Long Embarrassing Poems
Long Embarrassing Poems. Below are the most popular long Embarrassing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Embarrassing poems by poem length and keyword.
In small proportion real beauty to know,
the full extent of perfection as slow grow.
Sense sublime deeply through all things,
a memory from long ago that still impels.
Chaotic beauty in struggle seen as art,
causing havoc by ego’s hope, torn apart.
Dying memories never reached that dream,
aspiration to inspire before the expired gleam.
Incomplete measures by lofty composition,
when simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.
Clarity by intuitive perception as measure,
to know the real known as treasure.
Making virtues out of faults dims the light,
ideal means and its embarrassing sight.
The imperfect self towards true realization,
hereafter and its other sphere continuation.
The greatest love is covered by indifference,
in admiration by respect as reference.
Divinity by short measures is human perfection,
humanity in long measures are divine limitation.
it's autumn where have,
all the butterflies have flown;
fall is here crisp cool-
~
is the air where have
all the butterflies flown, gone
in falls crisp cool aire
10/23/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
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Total # Syllables: 34
Total # Lines: 7 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 30
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I worked in an Insurance office and loved my job
But the manager was an idle fat slob
He’d put in expenses sheets for work he hadn’t done
And was out of the door in front of everyone
But I digress…
He asked me to call two people on the phone
Could’ve called them himself but I didn’t moan
When I saw the names of the people I thought it was a joke
Surely these couldn’t be real names of these unfortunate folk
One man was called Olaf Pratt
I saw his name and laughed at that
The second was called Mr Erdogdu
It made me think of doggy pooh on my shoe!
I picked up the phone to dial the first number
But I started to laugh, it was a real blunder
I was unable to call; all I could do was giggle
My tears flowed and how my shoulders did wiggle
I composed myself to try and make the second call
Pressed a couple of digits, but I couldn’t dial them all
For I started laughing at Mr Erdogdu’s name
I’d failed at my task it was a terrible shame
The boss came in and asked why I hadn’t called
When he saw I’d been laughing he was quite appalled
I was as red as a beetroot and had tears in my eyes
To me the names were SO funny, this fact I couldn’t disguise
Snatching the piece of paper he gave me the cold shoulder
I cringe at this memory even though now I’m so much older
Since then I’ve had friends with surnames of Moron and Looney
I’m glad I’m more mature now and not that lass that was gooney!
This poem really is based on true events but I had to make these calls on separate days and not together as in this tale … but the result was the same I couldn’t make these calls for laughing at these unfortunate names.
My most embarrassing moment Contest Sponsored by Cindi Rockwell
07~15~16
See, I try to make sure my facial hair is
symmetrical on both sides of my face.
It’s not. I know it’s not. You may not be able to tell, but it’s not.
I don’t get much chest hair on the right
side, but there quite a bit on the left, so I just end up shaving it all off
because, well, who wants one hairy peck?
I switched to boxers in the 7th grade
because my high school actually had changing rooms, and I figured briefs were
embarrassing.
I’ve never hit anybody outside of a martial
arts class, and even then it was mostly me getting hit. Well, that’s a lie. I
punched my friend when I was three because he pulled my sister’s hair. I still
feel bad about that. Also I don’t know martial arts.
I don’t like to hurt people or kill things;
I’ll follow a spider around forever with a napkin or a box just so I can carry
it outside. This one time I accidentally drowned a daddy-long-legs and it
ruined my whole damn day.
I like to feel things. I like that I’m so
easily moved by other people’s suffering; that I have to bite the inside of my
cheek in the movie theater just to keep it together sometimes, but I don’t like
that I feel the need to keep it together.
I am... a man. Am I?
Who sets the beat to which I must
Align my gait, my stance, my stride?
Who draws the lines of should and shouldn’t?
These lines embedded in my grandfather’s
forehead
As he furrows his brow to scold my
shoulder-length hair
See, I come from a land of chivalry
Where all men are (men men men men manly men
men men)
Where gender roles are rooted in fear and
insecurity
And every man is a threat because I am not a
man without a leash on my woman
How low must this bladed pendulum swing?
How long my beard? How trimmed my hair?
How unchecked must my rage go?
How low must this pendulum swing?
No, how low must my scrotum hang?
See, I come from a line of angry men
Old and hard, with saddened eyes
Men of principle and veracity
Traders, merchants and builders.
But see, I come from a line of free-spirited
women
Socialites, teachers and artists
Who look their best and speak their minds
And hardly age at all
I am not a creature of honor
Shame brings with it the comfort of my own
fallibility
I am not a creature of honor
I am not a creature of lineage or conquest
My feelings are broken, I'm not sure that they work.
I try to act normal, so I shrug and I smirk
No emotions come out like the other kids do
Its a kind of numbness that I'm going through.
They tell me that I'm special and other nice things
They don't get the attention that, "not feeling" brings.
Telling people what's inside, is harder than it looks
Reaching out for answers from the internet and books
So here is what I've learned, and how I started feeling
Admitting help is needed, is like reaching for the ceiling
I found someone to talk to, who listened and understood
They help me look for happiness, and show it, when I could
Embarrassing turned to embracing, of just "Who I am."
I am a "work in progress", but I now know that I can!
I can talk to other people, start to be more proud of me
I don't need the reassurance, of what these other people see.
My doctor is a blabbermouth; cannot keep a confidence. I think he is from Pluto.
He tells my son my business. Everything. Even the embarrassing stuff.
My nurse is a liar. She made up that story about me throwing the TV out the window.
It was an evil spirit. It came in the middle of the night, it was from the bowels of Purpania.
The FBI has sent men to get my state secrets, and the CIA wants to recruit me.
The joke is on them. I am helping MI6, and only MI6.
They sneaked me onto the Apollo when it went up.
I was a top secret intelligent agent then, and I am now.
My mind is as clear as it has ever been.
You are my daughter? No you are NOT. I do not have a daughter.
I would know if I had a daughter, wouldn’t I?
I would call the men in the white coats to take you away
But no one ever listens to me. I have lost status since I aged.
I sit staring at my phone at three in the morning,
watching the blue light wash over my room,
and there it is—that quiet, familiar weight
settling right behind my ribs.
It doesn't sound like a monster or a storm.
It sounds like my own voice, just tired and flat,
asking why I bothered hitting send,
why I thought anyone was actually listening,
or why I assumed I was qualified to show up at all.
Tick. Click. The afternoon slump arrives, heavy.
Unread emails pile up like debt, line after line, demand after demand.
And suddenly—
2018. That single awkward phrase, replaying in high definition.
Did they notice? Did they wince? Did they just stay silent out of pity?
"Cancel it," it whispers, soft and urgent. "Stay under the covers. Bed is safe."
It insists that staying small equals survival,
promising that if I never reach, I will never have to watch myself fall.
And the worst part is how reasonable it sounds—
like a friend who’s just trying to save me from embarrassing myself.
So I end up arguing with my own head on a Tuesday afternoon,
trying to figure out where the honest critique ends
and where the self-sabotage begins.
I haven't figured out how to make it shut up completely.
Some days I still let it win the argument.
But lately, I just let it talk in the background
while I get up, make a cup of coffee,
and do the thing anyway.
We were on a side quest. I wanted some cool, fresh
cherries to savor as we strolled hot Saint Tropez.
So we were in a grocery store, in the township,
I was pushing a shopping cart along the frozen food aisle
when suddenly my feet flew out from under me and I
took a hard, embarrassing, backward spill.
Peter was shocked - “What?!” He exclaimed.
One second I was up and the next I was on my back.
It was like a lightning strike or a film edit, I was like WTF?
I was in flip-flops and there was a puddle of water.
I was fine, if scuffed up - thank god I wasn’t in a dress.
I got right up, I mean I’m not a 90-year-old lady.
And after a second we walked on, only to be swarmed,
a moment later, by the store manager and his minions
- “Are you ok?” He asked, scrubbing his hands.
“Yes, I’m fine - no, I don’t want to fill out a report”
My left big-toe was swollen and bleeding - so no running
along the beach this morning - now THAT seemed weird.
I guess it was more of a back-side quest.
.
.
A song for this:
Helter Skelter by the Beatles
Trouble Me by 10,000 Maniacs
The deliberate hurt is
a wound never healing,
forgiveness may be granted
to that soul expiring;
and as the trembling lips
close, serenity descends.
To have loved such a person
would have been wrong, not smart;
nothing honorable and pleasant
came out of that foul mouth.
Some realize the demonic force
that was behind it to cause animosity
towards the kindest of hearts;
then is anger the curse of the unforgiven,
not to fully and sincerely apologize?
It's wiser to bear offense than to offend,
so that the guilt is not concealed inside,
but open to unfair criticism
rather than visual humanism;
and would one cope with implausibility?
Along our path, we may see roses...
smell their aroma and cherish their loveliness,
but beneath them there are many thorns
ready to poke those who rush judgment;
and they will bleed for not having been cautious,
or at least avoided the useless torment!
I have bled in my utter blindness,
putting everything at risk, sparing no mercy
for a quest to uphold my integrity
by being too complacent, and not showing kindness.
And ignoring that anger is the curse of the unforgiven,
I beat hard on my chest to feel the acute pain...
remembering the hostile voice putting me down;
embarrassing me of such a vulgar mannerism,
making me despise and hate any exhibited egotism!
The longest time has passed to shorten the brevity of compassion,
to make me aware that to have none is a denial of self!
Weep and mourn for shutting all doors on fairness, cruel soul;
sleep not, for remorse is a plague inflicted upon the unmerciful
who see themselves less useful than those discerning death!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
The days of old have a certain manner
The hardness of issues that sometimes matter
With shadows and echo's they bring up the past
The worries of tomorrow that grab and hold fast
Histories once worried in their day
Set examples for us to learn and display
News and stories the media has a say
To make us worry of how to go and which way
Gossip and rumors with whispers have a crave
Telling secrets and lies that send some to a grave
Speeches and announcements with mics engrave
Issues that move us to act with haste
Letters and notes in there own silent space
Tell their own story without the expression of a face
Whispers and signals tell secrets few know
Embarrassing answers from friends and foes
Thoughts and ideals may reach a dangerous goal
The evil of the heart when the damage unfolds
The wants and desires of ones secrets sold
The shame and mourning when the secrets are told
The judgement that follows eventually told
The way of ones thinking expresses their goals
The vile and the pure go their separate ways
The truth and the fiction will find the end of days