Long Drudge Poems
Long Drudge Poems. Below are the most popular long Drudge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drudge poems by poem length and keyword.
"Hey! What you thinking? You're awfully quiet,
What's going on in your mind?
You're usually a little more louder than this,
What thoughts are you keeping inside?"
Are the words that splintered into my head,
Woke me from my moment of peace,
These are the words that reminded me then,
That my brain had happily ceased,
From thinking and planning and looking ahead,
From the drudge of the whole 9 to 5,
These are the words that woke me up,
From the void I need to survive,
"Hey, hi yeah naah nothing at all,
Not sure of how much time,
I was asleep inside but wide awake,
There is nothing inside of my mind".
My hearts on the shelf.
I put my heart on the shelf today, without cunning array, or tears in vain.
A closet next to a furnace with wool clothing that’s not highly desirable.
The argyles, and paisleys are smiling at my heart while I go upon my day and wait for work to depart.
The silk wraps, and tulle skirts are sad and blue, they see that my heart is broken and drained. Even the rainboots are smothered in drudge. I finally decided not to hold this long grudge.
For grudges cause cancer that eats away, like a moth in a closet on a cool Spring day.
I put my heart on the shelf next to the Christmas picture of you.
No more chicken dumplings, or shredded beef stew.
Just the Nike shoes wanting to run from the drudgery gloom; yet they are stuck in the room with you.
I put my heart on the shelf today.
Those of a rose tinted generation
Glinted prose chose no hesitation
Hinted are minted their veneration
For a libation after a perambulation
Doom scroll eyes roll takes its toll
Whole droll troll patrol lies rigmarole
Don’t mull just cull ar*sehole annul
Save your soul & go out for a stroll
Get out of a rut preamble to every ramble
Shortcut gamble through glut of bramble
Shamble to hidden hut one last scramble
Or tut treasure a leisurely afternoon amble
You’re not a dork if at some birds you do like to gawk
Paths fork saw a hawk adore encore of a stork squawk
Ponder the wonder & explore as you wander or walk
Feel like an odd bod need to plod trod across the sod
Riven but arise as wise as a judge given a fonder nudge
Defies rivers sporting god with your prize fishing rod
Leave the drudge and trudge through the sludge
Ridden forgiven bidden by hidden spot don’t budge
Knowing nod you can’t begrudge being on your tod
Tramp then glamp or treks scheming to build pecs
Hike or bike like mental morphine endorphins spike
Muscles flex steamed up specs beers down necks
Dreams hatching in sunbeams of catching a pike
Swagger or saunter or stagger just being outdoors
Clears pores ignore the chores new places detours
A wee snifter free to roam a drifter since I was a tot
Constitutional or promenade on mother nature’s tours
Be a mate get girth over turf surf my gait over farm gate
Disown wry homegrown fall guy & fly over every sly sty
Traipse or trot don’t give a jot.. just be out and about a lot
Won't on sofa berth lie a drone alone with phone must try
Why on earth be shy just get by move & groove you know why
Redundancy, & Consistency; a slow death.
Seeping into the spine, deteriorating the bones.
Curve balls exist for a reason.
The vast roads that wind, different ways.
Paving the path for a scenic route, away from the drudge.
Wasabi for the palette; changing the senses for a new tasteful delight.
Cuddling with a new cashmere blanket, feeling safe, cozy, and relaxed.
Jumping out of bed for the next adventure under the vast constellations.
Soaking up the rays on a river rafting tour.
Monotony, Redundancy, Consistency kills the soul.
Individuals say this on their last breath.
Creating a bucket list, of time lost, adventures to come.
Breaking away from the norm, dancing, singing, kissing in that rainstorm.
Snow White has put on her grey sludge dress,
turning from princess to drudge overnight,
She is a pidgin that takes its ill-fed feathers
to brighter patches of sky
seeking less frozen crumbs.
Roads have curbs of dark pack-ice,
we drive our carriages,
pink-eyed and just whiskers away
from a shivering daydream.
Horsepower pulls us through
to an evening that mimics the gray
face of the day.
Let it rain, let it splash this chill air
to dry, Spanish hills.
Ohio for now, has put its fairy tales away,
in sports bars we drink
until mugs slide between drowsy lips
as easy as slippers of glass.
The hours tick by before my eyes,
As I lay tucked up, in my bed.
Even Bo peeps sheep have now returned,
And still the lack of Zzz’s.
Pounding seconds tick away,
Seem to echo in my brain.
Back and forth and back and forth,
Reminiscent to coaches on a train.
Oh, what I hear myself reply,
As the shock begins to bite.
With blood shot eyes that settle down,
As the room now fills with light.
As a foot now stumbles on the floor,
Now lurching from my bed.
In a bleary haze that follows,
From that workman in my head.
A vow to become teetotal,
For at least that what was said.
From the dark roast coffee granules,
To raise me from the dead.
What a happy sounding chappie,
From the airway’s morning show.
Why should he be feeling cheerful?
With five days of drudge to go.
Now boldly going forward,
As through the door I trek.
Filled by last night’s antimatter,
From a star ship what the heck.
© N Windle 2020.
Don't let your dreams be drowned out by reality.
If your bound up with daily drudge confound real life, set your dreams free.
Get off life's merry go round, say no to the corporate pound break free.
Dreams are for living confound the non believers be gutsy.
Don't let the confines of others dreams constrict yours.
Set the headlines don't be sidelined, freedom calls
have the confidence to cha cha in the rain without a care
and follow your dreams to there conclusion, freedom.
The beauty to dream is your gift to yourself.
so get dressed up to the nines in your finery and break free.
and please just have the one dance for me who's stuck in corporate slavery.
Be a diva, a queen, the Freddie mercury of poetry, I want you to break free .
comp entry 09052016
Patron mixed with Hennessy and coke with heartbreak for a chaser.
Moscato on the rocks is my drink of choice when memories drudge up of “I used to date her.”
Vodka tears from too many shots, shots I took and shots I gave you.
Rum rushing from my pores for every rushed emotion and slammed door.
Hpnotiq caressing my mind as I start to lose my balance and you continue to shake my world up.
Whiskey rubbing my shoulder and massaging my heart saying it’s going to be ok in the midst of a cold storm coming, alcohol runneth over my glass I’m so drunk I mean my cup.
Ciroq I’ve never tasted I mean I can’t taste this, soon to be a metaphor for you because I’ll eventually lose feeling numb to the winter, a drink named after you.
1800 shots and now it seems like water and I’m walking and falling upside down, a world I only see when I’m intoxicated giving me wings as if I’m free, free from the chains you bring, oppression, and jealousy.
Bottle after bottle after glass after shot, try to drink the pain away sipping in the morning, it just won’t stop.
Drink until I see the bottom or the end of me and you then drink another to relive that ending, why do we put ourselves in the same situations knowing the outcome is nothing new.
Its 4:38 am and I’m just getting home…such a late night.
And I’m sipping while I write this starting to feel light and see the light from the morning sun.
About to pass out as my feelings descend from up above to the ground like snowflakes falling effortlessly melting, feeling undone.
I fall back into my bed and the world right side up for the moment, as I fall asleep so deep and for awhile nothing matters unless you observe the details, drunken words outspoken.
Drink, drink, drink, am I an alcoholic? Mine as well be one because no matter how much older I get feelings of you flip me upside down I’m consciously never sober…
P.S. I drank to get to a fake world in order to feel something real...
The whole of my life is rather mundane, endured only until those few minutes gained; Yes, granted reprieve from this daily drudge, and allowed for the nonce, even if begrudged, to hold a feather,very sharp, to write with the tip. Slow and steady like a man taking sips…from the water of life after a long weary trip.
When all the gears are lubricated, operating efficiently, and the needs of the world weigh on someone else, the mechanism of creativity connects with the crenelated cog of self.
Dominoesk works cause my hand to haltingly write. Heart to mind, mind to body, body to hand, hand to quill…okay, so it's a keyboard, alright.
Emotion, like sand after a beach trip, pours forth from places usually dark, not seen, unlit.
Using that water of life and the sands of emotion, I build my castle with words and notions.
Intricate battlements, portcullis, bailey , and arrow loops. Protection from arrows of interruption, darts of responsibility, and soldiers of the Soup.
Until, Inevitably the drawbridge is breached, the end of my time finally reached.
Slowly I surrender my feather sword, in this messy, mixed metaphorical world.
The oven timer beeps and the phone rings, bringing me back to my life of mundane things.
Sensing the atmosphere for omens.
Signs of impending, cusp and verge.
I ping and curl, scrape to drudge up-
internal program and hit send
and hope for good vibes return "not the end."
I have become a lightless diode.
A buzzing lamppost in the neighborhood
of victimhood and it's backstreet node.
A useless burnt out core in off mode.
A robot running over castles
premade in the sand.
I try to read between the lines,
decrypt the Oracles plans behind,
the fulfilling jinx it has in store foe me.
Stars aligned.
A telepathy mainlining, a pulse headlining freakshow.
Of kinetic belonging, or safety net I used to abide in
long ago.
When the world had justice and overseer
and endearment-
enthronement-thoughts of the faithful.
I long for the ether of a hint,
graft me in with your marrow, splint, in the know.
Don't leave me high and dry,
Alone and crooked, wicked bent.
Odious clouds and signature mounds.
Terra-blyte your foretelling,
Either a warning or a telling of blue skys color turning.
Ether, of any which way the wind blows in my mind.
A private message, rather stalking.,
as it stands a topography cone of cold stand.
Your best made plans, for me
for the tasting, cast of shadow.
forecast, menacing.
Bound to be set in stone, found rather mocking.
Injected in-guest-guessing an after the fact thing,
for me.
You read my fear as I fill
a prescription of
my self fulfilled prophecy,
rolling the bones
with fate's hands.
I hear there's power in the knuckles,
the joints, the suggestion of glands.
Just. Faint whispers,
whisking by
warning-arrows
with no flame-
no spark burning for me.
Just a whisker filament, fading to the darkest
sharade of gray, hit parades.
To shade my own guilty sense of judgment.
Of putting my trust in false things.
With their superficial gradient of monochrome;
night rainbows,
overlooking Styx river country home
aside a brick road leading all the way to Thunderdome.
My sonar/feeler brain finding it's way
in the dark like a worm in the dung.
In someone else's element.
With no taste for mental or spiritual atonement.
Or the taste of Hope's spark on my tongue.