Long Druggie Poems
Long Druggie Poems. Below are the most popular long Druggie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Druggie poems by poem length and keyword.
Be aware of a verb, thats emerging..From an Aussie, it has been formed, And its Now surging.' Quite
Descriptive and gritty, Aimed first off at canberra
City, where the originals (are said to be spawned?)
You don't need its description, its scar is real hard old friend' a strong
Valediction.' Of how low? You are thought in your descend.' It sends a shiver through men, and even the
Ladies.' This is way worse; than that vile
Jab..But here now I'll give it a stab' ya'know even; blind freddy will make a run, if it trends..He truly fears it.' would rather
Remain blind.' than to hear it..Mates stay awake
And your honour defend.' Be a drunk, be a druggie, thief
Or even a thuggie.' But never a TWOT..Here i' stand as
Your mate to the end.'
She was only a whore they said
Just a druggie on the game
Most of the papers couldn’t be
Bothered to correctly spell her name.
Just an illegal immigrant tart,
Part of one of those foreign mobs
Over here to claim our benefits
Ot take over all of our jobs.
Not one of your high class call girls
Who service the Commons and Lords
Free of the general approbation
Such elevated status affords.
Not your enthusiastic amateur
Who put it about for free
Or one of those who’ve made it
By appearing on reality TV.
Not your free loving aristocrat
Hopping gaily from bed to bed
No, just a common street walker
Who unfortunately ended up dead.
Having so dehumanised her as
Just another lump of dead meat
Who earned herself a living by
Selling cheap sex on the street
This allegedly Christian nation
Doesn’t really bother anymore,
Just turns to the sports page
For the latest footie score,
Or, the very wealthy
With no real material cares,
To financial pages to check
Returns on stocks and shares.
Some mother, father or child
Who won’t see her anymore
Are suffused with pain and grief
Even though she was only a whore.
I just write. Sure, I have pieces in several books just scattered all around. Probably have written over 999 Poems by now. Still, My accolades are hard for me to gather and jot down. Let alone celebrate any milestone of accomplishment that I won’t remember when you ask what I have been up to anyhow. Imposter syndrome is the persistent inability to believe that one's success is deserved or has been legitimately achieved… I almost thought they were defining me when I came across that word on Webster MD. I’ve never felt worthy of anything, not even things I worked at relentlessly, exhaustedly, tirelessly with every piece of me out of breath until the end result was perfection nothing less than, and still, I couldn’t see why anyone would want to fall in love with me. I wished and prayed but that imposter pushed any hope for love away, reiterating the false dialogue I kept on repeat day to day. It’s strange because I believe it's only when my spirit is in a weakened state. Even so, this cloud of doubt will dissipate the more I follow and he leads the way. Clearing my vision and the swindlers at play, who are working hard to keep me alone and afraid. I don’t claim that phenomenon and this inability to see what I have achieved, these ungodly feelings are something I now recognize as old patterned thinking. I was supposed to be this statistic, a druggie, crazy, out of my mind; ballistic. Someone kept me cloaked. Someone helped me miss it, the bomb society unintentionally attached to me because of the producers of my Limbic system. Reminded I’m not a stranger in my skin, I am just now learning how to settle in. Sometimes fraudsters sneak false thoughts but I don’t ride their beliefs as my own because today, they are not me. Now, I rely on the outcome of my actions as my “ imposter me not”, insurance policy.
2/19/21
Among the dirt and grass
Near and far from curving paths
It's proven, I don't need to determine that
Many once thought, the Earth was flat
People so quick to judge and be the first to laugh
Events happened slowly or occurred fast
Rooftops and areas full of too much bird crap
The alcohol never once turned it's back
Or was concerned with the fact
Of how often and much I was earning cash
Praying for my downfall, hoping to see me burning fast
All this surging crap
Going to give you an allergic rash
As well as you facing eternal wrath
Kept feeling the love
When push came to shove
Never once tried to treat me like scum
Or to drag my name through the mud
Wasn't out to see me pay in blood
Always been my bud
The dabs didn't judge
Or hold a grudge
Didn't talk just because
They thought they had a clue of who I truly was
Never cared if I ever was buzzed
Or covered in sludge
Whether in the city or country
To put it bluntly
From here to Philadelphia not always sunny
Never once expected something from me
Nobody else was there, but it was there to hug me
The money
Didn't judge me
If it got bloody
And rather ugly
Or if I ever was a druggie or junkie
Didn't treat me like a dummy
Or think it was so funny
Always trying to one up me
And being far too touchy
Yet so quick to make me suffer unjustly
People too often on their high horse, others starving and hungry
Should Dina Gloat
Dina’s story starts with, Should I gloat or not.
For more than thirty years Dina lived at her address in a first floor flat. Her neighbour above her gave her no trouble. It was hard to tell if he was in or not, he was so quiet. Her neighbour suddenly fell ill and left the property and within weeks he moved out.
The flat was empty for a few weeks while the landlord was refurbishing it.
All of a sudden, someone moved in. The amount of thudding, noise, and loud music coming from the flat was horrendous. Dina went upstairs to ask the new neighbour not to make so much noise. It was a woman she apologized and said it won’t happen again. Dina thought that was the end. When the woman upstairs invited men round the thudding got louder and this went on for weeks. Even when Dina used the bathroom the thudding and crashing of heavy objects didn’t stop. It was then she realised that the woman was a drug addict and did drugs nearly all day. The only people that would come to her flat were drug addicts doing drugs. The smashing of heavy objects onto the ceiling went on for months. The authorities didn’t do anything. If Dina complained to the landlord the thudding would be worse to the point of jumping up and down on the roof.
Eventually one day while Dina was sitting in a war zone as she thought she heard cries for help. It was the woman upstairs being attacked by one of her druggie friends. Dina stayed quiet and listened and did nothing. All Dina could do remember the number of bashings on the ceiling and the terrible nights she had sleeping and being afraid of going out.
The druggie managed to make it to her door and run out flat with her being chased by a drugged up male.
Dina laughed, she couldn’t believe this happened to such a nasty person. Who knows who called the police and the male druggie was arrested in the street. After a week the female druggie packed her bags and left.
All Dina could do now was laugh her head off but didn’t say a word to anyone. She wonders if she should gloat or not. If it happened again, she would not lift a finger to help.
Once, when I was young – another writer,
A poet and poetry lover, someone undiscovered…
She (it could have been he since I only knew
Pen names that faded from my memory once
The words had left their imagery)…
Anyway, she or he… told me that my poetry,
Yes, MY POETRY, the words that I wrote,
The little flawed victims of my heart, my soul,
Thoughts that were sometimes fleeting –
And, other times, like some leech settling in
Around my life, overwhelmed by the letters,
The rhymes, the rhythms that felt like liquid laughter,
Kissing away the shadows that clung to my mind –
She or he – told me that my poetry reminded them
Of Plath! The one and only… Sylvia Plath..
It felt like a death sentence in a way, but I learned to listen
To the memory like it was one heartbeat away from
Losing its hold on me, the memory has no real power –
It loses its ability to tempt and torture, its gift for doubt
Its capacity and urgency, blaming the winds of autumn,
The sing song sounds of spring, the melancholic mist of winter,
The ache of summer plays in trembling octaves of verse –
While I remember…
Her suicide and then, years past that poet’s pointed clue
Finding out I was bipolar and knowing what it is…
Feeling crazy, like a druggie or – the woodpecker must…
Feel the crazy that comes from thumping away at that oak,
Striking it again and again with a beak that couldn’t have been
Made by man.
Only God could have created the woodpecker and only God
Could have silenced the fear in my heart when I thought of…
The mania that shredded my hopes and plunged me into doubt,
And, only God could have been such a dependable friend
That I never felt the need to take the life that He gave to me,
The same life He saved when He forgave me for my sins.
Not so much like Plath, you see… not so much like Plath,
Who will always be a lesson to poets who believe…
Only God has the right to whisper farewell to the light,
The light He stirred inside when He promised you this time,
These precious moments, this life – blessed by grace,
Inspired by faith and brought to glory by the love that He gave.
I Could Have Been
By Franklin Price
6/22/2014
I could have been a lot of things I'm really glad I'm not
A liar and a cheater a druggie and a sot
A selfish inconsiderate treating others quite unfair
Looking down from my exalted perch my nose up in the air
My pockets full of money earned through any means at all
With unappreciative peons at my daily beck and call
Friends because I give them almost everything they need
While I use them any way I can to satisfy my greed
None of these are who I am I could name so many more
But that would be a waste of time and make my fingers sore
Let me provide some insight into who I think is me
And how I've traveled through this life and how things ought to be
To top the list above all else try to love your fellow man
Many make it difficult they don't seem understand
It's not do unto others before they do unto you
It's try to put yourself into the other person's shoe
Think long and hard before you speak be careful what you say
For words come back to bite you in many unexpected ways
Make friends because you like them not for what they can do for you
And hope that in befriending you that is their real reason too
Don't think you are better than ones who have a little less
For oh so many reasons their lives could be in such a mess
Be grateful that you're fortunate put a smile upon your face
For misfortune could easily visit you and put you in their place
Do not envy others who have a little more than you
If you work a little harder then you can have it too
It's not about the things you have but how you look at life
It's far too short to dwell on things that only cause you only strife
If you give unto others expect nothing in return
It's better to give than to receive that's something I have learned
And if it just so happens that some reciprocate
Hope it's not because they owed but that they appreciate
Consider before acting how the action makes you feel
If it's less than positive it's not too late to change the deal
It's only you that needs to know just who you need to be
And when looking in the mirror you still like the one you see
My heart is a secret garden Poetry Contest
Silent One
My heart is a secret garden.
Make-believe guards stand sentry at the gate—
vigilant, visceral, ready
to keep out trolls, lurkers, pretenders,
and every donkey-ass from my past life.
Cigarettes, booze, and cheap sex
can wander elsewhere.
This time, my garden filters only purity.
Where pride is planted.
In my last life,
I went through the mill—
a chronic druggie, an alcoholic, a whore—
a plot overrun with weeds
and dirty secrets that still claw at my dreams.
But in this new life,
the core of my being is a wonderland:
fresh, free, first-rate, full-fledged, fever-pitched,
sans the forked tongue.
Baby elephants, unicorns, and pegasi
march six by six
through rows of bougainvillea,
through blossoms and budding life.
An orphaned lion cub is saved,
loosed into the wind—
Born Free, finding a home,
a rhythm,
a new secret taking root.
We're born keyless.
Then given plastic keys to play with.
We earn our first key of responsibility.
To mobilize-to enter things.
To cage things-to abuse things.
Like a warden with a cluster of keys
letting the good out- keeping the bad ones in
or is it the other way around?
A steady stream of keys.
Like a bird-every key sings
,, especially the skeleton key.
Only a few keys are able to keep your secrets.
Eventually there is a chorus of keys
Most of mine(secrets) are silver or gold
Some are dirty, some are clean.
Only one of them is king
but none of them are green
We often lose them
Then a mad search commences,
Like a red-eyed druggie rooting for a quick fix,
We smile in relief when we find them,
Hugging them as if they were our children.
Keys grow old, become battered and bent
Some wriggle off the ring.
Every year we have fewer keys.
Keys are a lot like friends,
What a relief it must be to be keyless again.
Hey diddle diddle
I'm the cat with the fiddle
Keeping my fiddle near
What would you like to hear
Any tune to catch your ear
Follow my sound
Lead yourself out of the lost and found
Dance to my tune
It made the cow jump over the moon
While it was the druggie that stole the spoon
The sound of my bow
Keeps the world in tow
Piper of the strings
People it brings
Following my sound
souls it will bound
Dont be a sheep
Following in your sleep
following the pretty
sound
Don't know where your bound
Believing all you see
Your mind you gave for free
Don't be a fool
Blindly following some rule
The fddle is just the tool