Long Imperfection Poems
Long Imperfection Poems. Below are the most popular long Imperfection by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Imperfection poems by poem length and keyword.
Ronaldo, The New Emperor
It is news in Portugal: the footballer Ronaldo has won the Golden Ball, highlighting his importance in modern sports culture.
And the country rejoices. After Eusebio died, a new emperor was needed,
a hero people can look up to, one who can continue the people’s culture....
Football!
This is modernity: technology, instant messages, and the global reach of sports like football are shaping society.
Down to a game of football and a TV that has commentators who cannot stop
Talking about it. The mind appears not to expand as modern skill does, oftentimes it does.
A Little behind the days when people asked why rivers tended to run into
Luckily, they lacked the skills to make rivers run faster.
Straighter shaving off curves and circles.... The reason we live in relative peace
Has to do with what great thinkers thought and wrote about, and influenced our
In our imperfection, we looked up to the stars and asked questions, a curiosity that.
Modern mass media and sports have made us multicultural and interconnected, shaping a collective cultural identity that unites us all.
In the end, life is a game of soccer, and a football has no corners.
Sweet Tupelo moments when that summer did swell
Ever so quietly reminiscent of the roses constant bloom
In the halo of joy's affection strewn by winds that quell
The silence of imperfection between hearts failing gloom
We adored the touch of skin and smiles that delight
Shadowed in longing dreams of passion's tone and fervent heat
Belied in parting words of summoned sorrow and sullen spite
Our uncertain bridge lay broken as we crossed in our retreat
Hope has no direction when the deed has spoken it's flower's doom
Our lies set free from truths rejection help our hearts to mend
But ever so quietly reminiscent of the roses constant bloom
My heart still feels those times of warmth for love to begin again
April 11, 2020
Racists beat some other racists, bigots hate some other bigots
Gunman kill some other gunman, thieves deceive some other thieves
Politicians of both parties share the views that must divide them
But they hate each other madly, cause the people love this circus
And they do the show on purpose to get votes and fly away
No fanfares for the common in the search of sheer perfection
There is so much imperfection everybody can’t believe
They are multiplied one person, cloned from a forgotten sample
On the basis of resemblance they can’t tolerate all that
And they give a deadly fight to the copies of their type
Would you like to join the battle or its better just to watch them
Sitting in the comfy armchair, thinking of the cloudy sky
In the world of competition I don’t have enough ambition
I don’t want an expedition to the jungles of the lost
I’m incurious for nation, immigration and salvation
Give me less of variation, and lets finish on this note
I’m a mouse of every fable eating crumbles from a table
Drinking tea and playing rummy in the middle of the night
I’m a line in cubist painting, broken down and nearly fainting
I’ll be happy just to vanish in the damp of morning air.
Soiled soul salvation, that's what I'm hoping for.
Can these bent bones of endless sin
fit through the eye of a needle and
straight into heaven? I like to think so.
Heaven is where the saved and forgiven go
When they're finished bottom-feeding from this poison fishbowl
so, I've read -so I'm told.
What we have in common is that everyone wants to know.
If there's life after this life, where will we all go?
Does the wind blow there, are there flowers?
Will I be skinny and fly in my sunny self or flounder fat and cold?
Does our chalky soul hit a black brick wall of nothingness
and whisper... "is that all there is?"
Doesn't there have to be a reason for joy and mayhem?
From one cell to a trillion stars never reached.
Rocket ship wishes and poor man's ambition.
The blind, inbred offspring of ego and technology.
Maybe I wasn't the best candidate to gift life to...
Didn't pray efficiently.
Too many insults and rough edges.
Not enough tender moments. Not enough praise for others.
Not enough thanks.
In all honesty, I'm just a fraud making black fog,
A skunk man with impeccable imperfections.
I've mastered the art of imperfection
As a Matter of truth, I invented it.
That in itself has a type of absolute worth.
A purity worthy of a lesser realm...
Soiled soul salvation.
Can a bent freak fit through the eye of a needle?
Straight into the foyer of heaven.
Maybe I can slither in the back door...
Soiled soul salvation, wishful thinking.
I'm praying for soiled soul salvation.
grief— posture stiffened
blurred disheartenment
the visage of subpar
staring back, hopeless
guttural midriff reverberations;
sighs, tolerating platters
ultimately grasping—
everlastingly out of reach.
fury— condemned to observe
perfection elsewhere, nevermore
my own, imperfection a bitter
aftertaste of juxtaposition.
perpetual torture,
sickening phobia that
I slog a laughing stock, a
blissfully ignorant jester.
envy— offhandedly able
to swagger, bareless upper half
devoid of inner critique
waltzing a cruel shape.
Yet shackled slithers of
short-lived contentment for I,
unchained humiliating realization
that all click and stare mockingly.
anguish— social gatherings,
stuffed faces converse heartily.
nibbling, flavours burst,
overwhelming explosions
from bare toast. bated
belly hoping that it
can cherish too, but
terror. to the surface afresh.
futility— monotonous drones
“it does get better”
void promises, attempting
to blanket stark reality.
a piece of cake for them,
ironically unfortunate.
my stomach doomed to muse
what cake even is.
weakening, my mind asks me
“will it get better?”
as my bodily systems
shut down one by one
it never hears me
utter my response
just the empty grumbles
that never get cared to.
Seems so surreal...billions of beings
held in place by invisible forces
atop a giant spinning orb
dependent on the charity of
mother bird's star warmth.
It's a golden time for Earth and mankind
conceiving and evolving, creating
mastering fantastic things.
Flying machines and curing diseases.
Searching for the key to the speed of light.
Unwinding the helix-dreaming in spacetime.
Ego, as an algae bloom, enters the gilded room.
Disturbing the divine and pure nature of things.
Warring and serial raping...rinse and repeat.
Mankind so volatile, so violent, so unkind.
Careening toward another mass extinction.
The beginning and ending deeply set in scripture.
Trimmed and encrypted, whittled down to imperfection.
With an ungodly amount of editing in between.
No wonder mankind seems detached and indifferent.
Mother bird star warmth will remain.
Long after the golden tide of mankind subsides.
She'll pulse her warmth to the next icy orb...
Hopeful that grace will finally overcome ego.
Yes, there is perfection in imperfection, case in point, the Human Being. The perfect human carries too the mistakes of the past. Everything that challenges him, us, to stand in the storm of life, the good and the bad. Standing there, cold and bantered about, yet with a determined eye, continues on to complete his mission, and raise up the whole race! True here on earth we will lose our lives, yet we may find, that loss is of great value, and treat it with respect. For the storm of life, leading to our ultimate demise will bring about a peaceful resolution, known throughout time as...the Kingdom of Heaven!
She knows every member of her beautiful family,
and she's eager to call each of them by name.
She knows their gift and how to best use them.
She calls the ARTIST to beautify the landscape;
to paint those golden colors of leaves in the trees
that overwhelms us with the wonders of God's creation.
The season of Autumn reminds the TREES that their shady
chores are done and beckon them to release their leaves
to be blown in the wind, creating scenes and signals of Fall.
She waves to her gentle giant in the sky and whispers words
of calm and poise for the SUN to lower its temperature. She
calls upon the ATMOSPHERE to create the feel of a holiday and
festivity; to unveil the spirit of gratitude and merriness. she
acknowledges imperfection and apologizes for deadly storms.
100522PSCtest, A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry
As it is feature of choleric personality,
I was often hot, dry, and fiery in totality;
Speck like small imperfection is enough to flare me up,
My temper got agitated like hot tea in steel-cup...!
Single word or deed of annoyance of any neighbor,
My aggression tried to pierce them like a sharp-edged saber;
I tried to alter my accommodation from that place,
And ran to far places as though seeking heavenly grace...!
Facing situations was like falling into a sea,
Art of swimming and saving self was far off dream for me;
Running from realities like cat chased by unknown dog,
I only try to hide, like the mechanical well-frog...!
Wealth and peace of mind spent like cheaply sold-out antique coins,
Fatigue and stress and strain and pain spreading from chest to loins;
Like an athlete missing his track owing his deception,
Body-mind-balance should have been my inner perception...!
Like Cane, did my nomadic roaming, grant me inner peace?
Did abandonment of neighbors and friends my tensions ease?
Did city's faceless crowds my self-identity increase?
Why then, instead rubbing shoulders, my progress did I cease...?
The maternal home I left, on nature's lap, was peace-filled,
With plenteous plants, trees, flowers and fruits soft rhythm-thrilled;
Isn't fleeing from such mysteries my mortal madness?
Isn't moving with their melody life's constant gladness...?
11 November 2022
I chose to run, but had I stayed, things would have been like Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Part Three
Some people love you so much that you feel you don't deserve them - that they deserve better. Will I ever be the person someone thinks of that way? Thought of as a blooming flower of happiness in a desert of melancholy?
Do the things that make you happy, they say, so you can sleep tight. But you mean keeping up with others' expectations, making them happy, so you can sleep tight. Yeah. That's why I sleep tight.
No matter how much one cries for love, it's never enough. Your eyes may grow tired and stop crying, but the heart never will. It will beg for water, like flowers do in a hopeless desert.
Some things are perfect even in their imperfection. I'm sure I'm jealous of that kind of luck.
Have you ever worn your silence like an after-effect - the bruise left by someone's hurtful words?
If yes, then
Congratulations. You are a brave soul. There are people who never do that, because they don't want to lose even the hurtful words. It's the only undivided attention they've ever gotten. They're not afraid of the words. They're afraid of the silence that follows - the silence where no one is comparing them to anyone at all.