Long Depressing Poems
Long Depressing Poems. Below are the most popular long Depressing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Depressing poems by poem length and keyword.
You’ll know when it’s time to go home or to stay,
When flight seems much better than standing to fight,
When the hair in your beard is starting to gray,
When oncoming headlights are glaringly bright,
When it’s no longer safe to be driving at night,
When early departures don’t feel like a crime,
When parallel parking just seems a bit tight,
You’ll know when it’s time.
When the old blue jeans are starting to fray,
When naught in your closet is fitting just right,
When that scale reading starts to heavily weigh,
When you’re squinting more and you’re losing your sight,
When subtitles are your way out of your plight,
When that box weighs too much and you’re not in your prime,
When your belt needs loosening, pants are too tight,
You’ll know when it’s time.
When it’s hard to convince and harder to sway,
When will’s given way to maybe or might,
When nothing, it seems, is going your way,
When your armor has dulled, and you’re more knave than knight,
When your shoulders are slumping, you’ve lost some in height.
When your parking’s expired and you don’t have a dime,
When some of life’s joys have lost their delight,
You’ll know when it’s time.
When the sublime submerges and everything’s trite,
When the meter’s all shot and nothing will rhyme,
When your mind draws a blank and has nothing to write,
You’ll know when it’s time.
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first ballade attempt... lol, this sounds pretty depressing!
idea was this: we have to make changes as we get older,
but "we'll know when it's time"... I need some new writing material...
The emotions and nature intertwine setting our mood,
Plan each day accordingly for the changing of one's attitude.
The silence within is quiet
like the newly fallen snow,
The happy thoughts within are discovered
like the flowers that begin to grow.
The anger of struggles within is a rage
like the thunderous storms,
The confusion unsettled within is everchanging
like the chameleon that constantly transforms.
The surprise emotions within stir
like the gust of cold wind moving endlessly,
The sorrow within causing pain is unbearable
like the destruction of the awaken tornado that impacts the land
tremendously.
The comforting gestures that calm our soul within are created
like the spectacular rainbow display igniting joy,
The sadness forms suddenly within is overflowing
like the flooding waters of rainstorms that annoy.
The scared feelings which fear takes over within is depressing
like a dangerous hurricane taking away our livelihood,
The peace that one longs for within is awoken
like the beautiful sunset that leaves one feeling good.
No two songs
are sung exactly alike.
For if they were
they would be one sung song.
No two stories
unfold precisely uniform.
For if they did
they would become one united uniformity.
Yet no two songs,
no two stories
remain entirely alien toward each other
or they would not be recognized
appreciated as narrative at all.
Possibly even compassioned together by anyone
as compromising songs, well and badly sung,
within stories, well and badly lived.
Passions sung and retold
by any witness,
sometimes deaf and blind
and best times more acute,
astute.
Songs are sung in mythic octaves
as stories unfold in fractal seasons
of noticing Winter's advent of potential,
through Spring's co-arising becoming,
Summer's mature diastasis,
healthier
as more resonant
in polyculturing ways and means.
Summer's pathology
grows fading dissonance
with monoculturing parasitic intent
in Autumn's harvest of discontent.
Earth restoring storied songs
bring LeftWing virgin birth to forests
for hunting and gathering EarthTribe nurturance,
ionizing
and lionizing
harmonizing
ergodic rhythmed
and seasonally rhymonizing,
thermodynamic
and radiant ecstaticizing
co-gravitizing
creolizing native First through Last
Shall Be First
interdependent stated nations
and tribal relations
and four seasoned octave
correlations,
double-bound elations.
On Her more RightWing side,
This commodified ball of rock and dirt
and fouled water
and polluted air
and Hell's anthropogentric punishing fires
to be aimed at
against
each other
is what's rightfully,
if somewhat too ballistically, left emptily
raped and pillaged,
drilled and fracked
industriously enslaved
depressing baring
suppressing breeding
and repressing beating
and, eventually,
butchering the filthy *****,
formerly known
through well-sung stories
as Sacred Mother Earth.
No two EarthTribe songs
are sung exactly alike.
For if they were
we would become
one too predictably sung song.
While looking down from my balcony view:
a depressing sadness washed over me.
And I wondered what the world would look like:
when we no longer have the honeybee.
The fake facade of civilization:
advertises a neon paradise.
But that illusion costs us: the fact is,
nothing is free; everything has a price.
Cigarettes kill, and yet, they are still sold:
shareholder profits aren't based on good health.
Big money doesn't care if you die coughing:
each cough increases their corporate wealth.
In America, kids shoot kids in schools:
yet, gun control has been ignored for years.
The N.R.A. bribes politicians with
cash to pad their pockets, not to cry tears.
The cold rain of fall
Will come to an end
After depressing us all,
As leaves start to bend
When snowflakes, heaven does send.
The first tentative flakes
Land gently and sweet.
Our breath, this sight takes,
As they land at our feet.
We raise our eyes, the sky to meet.
Within minutes the ground
Becomes a white carpet, thick,
No colour to be found
As the snowflakes come quick
And onto each surface they stick.
A white, winter world to behold.
Before us now, the most beautiful sight.
No longer depressed by the cold,
Nature's white carpet, bright,
In darkness, giving us light.
for Carol Brown's `Welcoming Winter' contest
In yard inside my haven home structure
appeared brown bear
depressing during
the darkest coldest times of the year
color is absent fragrance non clear
Blow the blossoms flowers are
winter still pansies and viola
My heart soul warm by winters flower
Quite purple yellow
Galanthus snowdrop white
like butterfly atop green stalk top
Darling droopy headed flowers
in front borders
in rock garden
blooming snow on the ground
Winter spills, daffodils
Lenten roses multiple petal star
Soft pink cloud white Hellebores
My heart soul warm by winters flower
Fruits balls clusters of
Winterberry. deciduous holly
Yon, lily of the valley shrub
Bell like
Winter Aconite
Petite snow flower appear
Witch Hazel
Wispy yellow. orange flower
Pretty Primrose red, purple, yellow
My heart soul warm by winters flower
Cold Camellia reminiscent roses, flourishes
Glory of the Snow late winter bloomers purple white leaf
Mahonia leathery frond
Evergreen shrub
Ornamental Kale ruffled foliage
Gabbage like heads
Petit peeking through snow, Crocus
Cyclamen beneath deciduous trees
Darling Daphne fruity fragrance
Lovely sighted in late winter springs on the way
My heart soul warm by winters flower
12/16/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023
She slipped clumsily in a
café
Looked all around her
from the corner of her
eye
Felt all eyes upon her
Bit her lip
and flushed crimson
disconcertedly.
He was sacked, literally
fired
Got down in the dumps
Was down and out
and was left feeling blue
so gloomily.
He gave her a blossomed
rose
Blood rushed to her
cheeks
She blushed a deep red
so joyously.
She watched her rival
from afar
Summed up her
envy in reflex
and she turned green
jealously.
It looked hale and hearty
Ooh the cherubic chubby
cheeks
Baby looked in the pink
as it babbled away
innocently.
She heard of a loved
one's demise.
That was a shock indeed
She went white as a
sheet
as she then wept so
woefully.
She saw a teeny-weeny
spider on her skirts
Talk of arachnids and
phobias, yikes!
She turned a pale yellow
in fright
as she screamed fearfully.
He found his sweetheart
in another man's arms
Doubted his own charms
and his face went purple
with rage
almost immediately.
He faced his lifelong
enemy
Hate brimmed up in him
as his bitterness found a
vent
He shot him a black glare
most scornfully
well well, it might seem
that the worst of all the
human hues
are the melancholic
depressing blues
But I think being green
for jealousy
and the black of hate
top the list in deserving
poohs.
Mind you these human
pigmentation of emotion
are a matter of reflex
for you can't choose
which of the human hues
you'd like to wear, on
party day
and which you'd rather
not use.
It's a shame, to blame, if you're looking for fame, look elsewhere.
See you're wrong. You believe not me, but wrongfully, you believe.
I have not the wits to write the right words.
It may be a disaster in every letter, I try to make it better.
It's depressing and tiring, stressful, discouraging at the least, it pays a toll on ones soul. It brings me down, it feels like I've been kicked around. I try to stay in my calm place, but my anxiety goes through the roof
why can't I get over this bail of hay, its like taking a long road to some grove, only to find it was never real..
My efforts and hard work seemed to be, but was not for me, my family is the reason my motivation was in the right place. I still stand up right, and firm. I stand strong, no matter how wrong you may be, I'm not the one you should have your eye on, it's me keeping it right,
It's a shame to blame thee.
David W Carter
Hopper's painted a sober couple
with an unamorous sentiment;
two lovers with faces too distant,
with hands not touching, not feeling...
just being realistic and sensible,
reflecting on a tomorrow that was coming.
The exterior colors are of a depressing dark,
and the interior ones are mixed with bright
ones...with an ivory tone consuming their sober faces;
why are they staring into nothingness, sensing sadness?
We can't feel what they feel, or hear what they hear,
but their thoughtfulness is as intense as the evening' whisper.
Theirs was an era when Elvis was the undisputed king,
and his music was played on an old-fashioned record player;
perhaps his blues were the ones they loved to sing,
but the pretty boy from Tennessee was much younger and happier than they ever were,
not wearing a blue t-shirt, brown slacks and a classic hairdo,
and he rode in his red Chrevolet with a style that was envied by everyone in Hollywood.
Hopper's theme should have been much livelier than this,
not as morose as his summer's evening melancholic portrait;
and who could judge him for expressing himself in a such way?
Perhaps it was a realistic scene he had experienced with his fiancee,
observe the artist's rendition of the unpleasant mood he was in...
and shouldn't have he painted it with a more intimate and amorous sentiment?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Every day is a struggle
Not to cry
To fall to our knees
And ask God why.
The economy is a nightmare
Chasing away our dreams
Leaving us hungry
Crying out for a means.
Jobs have been cut
Dwindling money so tight
The war is on
To keep our hope in sight.
Food to clothes
And simple school supplies
Every where you look
The money cries.
The once simple things
Now have a luxurious price
The list of necessities
Must face a slice.
Staycations are in
Vacations are out
Even retirement
Travels a different route.
The economy has sunk
Like a wounded ship
As the color of green
Loses its grip.
Everyday is a struggle
Just to survive
The American dream
We labor to revive.
NOTE: As a divorced mother of three children, having my hours cut over 3/4 has taken its
toll on me. Looking for employment has been not only depressing but frustrating as well.
I wrote this poem to try and "heal" my pain and struggles. I know that I am not the only
one that lays awake at night wondering how to pay the bills or feed my children; but still
the pain eats away at me, the frustrations build like a volcano, and the humiliation
strips me of my pride. I find myself questioning my dreams and goals; my skills as a
parent; my faith in the American Dream! Some of you will say that I have become
depressed--and my guess is you would be right. I hate myself for lying in bed feeling
sorry for myself and crying all the time--that is why I wrote this poem...it is my
cure..my medication...my doctor. Through this poem I hope to pull myself up and out of
this hole of sadness I have climbed into and hold my head high as I wait for things to get
better...as I wait for that one miracle to light my way. Hey...that gives me an idea for
another poem..gotta go write...I love you all. Thank you for reading my poetry, for your
kind and compassionate comments and may God Bless each and every one of you and keep you
safe and happy during these difficult times! All My Love, Deborah