Long Hamster Poems
Long Hamster Poems. Below are the most popular long Hamster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hamster poems by poem length and keyword.
running,
and running,
and running
on a spinning wheel
like an indefatigable hamster;
persisting...
on and on
as dawn creeps into
dusk's front door
and makes a backyard exit,
a dyed-in-the-wool workaholic
can barely move a limb
after slaving through
his graveyard shift.
he's finally home early morning;
body and spirit, exhausted.
with a cold brew in his hand,
he leans back
on his comfortable recliner
and takes a big gulp...
a h h h h ! ! !
temporary freedom
from back-breaking work
never tasted
so refreshing!!
he's earned his right
to be blissfully idle
throughout the day.
he's got hours of sleep
to catch up on!
Aside from transparency there's
nothing clearer than
words at their best
We're consumed by most of
what we see
& digest everything
religiously
The belly of the beast is
full of enmity
because of its emptiness
even though it feeds
ferociously
The atrocities we witness
at its behest are
nothing short of animalistic
which only feeds our
animosity
Oh the hypocrisy we endure
in order to secure
our place on the hamster
wheel
The rat race leaves us all
reeling in the end
& left wondering
if any of it was ever
real to begin with
Ironically this marathon
we call life
no matter how tiring
& treacherous
benefits us greatly
in the long run
It began before you'd
even begun
to consciously realize
where you were
or had come from
If nothing else take the
exercise & lessons
in stride
without running
from beasts
posing as sheep
Don't let the wool be
pulled over your eyes
as there's enough
blind being
led to the slaughter
We're all sons & daughters
of the most high so
hold onto your faith
even in faithless times
These faceless rhymes are
not only a sign of
the times but also
a message from him
to read the signs before
your eyes
Wake.
Commute.
Work.
Repeat.
They call this living?
I call it the hamster wheel—
spinning faster each year
while the cage only shrinks.
Three jobs to afford one roof.
Two hours of daylight between shifts.
One life slipping through fingers
calloused from climbing ladders
that only lead to more ladders.
We've normalized exhaustion,
wear our burnout like medals of honor.
"Busy" is our battle cry.
Our worth measured in productivity units,
our time sold at wholesale prices.
We scroll through highlight reels
of lives we're too tired to pursue,
while notifications remind us
there's always more to want,
always more to owe.
They say "Rise and grind"
But never ask
what's being ground down.
It's us.
Our dreams. Our wonder.
Our capacity to stare at stars
without calculating their worth.
When did we accept that breathing
was enough to call it living?
When did we decide that survival
was something we should be grateful for?
I want more than to exist in the margins
of my own life—
stealing moments between obligations,
budgeting minutes like loose change.
Living is not this endless math
of hours versus dollars.
Living is not this constant fear
that one misstep, one illness,
one market crash
could erase everything.
To merely survive
is to be haunted by the ghost
of the life you might have lived
if you weren't always running out of time,
running out of energy,
running out of hope.
We were meant for more than this—
More than automated responses.
More than weekend recoveries.
More than counting down days
until we're free, at last,
too old to use that freedom.
So tell me,
when do we stop surviving
and start living?
When do we reclaim our heartbeats
from the timeclocks?
When do we refuse to measure our worth
by our economic output?
Because I am not a machine
designed for consumption and production.
I am flesh and blood and wonder.
And I want my life back.
I want all of our lives back.
This existence of barely making it—
it's not life.
It's a sentence.
And I'm demanding a pardon.
Right now.
Today.
Before the next alarm.
Before the next bill.
Before the next "I'll live later."
Because later keeps getting later,
until later becomes never.
And I refuse to call my one wild existence
a mere survival story.
I wanted
peanut butter and jam
But settled
for bread and butter
I wanted a puppy
but got a hamster instead
I wanted you to live forever
Until I wished you were dead
You promised me everything
it was always less than enough
You lacked imagination
I was never interested in stuff
Instead of substance you offered tough
Me not being understood was worse than rough
You bribed me with attention
so I would hang on every word
I was the invisible hopeful talker
who wanted to be heard
I waited for your pauses
Hoping for a say
But it seemed that you were breathless
morning night and day
Why did I think you were amazing
the true epitome
I believed in your greatness
the carefully constructed history
A lover of self a strange christianity
Your selfishness
became your blasphemy
Daddy, papa,
stranger, ghost
You gave little but wanted the most
I wanted to know you as a better man
You couldn't tell me that I could or can
succeed in life or truly stand
You lacked the ability to be that dad
All I could think was that I was bad
Still in some strange way,
you're the reason who I am and I'm glad.
My life didn't turn out to be sad
The ones in my life
Who I love and who want
I gift them with more than tears
I've learned through my years
the strength of my ears
By listening to hopes
I've alleviated fears
At times I've been their mirrors
By knowing who they are
I've helped them go far
They're better than famous
They are who they are
When someone is loved they feel like a star
All anyone wants
Is to be on the radar
So thanks to you
I'm seen in a way
Today, when it means everything
Things turned out better than okay!
Do not confuse
my compliance
with agreement.
My quiet is not
for your appeasement.
I’m trying to survive,
while knowing
my suffering
makes you feel alive.
I’ll never understand,
how pushing me down,
causes you to thrive.
Is there
a special taste
in my fear?
A satiation
of your thirst
that is quenched
by a tear?
How do you
see yourself
when you
look in a mirror?
Would you
cease to exist
if I wasn’t here?
I am
sucked up
by your need.
Your “Love me
love me” creed!
Your soul hole
is to big to feed.
You’re a human parasite,
or a deep rooted weed.
How much more,
will you cause me to bleed?
I am child
You hold
all the power.
An imposing figure
like a clock tower.
I am held
in your tick talk grip,
hour after hour.
As I grow quieter,
you become
louder and louder.
Now I make
my great escape.
My own new world
a different landscape.
The old me
hung out to dry,
like a freshly
cleaned sheet draped
I become,
my own Super Hero,
with a brand new cape.
Without you,
my strength grew.
I did not allow you,
to determine who
I should be,
or what I am supposed to do.
That part of my life
is finally through.
All the lies you
forced fed me,
none of them were real.
I didn’t know then
how I should feel.
You somehow
convinced me
you were a big deal.
Now you hold no sway
and little appeal.
I got off of
your mind controlled
hamster wheel!
My life’s now my own,
I stopped the steal.
I am reading Edith Egler’s book “The Gift”
It caused me to contemplate abuse at the
hands of my father. I wrote another piece
titled Eddy in which I tried to understand what
shaped who he became. I am not angry with
him anymore. He passed away over 20 years
ago. I must admit it was an important part of
my family healing.
What feeds a writer’s art?
Why feed a writer’s art
when the appetite’s clearly insatiable?
I think in stiches, rows, paragraphs and stanzas,
and I’m not one to undershoot a thesis.
I can’t seem to just write a paper for school,
I have to craft some kind of narrative
- it’s practically involuntary.
Last week was ‘All Saints’ school break. It was a week in France that, like fall, shifted the temperature - cooling the pace, so Peter (my bf) and I could take a breath and metabolize the changes of the past few weeks, where we both moved to Paris - changing schools and jobs. We’ve had big feelings - it was a lot.
Peter’s content with my tireless run on the hamster wheel of education - he has a PhD, so he understands the grind and my often prickly, acerbic and deeply abstracted school-day moods.
He’s on a steep learning curve himself, these days, living suddenly in an all-French world, where every sign and menu is semi-unreadable. We’re working on it - we’ll get there because his tutor gives excellent rewards for effort.
.
.
Songs for this:
Take On Me by Josh Whitehouse
Poor Boy - Nick Drake
Window - Still Woozy
.
.
*For instance , I’ll find myself trying to form a narrative, in response to a clinical case scenario, meant to demonstrate my diagnostic reasoning.
Sonnet: Duet (II)
by Michael R. Burch
If love is just an impulse meant to bring
two tiny hearts together, skittering
like hamsters from their Quonsets late at night
in search of lust’s productive exercise . . .
If love is the mutation of some gene
made radiant—an accident of bliss
played out by two small actors on a screen
of silver mesh, who never even kiss . . .
If love is evolution, nature’s way
of sorting out its DNA in pairs,
of matching, mating, sculpting flesh’s clay . . .
why does my wrinkled hamster climb his stairs
to set his wheel revolving, then descend
and stagger off . . . to make hers fly again?
Originally published by Bewildering Stories
Keywords/Tags: love, lost love, love hurts, loss, lust, impulse, heart, hearts, evolution, gene, genes, DNA, nature, actor, actors, screen, film, eulogy
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
No we may never have fought in a great war,
or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.
People wave to us, but few know who we are
and most on a good days run could care less.
Like the organ grinder's monkey from days of old,
we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.
We do a job few would even consider doing
and most would not even attempt to try.
A job burdened with ever growing responsibility
due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.
A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession
designated part-time by thoughtless administrations
that mouth how important we all are once a year
only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.
If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years
without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb
on the altar of a fearful self serving public face,
you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
The tolerant souls that routinely put up with
a few rude demanding manipulative parents
and their insolent misbehaving little darlings
just to be able to serve the greater majority
of decent well meaning thoughtful parents
and the precious treasures of tomorrow
they have temporarily entrusted to us.
Like a hamster running on a little wheel,
we go around in circles every single day,
but unlike the hamster we must summon
every instinct and learned skill to insure
every turn we make is executed flawlessly.
We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel
by the deliberate hands of a caring heart
and the many small souls seated behind us
that come to trust us not to make a mistake.
We are the one person in their little lives
that are not allowed to ever let them down
for neither of us may be able to live with it.
We are their school bus drivers...
I bought a little Hamster
To sleep by my bed
The very next morning
I found my Hamster Dead.
I took it back to the shop
To hear what they had to say,
Annoyed that my Hamster
Had only lasted for a day.
The man said I’m amazed
I really really am.
Take it home and boil it
It’ll make a lovely jam.
I did what he said ,
But what an awful taste,
I threw it through the window
Appalled at the dreadful waste.
That very next morning
An almost Wordsworthian scene:
Hordes of nodding Daffodils
Where my grass had been.
The man said I’m amazed
No, I really really am
Normally we’d expect
Tulips from Hamster Jam.
Get out of the rat race maze
By Michelle Morris
28/10/2022
There are so many jobs
Where you can lose your soul
They can make your burn too hot
Or make you turn icy cold
Like hell or purgatory
Stuck in grinding thoughts
You're a hamster on a wheel
A rat in a race that's bought
It can be challenging to deal
With the lack of integrity
Humanity at its worst
Psychopaths and evil deeds
Narcissists and egos
Power and greed and games
Sociopaths and divas
All lead to walks of shame
Stop.
Breathe.
Get off the hamster wheel.
Get out of the rat race maze.
Stop.
Listen.
Your inner voice and
Your guides
Your angels and
Guardians
Are there
For you
Now.
The Universe has your back
Your angels and guides are here
They protect and help you walk
Along the best path that's clear
The Universe has a plan
And you are instrumental
You have a special purpose
You have gifts for your ascension
Let your soul shine
Let your music play
Let your voice sing
Let your artist create
You are a miracle
You are a blessing
Do not let yourself get stuck
In a hamster wheel or rat maze obsession
You can thrive
You don't have to lose your soul
You can live your best life
You don't have to give them control
There are so many jobs
Where you can lose your soul
They can make your burn too hot
Or make you turn icy cold
But that doesn't have to happen
To you or anyone else
If each of us took a stand
And made the world a brighter place
Let your soul shine
Let your music play
Let your voice sing
Let your artist create
Live your best life
Embrace magic and miracles
Set the world alight
And inspire love and light and joy
© Michelle Morris, 2022