Long Habit Poems
Long Habit Poems. Below are the most popular long Habit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Habit poems by poem length and keyword.
Between Sundays and the week to come,
it’s Thursday wondering where the days have gone.
The flow of tick tocking the passing through,
when the rushing of the important is to pursue.
Days just disappear to wondering grieve,
while nights to sleep are to short to believe.
Moon tides smile growing full of restless sleep,
when that exhaustion only ask for that deep.
The tragedy about time that just perish,
when we cannot get hold of the now to cherish.
Taking life by the day that forever last,
so that we can celebrate it with a blast.
No more promises for tomorrow as hope,
and yesterdays regret a habit interlope.
Thursdays from Latin is Jovis related to Jupiter,
called the remover of all obstacles for the better.
Then as we know everything can happen,
on Thursdays even when you don’t know Latin.
Rainbow Nation
Blanca is white like beautiful snow in the Drakensberg Mountains
she snorted star powder past the perforated septum into her brain
Black as coal from the underworld mines in Mpumalanga Melanie
had her stomach pumped and purged while sleeping off darkness
Amber is coloured mixed race in the Rainbow of Nations her work
still paid in dop cheap vine that slaves her away in alcoholic trance
Arnav of Indian descent was hooked on dagga grown by the ocean
converted to heroin sold her frail body and skin for brown liquid sugar
Jacobus Bandele Lungelo and Bhavin shared needles and comfort
on the streets of Johannesburg flirted with disaster drug related crime
and their dealers cracked at the dawn longed for dust in the dusk
Drugs do not respect colour gender ability social class and religion
all druggies are equal with craving dependency not restricted to some
Now united in rehab like the state of the nation they all stood at the
table of mountains with one foot in the grave at the cliff face of habit
One day at the moment they now battle their demons resist the temptation
for only the time being from one morning away from the devious mourning
one drug line not taken one fall off the wagon shunned and avoided for now
They have all chased the dragon for far too long and imbibed with the devil
for so many wretched days and nights of delusion torment addiction and pain
Again once more each day anew their only chance to abstain one day at the time
A journey of a 1,000 miles
Begins with a single step
They say the first is always the hardest
But in time I've come to learn
That it doesn't have to be the first to be hard
Any step any time along the way
Can be a little harder than the one before
And sometimes it takes an outsider looking in
To step in and give you an extra push
To give you a little more strength
Or for someone to just remind you that you got this
He came into my life when I least expected him to
Kidnapped me to make me his own
His friendship, his kindness, his smile, his love
I wanted to steer clear of it all
But then I came to find that it was him
That opened me up to a whole new world
The fresh start I so desperately needed
He was the one thing I was sure I shouldn't do
But sitting here now I've come to learn
He was the best thing that could've ever happened to me
Fighting to keep my head above water
Trying not to let my own trials and tribulations
Bring me back to a place I'd been so many times before
And yet it seemed it was one thing after another
But then he came along and changed it all
A good morning beautiful text
Started my day with a smile
Something I hadn't done in while
But with him I can't be mad, can't be sad
He knows just what to say or do
To make me laugh
When I don't even wanna smile
And yet he always seems to find a way
So sweet and yet so frustrating
But I love every minute of it
I know I've said I love you
At least a million times
But with him I don't say it out of habit
I don't say it just to make conversation with him
I just want him to know
That he is the best thing to ever happen to me
And no matter if I say it a million more
Still it wouldn’t be enough
For him to know just how much I really care
But I'll spend every day
From now until forever
Trying to get him to see
Just how true these words really are
And to make him feel as loved and as special
As he has made me!!!!
My prayer for the good man
Save your soul first
If you have to save
The world
If the world
Is heavier than
You please cry
Or sleep
Why must you
Be the one to
Do for other
What is meant for all
Are you an alien
Remember you are
Human
Humans got natural
Habit
You really want to
Change that
Mr good man
How good are
You when you
See your own
Dying right in front
Of your eyes
In brutality
As your hear hear
Their sad loud
Voice from brutal
Torture
How good can you
Go
Mr good man
And please sorry
Did I actually said
I got a prayer for a
Good man
Please show Me one
With out a limit
I do it often,
drag a perfect morning
in through the front door of myself
and make it a reluctant guest,
replace its colors with my own
dour palette, drown out
its soft voice with noise.
It has become a habit, trying
to confine the morning's
width within my space,
hold its edges so it doesn't stretch
beyond my reach. Its freedom
is almost an anathema to me
for it exceeds my own.
How small my world has become.
The distance from one side
of myself to the other is getting
narrower, the little room left
is depleting breath by breath.
The light squeezes through
ever smaller windows.
And yet, as it came upon me
this morning, I was met
with a bright abundance
that had gathered at my door,
carrying forgiveness
for my habitual ignorance
and an invitation to step
outside myself, once more.
We went to Spain with a pot head
the son of a good friend of ours,
our families travelled together
towing caravans driving for hours.
Our son was the only one with us,
they took their own son, and his friend,
although their son’s mate was quite normal
their son drove us all round the bend.
At night the lads went out together
determined that they’d have some fun
but Philip, the lad who’s a druggy,
would take them where dealing was done.
My son Ron and Philip's mate told him
that drugs always damage the mind,
alas, Philip was messed up already
so just wanted to mix with his kind.
By day both his parents were lovely
but their son gave them nothing but hell,
they tried to control his behaviour
but all he would do was rebel.
He ruined their three week vacation,
there was little that they didn’t try
and Haley, his mother, spent hours
just sitting alone where she’d cry.
I’m writing this poem for Philip
to show him the hurt and the pain
his habit is causing his family,
just what does he think he will gain.
No one needs drugs to support them
or maybe some think it’s just fun,
even those who then stay clean forever
can never put right what they’ve done.
Ivor G Davies
Don't know what this guy would do
Without you peeps to brighten my day
You're worth more than all the gold in the world
Just to hear what you all have to say
The difference between a happy and sad day
Between sunshine and cloudy skies
With each of the loving words you send me
You turn my lows into highs
Happiness is free, it's there for the taking
Reach out and grasp the brass ring
Though some days we lose sight of this fact
And we lose our desire to sing
It doesn't take special talent or knowhow
We all have the ability to laugh
But sometimes though, life has a nasty habit
Sending negatives right off the graph
So when this happens, grab hold of the ring
Hang on for dear life, I implore
Till whatever's causing you grief and despair
Disappears and your faith is restored
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
s
t
a
n
d
i
n
g
where gravel morphs into
grains of sand
his curious eyes fixed
at a raven tap-dancing
with its beak.
the raven
doesn't ask why
the afternoon sun is pale
or why the air reeks
of wet stone and exhaust;
it only wants the shine
his coat unsuitable
for the January damp
the zipper stuck halfway -
a jagged metal teeth-grin
biting at his chest
he watches the commuters pass
their faces blurred
like charcoal sketches
pelted by cloudburst
he feels the weight of
his own shadow
a dark, heavy ink
spilled across the sidewalk
tethered to his heels by
a thin line of habit
he wonders
if he's the man
or merely the space
the man occupies
a hallowed-out shape
on a crowded street
waiting for the light to change
or the ground
to finally...
speak
“For he shatters the doors of bronze and cuts in two the bars of iron.” — Psalm 107:16
The foundry's quiet as a catacomb as I open up doors alone,
the furnace quiet in the back, molding cars still on their tracks.
Products of our previous toil, blood sweat, tears, and maybe oil.
Walking through a habit learned, do not touch lest one get burned.
Footsteps echo on the grates; I pass behind the tank of hate.
The lake of fire all contained, bound by steel and God's domain.
The water runs both day and night, keeping hell inside its shell,
for if the raging beast escapes, the iron bends. And the concrete breaks.
Stifling heat caress my lungs, within the path of grit,
it takes my breath and begs my soul—submit.
As I make my way into the yard, stumble on some steely shards,
skids and forklifts standing by; they look at me and ask me why?
The heavy doors announce a groan, the peace of man who walks alone.
The lights ignite the blackened pits, of auto cast and rust and grit.
And in the back, the beast awaits, the men of iron beyond the gates.