I know who placed you there
Yet, with a sword forged in kind encouragement and friendships, rare
I will stand on the battlements, and fight to the end
And should you gain the last word, it shall be inscribed ... in my blood.
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Plucking the Poisonous Parrot" Poetry Contest, Maureen McGreavy, Judge & Sponsor.
Sometimes I wonder if eventually the rot leaves way for love,
if the thick layer of hope on my lips is enough to get myself out of the trenches,
I wonder if I’m held captive to my past because my past is just a reason to hate,
Am I in fact hateful?
do I hate the fact that it feels as though my past has deteriorated any thought of being loved future?
sometimes I just want to crawl out of my skin and soak it in bleach,
Allow every last sin to burn away at the chemicals on my skin
am I dirty forever?
is it really purity culture or just a lack of self esteem
I love myself repeatedly but it never seems to stick in the moments that truly decipher one’s loyalty to themselves
Conflict-ion of loyalty, love, and desperation.
- V.B
There are not one but too many opinions and views.
Not promoting self-growth, but more what you'll lose.
An imagined past of wayward direction.
Now understood through intimate reflection.
Sought after days of laughter and vitality.
Produced by a substance to the pending reality.
Waking up resentful, with dignity scorned.
Wishing you picked up when your conscience telephoned.
Remorse rears its head in numerous ways.
Mainly anxiety-driven for hours and days.
Self-deprecation then societal acceptance.
To atone and excuse our own self-neglectance.
Internalising the notion 'it's just what we do'.
Realising they know a version, non-existent, of you.
They look for that person they created and yearned.
But what was constructed and taught can then be unlearned.
The people of this world are like the three butterflies in front of a candle's flame.
The first one went closer and said:I know about love.
The second one touched the flame lightly with his wings and said:
I know how love's fire can burn.
The third one threw himself into the heart of the flame and was consumed.
The alone knows what true love is.
Rumi
I sit alone in a silent field of fairness,
under saffron rays kissing sunflower serenity,
among dawn's daisies and dusk's dandelions -
watching buds floating away with whisking winds.
Fate does not favour my quest to soar freely.
In a meadow of humanity's betraying breaths,
our buttercup souls become ambushed by a suffocation of sighs.
When there is no justice in spiteful judgement,
visions of Basilisk slither with a deadly gaze.
Envious eyes poisoned by potions of venom,
abuse the selfless mistress of my garden's muse -
but without Eve there would be no Adam nor Eden.
Weeping on the grave of her past self,
her fatigued spirit struggles to fight and rise.
I watch darkness ascend in springtime,
when her mind portrays a veil in the misery of mist.
I feel like a helpless flame burning in ivory wax.
Untreated wounds with time festering
into an ebony existence of self deprecation.
I can see butterfly hunters with their narcissistic nets,
chasing my imperfectly perfect empress of empathy.
Her heart hungers for a plethora of petals,
to hover from a ruby rose to lotuses of liberty,
but predatory birds like harlots and hussies,
have lured her into a withering winter colony of thorns.
Sorrow stitched her eyes closed with merlot thread,
as her sanity sits upon the edge of heaven and hell.
The Devil wears a hat with an emblem of her sins.
The bewitching conspiracy of his crimson eyes,
tempting to massacre the magnificence
of her invisible crystal wings of bronze and gold.
In a martyrdom of self-sacrifice,
love reminds her that kindness glows softly like fireflies,
as she tries to find light in a tunnel of lost thoughts.
The universe echoes her cosmic whispers of life,
as psychedelic ink shimmers like starlight in her veins,
pouring compassion into a selfish blank canvas of hearts.
Cherry blossoms tint the air pink
and she's looking at the world through their gaze,
but knows like everything,
their fragile beauty is only momentary.
Affirmation without discipline is the beginning of delusion - Jim Rohn
Without meaning, your mind may portray delusion,
so some search for answers to end this illusion.
Is it that simple to cleanse a life from confusion?
When trials subdue the heart into seclusion,
we yearn for a remedy with jasmine infusion,
where the scent of truth is the ultimate conclusion.
Before death calls to offer a final conclusion,
create a loving legacy without delusion.
Combine discipline with affirmation infusion,
where positive aspirations are no illusion.
Let go of wishful thinking when lost in seclusion.
A return to reality will end confusion.
In equality and kindness there's no confusion.
Lennon said; "Make love not war"- a perfect conclusion.
Like a poet left alone in depths of seclusion
release words of sincerity to kill delusion.
When demons arrive to tempt you into illusion,
only a strong soul can resist their foul infusion.
Poor values resemble a weak coffee infusion,
if spirit does not kindle, it leads to confusion.
Why stay asleep, lost in a labyrinth of illusion,
when self-belief is a flawless diamond conclusion.
Why remain trapped in a cocoon of mute delusion,
use your wings to escape from effortless seclusion.
Self - deprecation is a disease in seclusion,
where self - belief blossoms in refreshing infusion.
Self - deception structures puppet strings for delusion.
where a tangled knot patterns a clot of confusion.
When the muse is blocked there's no ink for a conclusion.
You thirst under the heat of a mirage illusion.
Illuminate to glow in rainbow toned illusion,
shimmer like stardust when fate draws you to seclusion.
Firm foundations flourish in a beanstalk conclusion,
like sapphire skies blending in indigo infusion.
Paint a self - portrait where brushstrokes remove confusion,
when the heart is committed there is no delusion.
Will power is like tea leaves and water infusion.
A blend of herbal extracts soothing from confusion.
Honest testimonies keep us safe from delusion.
Love’s Pawnshop
by Odin Roark
Unable to pay the debt
Love is often pawned
Sympathy as a claim check
Stuffed deep in pockets of suffering
Such self-deprecation roams the streets
Perplexed with using the tender
As peace offering to the beloved
A gesture risking resentment
Nothing conducive to healing
Perhaps better spent on survival-type passion
Allusion’s princely blind beggar with pencils
Rewards for the coin-drop sound in the cup
Solicitude’s offering without expectation
Without questionable agenda
Such is the giving spirit
Often in trouble
Never without company
Welcoming emotion’s exchange
Leaving behind longing’s conundrum
To examine itself truly naked
Sincerity’s immunity
Impervious to manipulation
Or desire’s self-deceit
Once the reward
Now but a cast-aside
A melting of chicanery’s
Falsity of spirit
Later
Amidst midnight shadows
A lowly pawn ticket of imagination
Embraces the enigmatic unsharpened pencil
They rest side by side
Atop life’s universal shelter
Where loveless anxiety takes cover
Awaiting another day
Perhaps THE day
When needs will find
Love’s pawnshop ready
To teach them as well
Precious lessons
Somewhere
Out there
The world a stage,
Shakespeare noted.
And we the imposter,
in our final call.
A few catch our last show.
Unwitting, they s on cue,
our fatal prelude,
our convulsive caricature,
our final self-deprecation.
A clown milking our last mockery,
our closing burlesque pratfall,
our irrevocable tremor,
our departure in floodlights.
The guffaws intend no harm.
No one knows our real name.
We are just the familiar disguise
of impulsive chuckles.
Yes, the stage is our world,
where we regale in our farcical regalia,
where we playact the death we die,
defined abruptly only by the privation of others,
their season of grieving like elephants.
Perhaps it’s better this way,
decomposing, never to be recovered,
just the sound of laughter lost,
or the fading fragment in someone’s
sleepless night.
Published The Magnolia Review 03/2020
A murder of crows screech my funeral song,
disturbing the eerie silence that surrounds.
Heartless hands have left scars etched into my crumbling bark,
as bleeding sap drips upon ivory sands,
which fail to comfort the aches of my collapsed torso.
I once ascended under sapphire skies,
as golden rays adorned my emerald lush leaves,
but now I've descended into dismal decay,
realising humanity has no use for me -
offering me as a sacrifice to toxic tides.
I can still remember the sound of crashing to the ground,
as men with axes laughed at the glory of my demise,
allowing me to slowly sink toward the abyss of nothingness,
now I'm helpless as ripples of regret carry me into the sea.
Alone and abandoned, above me is only dreary darkness.
I'm barely breathing, listening to careless whispering waves,
smashing against my soaked motionless trunk,
drowning me deeper in self deprecation.
Frigid branches begin to crumble and snap,
as I slumber cradling echoes of worthlessness
so many unknown variables to consider for such a tasking pursuit
a conditional ‘If’ but what if ‘whether’ reigns in a supreme challenge
conjectures battle refutations and synapses blocked in surrender
as long as suppositions succeeded in their hypothetical contemplation
the world may as well be flat and circle unhappily one of its moons
the ‘I’ would be futile a self negating deprecation on auto-destruct
and endless loop of no Self on a path to nowhere and nothingness
not of Buddha like Nirvana but hell on earth as we know it too well
a spinning confusion of gravity with levitation spared its flight of fancy
when meditation and pondering could not lift the soul above the mind
‘ruling’ that wishes to overcome suppression domination and power
appears a futile concept when freedom should be the ultimate aim
of course anarchy holds its merits but people cling to being governed
by false leaders fake news and an insatiable need for crude abdication
in an attempt to cast responsibility and shred all courage and hope
‘the’ poses the question of this or that where and when whether at all
a simple adverbial adjective refusing to rest on quiet incomplete duty
bereft of solitary meaning and such an imposter of clarity and precision
no stand alone metaphor of context and contingency lost in the process
but the planet needs answers and I do not give up easily if besieged
is there a ‘world’ out there a compass and globe in my restless attempts
to understand question emphasize deconstruct and give a sweet home
to live up to its promises and dreams as opposed to terminal decline
word has it that there are only illusions betrayal and survival of the fittest
engulfed in delusions conflagrations raging inferno straight from its core
‘I’ if it was able to resist compartmentalization of Ego Super Ego and Id
might not want the elusive generational torch snuffing out a last breath
maybe I am overthinking under emoting and have surrendered in vain
to lost beauty and a vacuum of distant echoes of an unforeseeable future
therefore I conclude that if I was the ruler I would ask my kids for advice
14th August 2020