Long Forgetfulness Poems
Long Forgetfulness Poems. Below are the most popular long Forgetfulness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forgetfulness poems by poem length and keyword.
Under the mantle of night, full of hidden meanings,
Where stars dance their stories in silence,
There lies a world where vocations drown in shadows,
Children with grand dreams, trapped in dusty golden cages,
In the name of egalitarian humanism, they disperse in the cold wind.
Schools, temples of logic and unfeeling iron rules,
Bury geniuses under mantles of conformity and doubt,
Sacred callings, intoxicated by narrow ignorance,
Begin to perish, bound in invisible chains, under a dark sky,
In an orchestra of silences where the echoes of spirits fade.
Children, who once dreamed of universes untouched by time,
Learn to suffocate their wings of free thoughts,
Under the weight of the gray everyday and norms devoid of magic,
Their dreams merge with the dust in the old corners of rooms,
Where the light of the candle of knowledge struggles to guide.
Under the yoke of the official world, contemplative spirits groan,
Trapped in the web of formalities and mental closures,
Entire universes, swallowed by the blackness of daily monotony,
Wells of creativity dry up under the sorrow of indifference,
In a world that refuses to see the magic born from within.
Oppression begins in their fragile childhood,
When magnificent ideas turn into painful silences,
Geniuses wasted in vain, like dust on waves of unforgiving time,
In the name of equality, their freedom becomes a shadow,
A distant illusion, lived in a dance of shadows and extinguished dreams.
But in the deep darkness, hidden under layers of routine and forgetfulness,
There is a light that cannot be extinguished, only temporarily muffled,
In hearts filled with longing for transcendence and pure knowledge,
The song of silent revolt is born, magic revived from the ashes,
For the genius of truth, no matter how oppressed, always returns to the light.
Celebrity Dreamscapes
Washington
Wall Street
Hollywood
Nashville
Where regurgitation overflows
And Barmecidal bait boxes
Morph their delights by the hour
All the while
Gluttony's promised feast
Ignorant of cyclic famine
Awaits the pernicious fate-agent
Scouting to burrow like a weevil
The new crop of innocence
Trusting destiny to the winds of chance
Confident redolent success smells
French perfume
Garlic enhanced delicacies
Fresh tanned leather of opulent travel
Are theirs to have
How fragrant the illusory air becomes
The temperature of anticipated fortune's shift
Where once a round-shouldered indigent freshman pounded doors
Now seemingly triumphant
Unknowingly erect as a naked rose stem
With yesterday's portent of rich reward
Rapidly sheds its petals
Mulch for tomorrow's next planting
How fleeting the enigmatic feast of notoriety
Time's incumbent qualification
For re-introducing innate principals
Cautioning today's attention
Is but a requisite for tomorrow's elusive truth
Yet
Fearful of fruitless coming years
Too few embrace cognizance over
Fading Klieg lightsParty snubs
Absent red carpet entrances
A maître d's forgetfulness
Yes
The harvesting of one's experience
Might suffer drought and winds
Scattering past efforts
To but memories of dust
Rather than priceless benchmarks
To reveal the authentic self
Yes
Such a disposition may well make "Being" difficult and distant
Where the "take a number and be seated" readout at DMV
May well become a feared test
Where waiting
Becomes a ticking-off-process
Asking if one can hold onto the simpler distant past
Those surprising coming-of-age sensations
The first time rewards of libations' survival
The generous thank you once felt by the first kiss
And yes...
One's elation upon receiving that first driver's license
We think
We review
We ponder "what price" aspiration
Ambition
So often blind to trickery
Frequently stumbles upon start marks
Not meant to be
Distant finishing lines
Not meant to be reached
Still
One can take a number
And eventually hear one's name called
To be who you are...
Or not
We are born into the abyss of existence, like birds trapped in cages of beginnings,
we don't run toward death, but flee from the catastrophe of birth, hiding from truths,
survivors who forget their first breath, like a dream lost in the mist of time,
in each moment, we strive to forget the primordial cry that shattered our silence.
The fear of death is but an echo of the fear of the first light that blinded us,
a projection into the future of the shadow that accompanied us the first time we opened our eyes,
the memory of that first moment haunts us like a ghost in starless nights,
when the soul struggles to find peace in the turmoil of unfolding life.
In our intimate universe, we carry the scars of birth like hidden maps,
seeking to lose ourselves in the labyrinth of forgetfulness, to escape the memory of the beginning,
but in the depths of consciousness, that forgotten cry always resounds, like an ancient song,
reminding us of the moment we were cast into the world, naked and vulnerable.
We are prisoners of a desired amnesia, fugitives from a memory too heavy,
for birth is the catastrophe that opened the doors to an unknown destiny,
and the fear of death is but the shadow that dances on the walls of our soul,
a dance of shadows that begins and ends in the eternal silence of the beginning.
It is wise to direct your anger towards problems - not people; to focus your energies on answers - not excuses.
(William Arthur Ward)
If kept bottled up, a poison taken like vitamins,
this elixir will eat you from the inside. Ears
pierced not with pretty jewels, but allowed to be
stabbed over and over again with curses. Blessings
should have been returned, kisses for the enemy,
not for lips but for grace. Bitterness hardens
the arteries, the heart becomes a surgeon’s slab.
Anger
entered with close encounters, with flying spit
not holy water, with not the shadow of the King
but of a spouse, leaning in not for a hug, but
for elocution and effect sans affection. Forgetfulness
of passion as if you were an annoying passerby.
Still
you hold your breath after all the tears have puddled
around the bathroom concrete, almost losing
your sanity…repeat…repeat, and grace.
Enough
love left, your mind nearly slipped into the abyss,
but you pointed a dagger finger at the enemy,
the devil, and shouted adamantly, “No! No! No!”
and God
turned it all around, your anger buried underground,
your love melted your husband’s heart. Reverberations
of a sound mind go out…go out to all. Applause
of angel armies, the good guys, the surprise
of grace.
Kiss…kiss…erase the bad times. Good times roll.
In the thicket forgotten of deeply anchored thoughts,
Where ideas nest, across time and tailored spaces,
There I stand, guardian of the undimmed realm, the archivist of the flame
That knows not extinguishing in the beating winds of history,
Guarding the pure light that does not fracture from darkness.
Shadow does not frighten me, in the tumultuous whirl of the ephemeral moment,
The virility of my pen is the bastion safe from political venom,
In my fortress of books, ideas, and eternally glimpsed dreams,
A candle of knowledge, a lighthouse piercing the fog of despair,
And my intellect, a fleet that can quench the thirst of the abyss.
I am the knight battling the windmills of forgetfulness and ignorance,
At war with the shadows that attempt to speak of present suppression,
A country does not parade its grandeur in the fleeting plays of political stages,
But in the echo it leaves through a waltz of creative genius in the world's libraries,
Through art, science, and the poetry whispered by blossoming briar circles.
A nation does not stretch into the arms of death when it is defeated,
Nor embraces the poison when lords change or thrones waver,
But on the wings of those who walked through the subtle circles of thought,
They leave an endless imprint of the dream in the springs of eternity,
Weaving its chronicles, over centuries and wisdom its people grow.
And I, amongst waves of misunderstanding and barriers of indifference,
Submerged in creations that speak in languages only the stars comprehend,
I traverse the fine line between present and dreaming eternity,
I build from words a wall that no terrestrial battle can crumble.
I watch how politics spins like an old mill in the fickle wind,
But I keep my distance, with my quill dipped in eternal ink,
Agony and ecstasy, in a wondrous dance of knowledge,
Never forgetting that the sunrise from my mind is the rebirth of the world.
Beneath my intellectual hoard, with its invincible nature,
I warm centuries, illuminate unfoldings, and cultivate hope,
For, regardless of the whirlwind that beats at my gate,
I am master of my counsel and the dream I embrace.
Politics may haunt the streets and squares,
But the eternal plays in the laboratories of my tranquil mind,
Where I, the architect of this human sanctuary, undefeated,
Weaving eternity with my intellect, remain.
We always knew this day would come—
that life would pull us toward different paths.
Our destinations are not the same,
our ages different,
our cultures apart.
We knew we could never become one,
and yet here we stand,
having crossed so many differences
just to reach this moment.
Now the day arrives
to prepare for our physical parting,
even as our hearts remain quietly bound.
In this era of instant connection,
we choose not to blur what we had—
we choose to keep our love and trust untouched,
honoring them as they are,
as we continue along our separate journeys.
We know we can find each other anytime—
to say hello, to speak, to see one another—
and yet, for now, life has shaped circumstances
that keep us apart.
So we wait for the unfolding of our stories,
curious about the roads life will open.
Perhaps we will drift into forgetfulness,
or perhaps we will carry a gentle longing
Time alone will tell the rest of the story.
WHEN YOU ARE YOUNG AND
MEMORY IS HOT AND SHARP,
CUTTING LIKE A STEEL BLADE
THROUGH PETTY HURTS AND
THOSE ORPHANED GRIEVANCES
SEARCHING ALWAYS
FOR A HOME OF THEIR OWN,
THEN YOU MAKE A SLAVE
OF YOUR UNSEEN SOUL....
BUT NOT UNTIL YOU BECOME OLD,
VERY OLD,
CAN YOUR SOUL FINALLY AWAKEN
IN A SWEET FREEDOM, THE FREEDOM
OF FORGETFULNESS--
FOR BY THEN ALL THE POINTLESS PAIN OF
YOUR ONCE SUNLIT YOUTH IS LONG GONE,
VANISHED WITH LUST AND BEAUTY AND
THAT WILD FIERCE STRENGTH YOU ONCE
OWNED IN MUSCLE AND SINEW....
SO LIFE'S LITTLE JOKE IS THIS: ONLY WHEN
YOU ARE AGED AND WEAKENED AND SO
AFRAID OF FALLING, ONLY THEN WILL YOU
FINALLY FEEL FREE, FREE OF PAST PAIN,
FREE OF ALL REGRET, FREE OF THE FUTURE.
the silence of a breeze that takes our breath away,
captured by the moments of beauty's yesterdays,
recollections that can only live inside my aching spirit,
memories so fond i plead with god to vividly revisit,
all my strength, and all my courage to keep on pressing ahead,
intentional moments of forgetfulness, sometimes i choose instead,
to heal the pain and nightmares of deaths familiar knocking door,
for what i grasp, within my heart, is eternally there's more,
a reuniting so wonderful and beautiful i dream, to keep me sane at night,
to forget the sight, the nightmare escapes, gripping my heart from fright.
Form:
My mind is in a death cage,
Time plods slowly forward
Towards its logical end.
Yet I have to look back.
My cold body lies pale
On a cold marble slab.
Dark corridors of memories
Echo with screams
Begging for forgetfulness
Imploring forgiveness.
A library of thoughts,
Of fears and torments,
Of hope and love,
Of reality and dreams.
The reaper of grief has come,
But not oblivion,
As a collection of events
Of my past marches by,
Inexorable fate,
Depressive images,
Luscious dreams,
Shady deals,
Delectable delights,
Greed and compassion:
All vibrating viciously
Within my tortured soul.
Why can't my mind
Be like a barren womb,
That I might die in total oblivion?
Forget my past, my loved ones,
My hated ones, my friendly ones.
Let me aim for the morning star,
There I'll find peace and love.
There the Mighty Son was/is/will be.
Mercy Lord, my judgment is at hand.
In the shattered mirror of a distorted truth, we dance with misty shadows,
Stepping on thin ropes woven from lies and hollow hopes.
Greed, our gilded god, whispers poisoned promises in moonless nights,
While wisdom lies chained in dungeons of ignorance and fear.
Division digs trenches in our souls, separating us like an icy sea,
Unity is but a trembling mirage on the distant horizon of consciousness.
The sharp thoughts of the ego-centric mind cut like obsidian blades,
Leaving deep scars on the fragile skin of the silent heart.
Words flow like a turbulent river, carrying fragments of truth,
They clash against rocks of indifference and are lost in the whirlpool of forgetfulness.
We are actors in an absurd play, with masks glued to our faces,
Playing roles imposed by a society blind to its own madness.
The wisdom of the heart is a rare flower, trampled by the rushing crowd,
In the mad chase after plastic illusions and prefabricated happiness.
Reality unravels like a dream at dawn, leaving only echoes behind,
And we remain suspended between illusion and truth, vainly seeking the lost balance.
Oh, world of cruel contrasts, where light and darkness embrace,
When will we learn to listen to the gentle whisper of the heart amidst the clamor of the mind?
Perhaps one day, the thin veil of lies will dissipate like morning mist,
And we will rediscover the simple beauty of truth, hidden within ourselves.