Long Dosed Poems
Long Dosed Poems. Below are the most popular long Dosed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dosed poems by poem length and keyword.
Glass Dolls
Glass dolls in glass houses.
Glass dolls with glass douses
Of reality, don’t they know?
That the girl who lives in fantasy
Still sees a rainbow?
And all the poems seem so hollow now-
Because the light inside her is almost out.
Because of the existence of
Glass dolls in glass houses
Dosed with reality, but they are so
Hollow now.
I will NOT be like them.
No, not twisted and molded, not me.
Not my hope slipping through
The cracks of reality.
But my brain is so hollow
And Death is like a swallow
Fluttering around in its little nest that is me.
Through my brain, through *my*
Reality.
Does anyone care? I ponder with these thoughts.
No, surely not.
Because if anyone knew that me and Death are still friends,
That I’d play cards at his table
Until the bitter end, surely *that*
Would disturb them. And so I am quiet,
Day after day. Because at night my brain shatters
Deep
Against the duvet.
Neuro means brain. Divergent means different.
After being diagnosed, I feel kind of distant.
Almost insane, a bit of a deterrent.
Why should I try and fit,
to be normal and sit?
Teacher says I’m always shouting.
But little does she know,
my mind is always crowding
with thoughts I can’t control.
My impulse is low, my focus a flame.
My mind’s like a car full of petrol and shame.
That much is true; it’s part of my state.
Everything’s a blur
but being graded can’t wait.
Dear teacher, can’t you see?
I’m slowly sinking into a hole,
feeling no different than
an "under-the-bridge troll."
I’m different from the rest
in life’s ultimate test.
Study and pass,
or fail, act like an ass.
That’s it, isn’t it?
That’s what you expect.
Just put my head down
and show some respect.
But tell me, dear teacher, why are the words swimming?
Round and round they go,
no matter my skimming.
The flame lights up, then it is extinguished.
My brain is the problem you distinguished.
My "normal" wasn’t yours but you pursued,
my symptoms fought, but are now subdued.
Why weren’t we taught what would happen after
they gave us the pills that silenced our laughter?
When we no longer felt normal, just dosed,
our thoughts and feelings chemically closed.
Was I ever truly me these twelve years past?
Or am I me now, just quieter at last?
Divergent means different. Neuro is brain.
Am I normal now or just less of a pain?
One need only open an old chest, or turn on a light in an attic, to journey back in time. Every scrap of clothing, old photograph is a life and a history. Essence remains.
As I often write at night, while many of a more rational world slept -- pacing, muttering poetic phrases aloud in a possessed manner, to keep my marriage intact, a seldom-used backroom of our house has become my addiction sanctuary. Soon it was a habit of mine, exhausted after composing for many hours nonstop, my psyche too spent to carry myself the distance needed to reach our conjugal bedroom at the other side of the house, I simply stretched out on a tattered sofa adjacent to my writing desk, and quickly dosed off. Strangely I began having a recurring trance-like dream of an ancient tormented soul beseeching help. He seemed trapped. For it was male. Distressingly disoriented. I asked what was wanted of me, tacitly aware that our languages were foreign to each other, yet we clearly communicated through some indeterminable articulate mysticism of the mind? His replies were confusing, mostly speaking in haunting, meandering riddles. After this went on for several more consecutive nights, somewhat spooked, I finally told my wife of the strange happenings. Swearing to her that the encounters seemed ultra real~ too real, dreadfully fearing that it could not be merely sleepy imagination alone, but perhaps, manifestation of a demonic entity. Following lengthy, involved research, it turned out that my wife harbored some old Indian artifacts, long forgotten, saved in a file cabinet near to the desk where I wrote, a headdress and eagle claw necklace her cowboy uncle had acquired somehow in the late 1800's, obviously sacred items that once belonged to a powerful medicine man. Well, the next night, in deep prayer, in consultation with higher divine elements, I helped the suffering deceased Shaman, whose spirit was firmly yet attached to his personal earthbound paraphernalia, ascend to a metaphysical realm long awaiting his overdue blessed arrival. His spirit was the size of a mountain as he lifted from the earth into a seeming celebrating night sky.
Men of the Flame
Men of the flame,
Basking in the aura of fame
So confident with signs and wonders
Proclaiming to raise the dead and heal the lame.
They cast, bind evil spirits tame
One even said; "God is game"
Is this offerings for God or the priest-
Whose deceit thrives under God's name?
They feed upon the people's emotion;
Men who believed signs and wonders was the only solution.
Shabbily clad in penury's pad
Those offerings dropped; just to seek God's attention.
To them they came like men heavily laden
And to those they came their minds hidden
Winning the poor man's soul to messiah's gate
While theirs was the devil's haven.
Hallelujah! Voices echoed loud
Strange incantations ransack the misty cloud.
Tongues twisting, bodies falling
Only God alone knows what lies beneath their mystery shroud.
Deceit must thrive over religion
Tell the truth; there goes religious rebellion
So, trick will do the trip
An antidote to amuse the desperate congregation.
Prosperity opens the sermon's door;
"...He never created you to be poor"
Cars donated, empty bags with cash impregnated
Still they filled it more and more.
I thought salvation was free
That we need not bribe our way you and me.
"Thou shalt not tell lie;"
But why do these men refuse to call a bee a bee?
The air around us is dosed with sin
Followers in rags, leaders draped in suits covering their skin
In seclusion alcohol and fornication is no longer ungodly
But to us they are forbidden.
We have heard of your festival of fire
And the cars and jets you acquire.
The veil of servitude as blidfolded our thoughts
Hoping for divine favour when we retire.
Men of the flame
The world knows your name
carved in devil's corsive
someday, you shall go back to the fire from whence you came.
This poison tasted like wine enough to kill my conscious
This fields of medicine I drank myself out of this situation of in-laws my mother zonked herself to be part of
My poison was them, nothing ever killed me like they did
This field of medicine not only caused me to die a deleterious death
This field of medicine killed my womb to birth my own children
This poison!
I employed sectors of poisonous substances for reasons other than toxicity
I employed sectors to destroy my own consciousness
I injected a deadly potion dose to kill myself
I injected a deadly potion to kill and destroy this temple I live in everyday
I wanted to feel numbness
I headed straight to the edge with a slogged mind of this poison I intoxicated myself to sleep through this pain I was feeling
To my surprise
I laid awake in mind
I laid awake in mind with no sets of my body moving
That was never a dream, was it?
I dosed off my conscious with this poison I drank
Poet
Masego Nkuna
A rebuttal to Lord Tennyson's famous lines of 'In Memoriam' ~
"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
Please tell me there's a healing anodyne,
some kind of mythical enlightenment,
a cure capable of extinguishing the flames
of grief burning deep within my heart.
It's a fire I cannot douse or smother.
If there is a balm, something known to man,
I beseech you, bathe me in its pacifying waters
before my heartache drives me insane.
Cleanse the malignancy lost love has wrought.
In the song of a lark, I found a brief respite.
His voice soothed the beast blazing in my breast
but then off he flew before I slept.
My ache found but a moment's relief
then returned to plague me, smoldering again.
I linger in sorrow, without means of escape
from a life of recurring fear and doubt.
Is there no utopian Shangri La or illusive Camelot
where memories of us will not haunt me?
If not, I must endure this anguish to my grave.
In desperation, I planted a garden of herbs
and nibbled leaves of chamomile and yarrow,
but no analgesic did they prove to be.
I should've sown hemlock to end my misery.
What anodyne will succor the look of disdain
I see, when in a mirror I sorrowfully visualize
the love his eyes once held for me.
If the antidote blinds me, I beg to be dosed.
I would sacrifice sight to set my heart free.
Previously posted by Jenna Logan, aka Lin Lane 2020.
At sunrise newlyweds wandered from camp
hiking into unfamiliar terrain.
And now they have to spend the night in the
desert despite their unbearable thirst.
The sweltering heat of the day lingers
as the sun sets just behind the mountains.
And darkness merges with inky shadows
pooling deep within the cooler crevices.
They dosed off to the mumbled whisperings
of windblown sands rippling across the dunes.
And though their canteen was nearly empty
there had to be water somewhere out there.
Her husband asleep she filled his canteen
and took the empty one to find water.
And although she swore no tears, they still came
not for her but for the man left behind.
Wakened by the searing kiss of the sun
he realized the selfless thing she’d done.
And though he looked for her she was long gone
so he followed her tenuous footsteps.
He found her collapsed, exhausted and near death
and they shared the few drops of water left.
Yet in the midst of death's dusty embrace
angels in helicopters rescued them.
THE COLD
I’m feeling pretty miserable, this cold won’t go away
I wish that I could stay in bed, and not go out today
My ears are very sore, and my forehead’s red hot too
Is this a seriously heavy cold, or is it just man flu
My throat is closing over, and my joints all ache as well
An unforgiving tickly cough, is making my life hell
I haven’t had a rest in days, can’t find a way to sleep
Dosed with pills and remedies, it’s enough to make you weep
My bones are stiff and sore and there’s a tingle down my spine
This shivering, aching body, it doesn’t feel like mine
I have a bright red runny nose and I cannot taste my food
The Television hurts my eyes, this feeling isn’t good
So I’ll just soldier on, and trail this carcass out of bed
With bloodshot eyes, no energy and a badly thumping head
And hop that soon, I’ll be relieved, from this misery and pain
Until the next time man flu, comes to visit me again…………
He felt self conscious, insecure,
Inadequate and most unsure.
He looked upon the night with dread,
For he was unadept in bed.
He thought it all was in his pants,
And feared he could not do the dance;
And then he saw it on T.V.,
With insane grin they touted "V".
It would make him a super man,
And she would be his biggest fan.
So off he went to the pharmacy,
To buy a box, or maybe three.
He popped a pill and to his surprise.
It grew before his very eyes;
So he took another just for fun,
He over dosed and was undone.
The paramedics laughed out loud,
When they saw how he was endowed.
He was too big for his britches,
And it left them all in stitches.
"My God!" the doctor said entranced,
It looks just like a big egg plant.
We're gonna have to drain that thing,
So hang on tight it's gonna sting.
Our hero learned his lesson well,
Though he had to go through Hell.
Though some think the stuff is grand,
Viagra does not make the man.
(the person depicted above is fictional and any similarities to real persons living or dead is unintentional)
Please tell me there's a healing anodyne,
some kind of mythical enlightenment,
a cure capable of extinguishing the flames
of grief burning deep within my heart.
It's a fire I cannot douse or smother.
If there is a balm, something known to man,
I beseech you, bathe me in its pacifying waters
before my heartache drives me insane.
Cleanse the malignancy lost love has wrought.
In the song of a lark I found a brief respite.
His voice soothed the beast blazing in my breast
but then off he flew before I slept.
My ache found but a moment's relief
then returned to plague me, smoldering again.
I linger in sorrow, without means of escape
from a life of recurring fear and doubt.
Is there no utopian Shangri La or illusive Camelot
where memories of us will not haunt me?
If not, I must endure this anguish to my grave.
In desperation, I planted a garden of herbs
and nibbled leaves of chamomile and yarrow,
but no analgesic did they prove to be.
I should've sown hemlock to end my misery.
What anodyne will succor the look of disdain
I see, when in a mirror I sorrowfully visualize
the love his eyes once held for me?
If the antidote blinds me, I beg to be dosed.
I would sacrifice sight to set my heart free.
June 18, 2022
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 3
Sponsored by Mark Toney