Long Ineptitude Poems
Long Ineptitude Poems. Below are the most popular long Ineptitude by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ineptitude poems by poem length and keyword.
bub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
I was bitten by my wrong choices;
Invited and enticed by my voices;
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
Of unfortunates that are decaying
chess rising WAIT this isn't NO game
My breath is wet; I'm drowning in shame
Lungs full of sin watering
Yet I'm breathing;
Still is neighing, still is neighing
I discovered the storms
blub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
~
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
'It's that grief,' I muttered sorrowed I was born
Death shall bring injustices
There stood a pivotal upstart
And so you came gently jingling (onomatopoeia) my heart.
And the core never minding disgusted
To warn me about the sadness
Somewhat louder than the kick start
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
I discovered the storms
'It's that grief,' I muttered
Death shall bring injustices
There stood a pivotal upstart.
~
And so you came gently jingling (onomatopoeia)
And the core never minding
To warn me about the sadness
Somewhat louder than the kick start
By the grave, I saw the ignominies
And the despair never anguishing
The desperate dissoluteness dismaying
Of unfortunates that are decaying
I have dreamed of the feelings
The sensitive smelling
All my soul within me telling
Much I marvelled this bittersweet heart
The ineptitude seemed happy portraying, beating heart
In there stepped a desperate loneliness, bleeding heartbeats
blub-blub tump-tump-tump-tump
6/22/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
The inner walls of that universe called a life,
Hold within not only the stormy seas of strife,
But serene mountain lakes where only silence reigns:
A master wall of rage with tears that come from rains.
The puppeteer on the outside whose strings employ,
Who tugs and pulls with little hooks the helpless toy,
Plays the fool for the fools who choose to blindly see,
That the mime of life is but a shipwreck at sea
Within the chambers we find doors but have no keys,
We are pushed by voices and tones that seldom please,
To do what we hardly want, to deny who we are,
Commandments to obey, dictates from stars afar
Who is in charge of the ineptitude of self?
What hands, by what right was this code typed in stealth?
In the audience a man stares at the puppet,
The muppet, with a grin, knows nothing can stop it
4/21/17
All humans made of bones and flesh it's true
Whether you do or don't have your whole life ahead of you
There's always going to be a test or two
During any treks we do
The sky ocasionally red and blue
At certain dates bills and rent is due
Objects straighter than an arrow or bent and skewed
Daily some using pharmaceutical meds and booze
And others that never do
Might've been at one point a friend to you
And now may be as good as dead to you
Better watch out before I pull off some tekken moves
With these lethal weapons you lose
By yourself or with a retinue
Focus on your own revenue
Work hard and eliminate any ineptitude
Among particles, debris and any residue
By: Dalton Ogletree
Heaven on earth
H appy are the people who
E xamine themselves, to understand if
A ll that they hope for is real, or merely
V irtual reality,
E xisting only in their minds and hearts
N otions of beliefs, seeds planted by parents or by culture.
O nly by understanding the true
N ature of humans ineptitude, can we have a sure hope.
E ventually, all the world will be a united brotherhood
A nd true peace will arrive with the coming of God's kingdom
R adiant health, a happy family life, resurrection of the dead
T o life again on an earthly paradise of pleasure
H appy is the day when the Lord's prayer will finally be answered.
"Let your Kingdom come, your(God's) will be done on earth, as it is in heaven" Matt6:9,10
John Derek Hamilton
August 05,2016
Ineptness / Ineptitude
The pen has become the tongue from which I speak.
Ink, the saliva, the driving force behind my words.
Paper, the wings upon which they take flight,
uplifting my thoughts, elevating my ideas.
Thoughts and ideas that might not have
– ever come out of my mouth – seen the light of day.
Grounded !, nothing taking wing, a voice that does not sing,
never expressing a thing, with any kind of proficiency,
clarity, depth of understanding, enlightenment of meaning,
as I stand before ?, choke up !, all coming to a screeching halt
– my train of thought, my boxcar of words end with the caboose.
All gets lost, before the moment lives, my death !!!
The death of all I set out to accomplish, but never doing.
This, my tribunal ???:
B. J. “A” 2
February 25th 2004
I plead indulgence for my ineptitude
if I seem rude, it's not intentional
You see, my attitude is dimensionally dark...
a painter's plight as daylight fades to night.
It's been labeled 'a fervid fever of fixation."
A calcified complication from the lack of trust,
but I refer to it as the hardening of the heart
as when love has rusted and turned to dust.
The glimmering galaxy is immeasurably immense
but I paint the constellations with pretense
as if Cumulus by day, hide the stars
just as the she-wolf hid Romulus and Remus.
A myth? Perhaps both are that, but...
I believe the clouds spill a thousand secrets
every time malicious Nimbus darkens
and releases his bothersome burdens.
The torrential tears he wept were secrets not kept.
I find no recompense in Van Gogh's 'Starry Night'
and wonder, did he seduce the stars without a script
to capture them shining as light in a lover's eyes?
The only sense I can make of the artist's work
is to view it thinking a torn canvas is two paintings
With oils I do not pause to paint over the constellations...
removing their shine as if they no longer exist
Am I guilty of robbing them of their glory
or is it their secret stories I wish to preserve?
Heavenly stars, if I've wretchedly wronged you
by extinguishing the glow of your luminance,
forgive me for dousing the spark of your flames...
for I am to blame and shaming myself
by melting my tears into your sweet fire.
What caustic contempt you must feel for me
when I fail to conceive the logic of longing.
For my painting I hold disdain as tears must rain
from the watchful eyes of Andromeda and Orion.
No finger and thumb shall ever frame my canvas
nor shall it be given a name, except for "Pain"
My head rests against my empty easel
I tore the painting in half before I could hear
the swooning moon taking pity on me,
forgiving me for my lack of trust in forlorn love.
Tonight, I'll watch the sky without moping,
hoping the Venus in me will welcome the stars
while looking over the shoulders of Mars.
We've all been crushed at being chosen last for a childhood game,
Feeling that our awkwardness and ineptitude were to blame.
We've all struggled to be loved and accepted by our peers.
At times feeling we don't matter is one of our greatest fears!
From the moment you "entered stage right" on this troubled earth,
The Creator considered you so significant and of priceless worth!
He delights in you, His exquisite and unique Masterpiece!
He is very fond of you - His love and care will never cease!
Etch upon your heart this phrase, "I'm accepted and significant!"
You are the apple of His eye - to Him no one is insignificant!
Even tho' He takes note of mere sparrows when they fall,
You are of much more value than a flock of sparrows, after all!
Tho' you may not be asked to dance and endure humiliation,
Perhaps 'twould be best to brook with grace your frustration.
Ever keep in mind when you feel left out and harassed,
That one day the last shall be first and the first shall be last!
When you feel meaningless and life doesn't always treat you fair,
Reach deep within your soul, call on Him and never despair.
Tho' some may try to kill the spirit, they cannot kill the soul!
Fear not, for He is ever nigh to encourage and console!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I've generally battled vulnerability.
I'm not even close to what I ought to be.
I notice myself faltering in the water alike a log.
Mr. Culpability, can you hear my pathetic blog.
I've been in anguish because of my apathy.
I don't notice whether I mend and gain some theory.
I'm similar to a plane colliding with the Earth.
Mr. Obligation, temper me in going girth.
My transgression was my erroneous gloss.
I've needed to stumble rather than be in progress.
I've been oppressed by lethargy for longer.
I'm tired of hearing "Morons" again and over.
Ineptitude won't sustain the edge unexpectedly.
Flightiness won't ever again hold the mastery.
1st place contest winner
Written: August 7, 2021
A Brian Strand 4 to 14 line Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Bricks from blood, bricks from the flood of Earth's mud,
bricks of clay, turf bricks, stone bricks, flesh bricks,
all shaped, treated and wrought in the furnace of Will,
texture of brick varies by material & method like animal behavior
projected to achieve certain results,
sometimes bricks are smooth or polished
or rough & pocked,
I have cracked bricks, large and small ones,
red & brown, white, black & beige ones,
some keep strong for eons,
some flake or crumble from weathering or ineptitude
some bricks I replace, some I repair or salvage
as birds reconstruct nests
ravaged by the tumult of atmosphere,
these bricks have personality, vitality, loyalty,
my bricks do not always withstand Life's bombardments
but they do serve their purposes,
I will survive where Jerhico, Constantinople, Berlin & Hiroshima ashed,
hut & hovel I have been,
pyramid & palace too,
a bakery, butcher's shop, and Baron's bastion,
a bunker and a boarding school,
always it is me,
a shelter of creativity -
J.A.B.
Glass-foot by Gabrielle Munslow
She kneels on glass.
Two jagged rocks, hidden—clenched behind her back.
Secrets.
Her mouth open,
not in benediction
but for unholy things.
He looks down—unkind.
She rises,
smashes the rock into his skull.
Hallelujah escapes her breath.
She was shackled to desire.
But her mind wandered.
Wrote verses behind her eyes.
Words curled in corners,
caught fire.
She fought back with poetry.
With flame.
2 / 4
Cracks in the walls led
to dimensions
where love didn’t mean pain.
Now she runs, barefoot,
through an emerald garden.
Blood blooms beneath her—
but the footprints are already there.
Red steps, pressed in time.
A grandmother, maybe.
A girl from centuries back.
A sister she’s never met.
All of them running.
All of them rising.
She follows.
She hunts strong women—
backs of iron, hearts of silk.
Midwives.
Witches.
Mothers who buried sons
3 / 4
and smiled anyway.
Daughters who refused to kneel.
Her beauty fades
as her memory sharpens.
Innocents,
and innocence lost—
handed down like heirlooms.
Still, the ground moves.
Her heart grows with every mile.
A smile flickers—
almost reaches her eyes.
No longer servant
to his ineptitude.
His song: a siren’s.
Her reply:
a battle cry.
She tears through this false world—
plastic wrapped tight
around her face—
and breaks through.
4 / 4
Breath.
Real.
Her own.
Not just air.
Light.
Love returns,
not a lesson,
not a burn.
But warmth.
Legacy.
A beginning.