Long Inflammation Poems
Long Inflammation Poems. Below are the most popular long Inflammation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inflammation poems by poem length and keyword.
Today's world is such a mess
With evils integration
We see daily the list of lies
Beyond investigation
And yet above us flies the flag
That denies lies infestation
Taking us where injustice cries
Of greeds determination
Education comes disguised
As honesties demonstration
Using tools that often deny
For the sake of ostracization
Giving reason to the words
Of prejudice inflammation
Joining ideals of false accusers
They invent instigation
We ask why the cause of certain ones
to have this type of fixation
The reason given this time around
Because of there migration
Quiet goes the unaware
Given to hesitation
While even comes to the extreme
Of the livings extermination
The bridge too far has been crossed
With flagrant allegations
Leaders are chosen and given charge
Of wild extreme vexations
But almost goes to the cause
Of evils infiltration
Thanks to God for concerns
We find through Revelation
I've submitted this poem for consideration in a PTSD Anthology that will be published soon.
It's extremely challenging for me to talk about my personal traumas and PTSD. But, I hope that by writing a poem that talks about this and healing therefrom, my words can help someone else.
We have to give it a voice
By Michelle Morris
29/03/2026
There are these things we don't talk about
The childhood hurts and trauma that remain
Buried deep in our hearts and souls
Inside our bodies experiencing pain
We try to be the good ones
We try to move past it all
But until we allow ourselves to feel it
It's going to be like an emotional wall
Something we keep crashing into
Something that holds us back
Something that's dark and scary
Something that wants to attack
It screams in our DNA and atoms
It creates chronic illness and inflammation
It messes with our minds and relationships
Its only purpose is creating pain
But because we can't escape it
Nor deny it for too long
We have to give it a voice
We have to share its song
No more numbing or escaping
No more hiding behind the mask
We step forth into the light
And allow our souls to ask
When will you let her speak up?
When will you calm her fears?
When will you allow her to put down the burdens?
When will you allow her to free her tears?
All those childhood hurts and trauma
Those people who never understood
They're not part of your next chapter
You don't owe them good girl books
You can show your rage and anger
You can show your hurt and tears
You can punch a hole in a wall
You can let go of those evil years
But ultimately it won't change anything
Only self-love and self-care will do
Forgiveness of yourself and others
Acceptance of your truth
These things that you went through
You can choose to talk about
And maybe it will help someone else
Maybe it will clear their doubts
The healing and the clarity
The freedom to accept love and caring
To embrace a different outcome
To focus on our own wellbeing
For each one of us has demons
We live and learn and grow
We're here to embrace the light and love
Cure the trauma and dark we've known
© Michelle Morris, 2026
Hiroshima – seventy six years since August 6th, 1945
Once again, I take momentary pause
to contemplate horrific event
regarding unleashing atomic warfare
activating nuclear brinkmanship,
hence time to trot out a poem
written initially some years ago
courtesy yours truly.
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type
atomic bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with 15 kiloton blast yield
reduced 400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets,
the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay,
(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy six years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister
thermonuclear reaction
malevolent evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful
means maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only poorly be described
by this mortal with curable bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, more-so
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly
than those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface (think towering infernos)
temperatures topping 4,000°C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of sinister mushroom cloud
wickedly, ominously, and eerily looming.
Trust bleeds as a future forger,
created by sinister seeds
of the satanic sun
and poisoned pearls
of the malignant moon,
an infectious inflammation
blurring the vulnerable
voice of inner vessels, with verses
circling in ruby-smoked redness…
I rise exhausted, remorsefully
consumed in self-inflicted pain,
burning to feel the night choke
the last rites of hope ~
that the poetic pulse of the dusk
insidiously fingered
like a doleful dreamscape,
dotted with dark skin
of an elegiac requiem,
into this cracked conscience ~
for these scars of thinning light
serenade scented illusions,
as if every pause between
potent promises
were an augural omen
of an inevitable inconvenience.
I have been drowning in the seething
sea of an incurable illness,
a kaleidoscope of emotional suffering,
while this onyx heart
refuses the rhythm
of gothic romanticism,
and love is but a rainbow-colored rose
breathing in a crystal-kohl casket,
longing to be free from fears
and passionate threats of desire…
Tonight, I summon you,
my cosmic flame, O angel
who heralds the Lion’s Gate,
where Sirius sears
like the golden chains
of heaven and hell-tides,
to break me and teach me
how the loyalty of love
erases all depths of doubt.
I have known nothing but
the exhilarating path
to heal along the highways
where hurt runs in acceleration,
speeding through the streets
soaked in stressed syllables
of missteps stumbling over
ragged roads cemented in confusion ~
madness merged with mistrust,
weaponizing wounds with words
that cut like claymore flames…
So wander amidst weariness,
seduce me with mosaic metaphors,
walk me through
the cemetery of uncertainty
to reveal an eternity
carved with bones ~
unfamiliar with betrayal.
Bury the ghosts of raven thorns,
silence the cryptic ceremonial
bells ringing with paranoia,
reveal to me a translucent twilight
that speaks no dialect of deceit,
and let your skies hold no other
but my ink,
swathed in velvet r
a i
n…
Sometimes the kneecap is sitting in
An unbalanced way
This can cause the kneecap to slip out of the joint or
Put more pressure on the thighbone
When Jericho was with me on the peak
Of Mount Tai he fell to his knees
Causing bursa inflammation
A common type of knee injury of football players
He initially didn't weep, but
I encouraged it
Medical benefits of crying have been known
As far back as the Classical era
Like a purgative, draining off
Releasing stress and emotional pain
I told him on that mountain summit
To think about poetry and he thanked me
It was Winnie the Pooh that set him off
The Fragrance from your flute
Wafting in the air
The powder of morning in your hair
And the Robins in their throat
In your smile clouds float
Red and pink layer
Golden alphabets stare
The river flows on
Sprinkled sun melts in water
Inflammation grows in laughter
Rush roar race reel recur
Empty boats wait for life
Stories seek a soft chapter
Your shadows grow longer
Polka dots on your blue shades
Tiny airy footfalls on grass blades
Pleasure returns in white sails
Boats are astir in water
Ripples and jingles join them
In the spread of the blue jays’ wing
A blue and white game
Sinking sun sprinkles softened sparkles
Dream like little orange splashes
Infinity sits in your eyelashes
Gradually unfolds the time of musk
You are the scented dusk
A full moon black and gold
The dark lagoon beckons
A tornado unbuttoned
In the lightening and thunder
Ripping asunder
The romantic grapes
Life yells and then melts
In valentine chocolates
Somewhere along the sparkling dagger
Picked from the thunder
The universe blurs
Until the eyelids are heavy
From the honey night
Of tipsy minds
Descending into the cleansing dark
Of valentine
For another daylight
For another delight
For another beginning
In the yellow and blue swing
Posted on February 12, 2018
for the contest: Romantic Poem
Sponsored by Silent One.
Note : This is a non contest poem of mine titled The Beautiful Corridor published hereon 15/02/17. I have edited it a little in the process of submitting it for the present contest, especially the last stanza.
______________________________________
Natasha will be going to Rio, most definitely,
Without a doubt, she won 2 golds in Belgium,
At the 2011 European Championships well tall,
In the freestyle grade II event and individual;
Then she set a Paralympic record no question,
When she rode in the 2012’s on horse Cabral,
To score 76.857%, and after that very elegantly,
Took another gold in the freestyle with vocality.
She was born in Hammersmith, busy London,
But when she was aged fourteen months only,
Got transverse myelitis, an inflammation spinal.
Baker was appointed MBE in 2013 for her gaul,
In equestrianism and for noting GOSH hospital.
In the quiet cathedral of the cell
where spirals of instruction hum like prayer,
we release our smallest surgeons—
bright motes of intention,
no larger than a whisper.
They enter like starlight through the bloodstream,
sailing red rivers and branching veins,
reading the language of damage
written in torn proteins,
misfolded memories,
and broken code.
They know where to go.
To the scar that never healed.
To the joint that burns like rusted hinges.
To the neuron dimming at the edge of forgetting.
To the tumor that learned the wrong grammar of life.
They listen for chemical distress calls,
follow heat and inflammation,
dock at the gates of injured cells
like astronomers landing on wounded planets.
They carry medicine on their backs—
enzymes, repair kits, gene editors,
anti-inflammatory lullabies,
painkillers measured in mercy.
They stitch torn membranes.
Sweep plaque from arteries.
Clear debris from synapses.
Coach mitochondria back into motion.
Rewrite errors before disease can speak its name.
And pain—
pain becomes a signal, not a sentence.
A flare, not a verdict.
The nanobots cradle the nerve,
dampen the scream,
teach the body how to breathe again.
They work in millions,
in quiet cooperation,
never tiring,
never forgetting their task.
And when the work is done,
when the cell stands whole again,
when inflammation lowers its flag,
they unlock their final instruction:
Dissolve.
Some exit through the kidneys
as harmless mineral ghosts.
Some are reclaimed by the liver
and folded back into chemistry.
Some simply disassemble,
returning to atoms and silence.
No scars.
No residue.
No trace but health.
This is not conquest of nature—
this is partnership.
This is learning the alphabet of the body
and writing it more gently.
Longer lives.
Stronger hearts.
Clearer minds.
Less suffering.
More time.
We are not replacing the human story.
We are editing its tragedy.
And in the bloodstream tonight,
a billion tiny physicians
are already on their way.
The body filled with inflammation..
A lightening bolt of pain
Shooting rapidly..
Body immersed in states of agony..
The mind dwells in slow motion..
As mind tries to digest agony
It tries desperately to overcome rapid shots..
Throbbing..
Pain delivered throughout..
The mind wrestles for combat..
In a war with pain..
An Invader had taken over ..
Holding back the fight
Holding back the tears..
Until the mind breaks into a moan ..
Lump in throat..
A waterfall of tears flow..
Cries of pain..
Cries of fear..
Afraid of the unknown..
Why is the question..
Spirit..
Spirit observes..
Sees the body..
knows the mind
Knows itself..
Feels emotions ..
As suffering is felt and known throughout
An expanded vision of all..
Everything that is..
The spirit knows all to well what the body says..
As the mind creates a barrier of protection..
The body is a temple..
The spirit is an eternal temple
Spirit radiates only love..
As all of our spirits glide
We achieve growth in experience
Of duality..
Joy..
Pain..
Burning flames of love spreading eternally..
In the end..
There is no end..
A continuation of love forever..
Hiroshima n Nagasaki – Seventy Five Years Since 1945
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type
atomic bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with 15 kiloton blast yield
reduced 400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets,
the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay,
(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy years years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister
thermonuclear reaction
malevolent evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful
means maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only poorly be described
by this mortal with curable bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, more-so
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly
than those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface (think towering infernos)
temperatures topping 4,000°C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of sinister mushroom cloud
wickedly, ominously, and eerily looming.