Long Destitution Poems
Long Destitution Poems. Below are the most popular long Destitution by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Destitution poems by poem length and keyword.
Gratitude suffuses me today
at prospect to plumb the depths
of a fledgling friendship
(respecting fidelity to wife)
even one bound
within the parameters of cyberspace,
I feel courtesy your amazing grace
figuratively stitching omnipotent binding
with virtual satin and lace
proceeding cautiously to experience
belonging to human rat race.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail,
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine),
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logical, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than
nine inch rusty nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Adieu from Matthew Scott Harris
who tapped out this message
while holed up in his mancave
situated within Southeastern Pennsylvania.
Aggravated assault;
Innocent bystanders screaming what's up;
And the bridal cup;
Newlywed burning bed;
Observation;
Destination;
Destitution arrival;
Glorious survival;
And the funeral march;
Does not start;
You have a mission;
Through your the the derision;
Innervision intervention;
You often mention;
Destination;
Observation
Repentance sinner;
Mercy Grace now makes me a winner;
Embraced a new warmth now a new choice;
Father God has given me His Son;
Now rebirth and born again;
Satan lost God has won;
Mercy Grace all over the place
Destination observation turn my life around now I'm homeward bound;
Salvations arrival;
Has me a survival;
like a run away hubcap spinning down the road...your life spins out of control;
how will this end—on a rocky hillside or a soft grassy knoll?
with forehead wrinkles and squinted vision you watch hopes and dreams burst into flames
flames igniting your inner core to not give up...
from this damnation of life’s bitter cup...
anxietic thoughts mushrooming like an atomic explosion inside your mind
space
in a toxic drunk you struggle to hold on—with clenched teeth— you cry out for savin’ Grace....
all the while destitution lurking in the shadows to capture your soul...
as beguiling sillouettes of enchantment tap dance to the intricate fibers of your being losing hold...
like a broken string sending a yo-yo on a downward descend
flat on your face—hard—you fall
questioning— from this— how can I mend?...
at rock bottom you lay...
you pray...
the dam burst— too heavy— the weight of bitter confection
cheeks quivering you gaze into your puddle of tears;
you see a reflection...
at ground zero...
staring back; it’s you—your hero...
you hear a voice whisper...
“there’s no place to go my child but up—
hand over to Me—thy bitter cup”...
Grouin up in Glesga wis nae mean feat
Pleyin in the back courts an dreepin the wass
Plouterin in puddles manky water sploshing aboot,
Searching in yon mucky middens fur treasure
Thrown oot by the families in the closes.
Fur a fitba a pile o rags weideh doon wi aw sorts o things
Or a tanner ba made tae test yer skills dribbling roon
Bricks, holes an buckets burnt through.
Some wi nae shin baries wis the thing
An naething caught except wee beasties in the hair.
Holy jumpers an maukit breeks like a uniform
Worn tae mark ye oot as livin in tenements raw.
Aye aww wis puir always skint fur buying scran
Except faither oan a Friday nicht at the boozers
Getting fu wi his pals forgettin the weans,
Crying at hame an when he came in mither
Wid aways get the blame .
Aye the weans o glesga wur a hardy breed,
All ways stervin an needin a feed,
That wisnae allus therr a feast wis a jeely piece.
When they grew an produced men o valour,
Or men o wealth an fauncy cars,
Ne,er forgot that they were a Glesga wean.
He has left his touch ,
I know this much by the vacant stares they posses .
He has since passed through ,
And his evil too with the curses I loathe and detest.
His reign will not end ,
Until man is condemned and all that he seeks is wiped out ,
All pure is consumed ,
Savaged and ruined
Left to rot without doubt.
The stench that remains ,
Drives a stake through the pain ,
To remind of the torture that's been ,
Felt but not touched ,
Though tasted too much ,
So alive - it'll never be seen
For hope cannot thrive ,
If there's no hope alive ,
Nothing but dark destitution ,
Your spells here won't work ,
On the demons that lurk ,
For this is our last retribution.
22/11/11
Why do I make resolutions?
Will I ever change?
Every year a new solution,
yet I am still the same.
I inhale sweet pollution,
a different flavor every year —
but now with retribution
after ball-drop cheer.
My diet is a constitution,
guilty pleasures await.
My body, my institution —
I don’t care the date.
The ritual of absolution
of a commitment I must make
feels like personal destitution,
an action I’d rather fake.
Would you like my allocution?
Well, I have no remorse.
There is no attribution,
because I won’t stay the course.
Here’s a substitution —
my offering to midnight.
My only contribution
is nothing, out of spite.
The trigger was jammed and he prayed to the gods of war
For another bullet before he would say Farewell to Arms
Now he sits at Times Square begging for a few measly coins
Carries his memories and belongings on his scarred back
Rocks forward and backward and the screams never leave
They call him a hobo and drunkard and dislike his fragrance
Of destitution and bombed shelters with nowhere left to go
He wears a ragged bandana and lonely blood-stained stigma
Has sold his Purple Heart for a couple of meals at the food bank
Reminds himself that orders were orders and trenches are deep
With some luck they will scrape his remains off the highway to hell
Remove the obstacle of odorous self-righteousness from the streets
Plant a few poppies next to a crumbling cross bearing no name
And fool themselves that glorious battles reap sustainable death
24th December 2019
You collapse to the ground
I hurry to catch you
Whispering words of destitution, tiredness, and fatigue
You tell me you’re tired
Weary to live like this
With this illness
How it shuts every door
Pains to the core
Slowly, spitefully, you start to lose yourself
I fear that in my every soul
Tears of ache run down my sight
I yell at you, beg you at you to stop
Demand you to discontinue
Thrive for that promise of yours
Tell me it’ll all be okay
Tell me you’ll get better
Awe me with your dreams
Inspire me with every act of good of yours
Every city you wish to route every street of its
Every sunset you wish to set eyes on
Every night sky, full of bright blazing miracles
But you don’t
You tell me you can’t
And I ask of you to do that
But although that
Although every worry that ties me
Every doubt, every tear, every darkest misery
You surrender and leave
Leave me there
All anxious and terrified
Of what comes next
What is due to occur
And it frightens me
Keeps staring at the empty space
With thoughts and thoughts
Conquering
Torturing
Consuming
We began with nothing
And what’s left is nothing
But all that we began with
They bought the rain for take-out
sun is bought too
human destitution is televised
to point good as rarity
so that request from one wretch can wipe dry request from another
and cosmic balance
could exhale
everybody is dealing with another's business,
no one stays long enough to help those broken pieces come together
but world wasn't built from obedient soldiers,
and stories they preach on us, speak more about them
still
worn out faces are waiting for reconstruction
- to all streets
apply mirrors
it is needed
so people can actually see themselves
I stand where the sunset hugely spills
Out upon subdued but still hotly
Glowering plains...
Now, perhaps, I should wistfully
Recall my own homelands; her
Diminished and flattened hills,
Stretched and sleeping, far from yonder
Adjacent wolfen domains.
Vast plains, which, although of
Unmatched grandeur, neither embolden
To embrace upon mine passions...
Or impart the reinforcement of
Heartening succour...which the comfort
Of those broken hills so pleasingly fulfils!
For such is the pressing need to once
More imbibe the contriteness that is
The poor substance of this natives air;
Whilst, under cacophonous arrangement
Of timeless and haranguing bars,
Casting off all gaudy encumberment -
Thee imposition of these finely stitched
Robes,
To wander through uninhibited
Fields: rudely revealed whence left
Fallow and bare!
And, humbling myself, but ne'er as
Bold as Endymion, before vigilant
Selene's disdainful glare,
I would'st endeavour, rightly or not to
Thusly suppose,
To re-invent a lofty purpose beneath
The hurtling rails of screaming stars;
Here, in happy destitution, to wrap
Abouts in tattered remnants of
Ragged moonlight...thrown aside
When callously abandoned there.
Inspired by the "Pure" genius that was William Butler Yeats!