Long Interior Poems
Long Interior Poems. Below are the most popular long Interior by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interior poems by poem length and keyword.
We have a tendency to focus on our flaws, despite it being what makes us human; what we despise is what one desires, and what we desire is what someone despises.
I felt this way for years; I still do- the perpetuous feeling that I’m horrendous.
When I look in my mirror, I don’t see my full lips, my long lashes, or my hourglass; I see my short legs, protruding stomach, and my eyebags.
Yet people with those flaws are beautiful- so why am I not?
The answer is that I am; I am beautiful, I am worthy, and I’m not horrendous- I simply haven’t been able to process my worth yet.
It seems that each passing year, I reflect on myself, making those negative remarks, rendering myself as unattractive.
Though, next year, I’ll look back on myself and realize how gorgeous I truly was; though it’s not that simple to prevent those negative feelings from pursuing.
Does beauty even exist, though?
It’s repeatedly changed over time, and it’s quite subjective, which has caused me to believe that true beauty doesn’t exist; it’s simply a perception.
I shouldn’t waste my time trying to ease the perceptions of others; I should follow my own, because short legs, protruding stomachs, and eyebags are beautiful; they’re only viewed in a negative way because society itself is ugly.
If I abide by every standard of others, I’ll only feel regret, for my happiness shall pulverize.
If I create myself to be someone who is healthy and who I love, my happiness shall thrive.
Though these insecurities will persist, even with the most attractive individuals- they’ll always haunt you, whether or not you believe in yourself.
So I dissected myself.
…
Carving every inch of me until my insides are out; but when I do so, my organs look the same as everyone else’s.
Bathing in perplexion until I realized; we’re all the same on the inside- and as I try to stuff my organs back inside of me, I remember what people say-
See, I’ve been told before, just like anyone else, that I’m ugly.
People take advantage of others' sensitivity in order to ease their insecurities; but they’re morons who don’t know what they’re talking about.
They try ridding of their “flaws” by projecting it on others, though those rigid thoughts will always remain inside.
But truth be told, we all have the same interior- and..
You’ll truly be happy if you stop caring about the perceptions of others.
Slavery
enslavement
force of self-imposed ownership
overpowering another's ego-ownership,
anthro-morbid,
collective ego-morphic tolerance of identity rape,
fear and anger, together building hate,
from which enslavement derives;
a culturally camouflaged nondual co-arising relationship
of codependent despair,
self-hatred.
Enslaving force perpetuates Ego's full-blown angry reduction
in self-identity,
deduction of self,
as someone who could "own" another's Ego-healthy will
for equivalent freedom from my freedom
to enslave another's life,
exterior and interior.
Slave and poverty development owners
internally enslaved by our own hypocritical hubris,
swimming upstream into economically encrusted perpetuation
of cognitive and affective dissonance,
chronic anxious homelessness,
hopelessness that I cannot afford to be more co-empathic,
healthier on my own,
than we are together
on Earth's owner-ship.
Those nations,
corporations,
families,
individuals
addicted to retaining
and further developing
vastly disproportionate wealth deposits,
divorced from our own cooperative health and well-being investments,
not only steal from those without enough to thrive,
but also slink away from our own collective mental health,
anxiously fearing freedom's inevitable reparations,
struggling to repress awareness of nondual codependent enslavement
into entropic death of species.
Hatred combines anger about past with fear of future.
"Anger Management" politics might choose a more transparent therapeutic label,
"Hatred Co-Arising Suppression".
Decomposing hatred first breathes through "I am Anger,"
listening for Time's healing simmer,
then decomposing anger about past violations
to embrace rational fears of deadly toxins
enslaving equitable prospects for a healthy future.
It feels healthy to remember we are Anger
with ourselves
and with each other
before,
without sustaining against ourselves or others,
perpetuating enslaving hatred
for mental health stolen from those without sufficient wealth
to thrive
to feed
our own unhealthy enslaving greed.
Dispirited slavery imposes greedy unnatural ownership,
dreadful wealthy lust for power
co-arising with holistic health's decreasing power,
globally and personally,
without as within.
Very bad karma,
total lack of grace,
not our way to Win-Win race.
The human being
(also referred throughout history
as 'long pig' and 'hairless goat'
in the case of younger specimens)
Observing the anatomy and skeleton,
one can see that the human animal
after death young tender meat.
The large central pelvis and broad shoulder blades
also interfere with achieving perfect cuts.
There are advantages to this however,
especially due to the fact that the specimen girl
will weigh between 100-200 pounds,
easily manipulated by one man with proper leverage.
Controlled environments like institutions or jails before.
Health and diet to outward appearances maintained.
Humans are not very kind to the dead here it is why you are.
You are an unknown to me
thus subject to an enormous range of diseases,
infections, chemical imbalances,
and poisonous bad habits, all typically decreasing with age.
I personally prefer calm firm caucasian females
in their early teens.
These are 'ripe'.
But the saw varies from cut to cut,
and again there it is a very large herd to choose from.
The M.E.)
Medical Examiner will need a fairly large room and sufficient space
in which to work (an interior location is suggested)
and a large table for a butcher's block.
A central overhead support will need to be chosen
or installed ahead of time to hang the young body from.
Large tubs or barrels for blood
and waste trimmings should be convenient,
and a water source close by.
Most of the work can be done with a few simple tools.
Sharp, clean short and long bladed knives,
a cleaver or hatchet, and a hacksaw and ribspreaders.
Body Preparation requires plenty of water.
This helps flush the system,
purging stored toxins and bodily wastes,
as well as making bleeding and cleaning easier.
This one I will call Jane doe 007
was found at a bar stunned into insensitivity.
Sharp unexpected blows to the head put her at rest
quite is best, tranquilizers being recommended
If this is not possible without exciting the body
and causing a longer struggle (which then pumps
a greater volume of blood
and secretions such as adrenaline throughout the body
A single bullet through the middle of the forehead
exiting the back of the skull here did nice.
For what ever reason her companion is here right beside her.
Is is called murder suicide I think it is two suicides.
Whom ever goes last gets the cellophane wrap.
Since childhood,
as alexithymia struck my soul.
I kept all my hopes a secret,
hidden in a bucket of unshared dreams.
I kept my soul sweet like marshmallows,
but life has finally caught up with me,
Like a fast car overtaking recklessly,
leaving me behind in the slow lane -
and I'm running out of fuel.
I'm a vehicle of flashbacks from flashlights,
fatigued from embracing the old,
preparing for freshly brewed emotions.
Yet they deprive me at every dawn,
as new beginnings are always challenging.
Suffocating in this silent selcouth slumber,
life tries to call my bluff, when it knows,
I am the master of my masquerade.
My soul pleads with fate to usher me with belief,
but I can see death at my doorstep,
creating intrusive insecurities like termites,
eating away at branches of my sanity,
feeding upon my ordained Orphic glory.
Emotions are an interior mechanism,
so many remain fooled by my exterior,
but I'm tired of searching for salvation.
You who claim to love me,
gift me a scented candle made with your hands,
so its sentimental scent can bring me peace.
Take me to a place without a name,
without a label,
without judgment -
without suffering.
Unchain me from jeapordising January jitters.
Free me from meandering in misty meadows,
which have misplaced me in foggy morning sunshine -
bring me clarity.
These are not random thoughts, random poems,
because my ink is tired from trying to find new metaphors,
to supplement an abundance of alliterations,
portraying humble happy horizons.
Love can be a false emotion,
when we yearn for reciprocal ravishing redamancy,
but when was love ever equal or even fair?
I have no resolutions, just to breathe with ease.
Sometimes love's presence made me feel aesthetic,
but sometimes a badly drawn self portrait.
You can stay or leave, but do come back,
hold on, but not too tight that it chains my wings.
When I ascend, please, miss me,
so my spirit flies back to you.
Can you not see the irony?
We accumulate many reasons to die,
but search for only one reason to live.
Ask yourself which oxymoron are you?
Dying to live or living to die?
*Alexithymia
A person's inability to recognise or describe ones own emotions
* Redamancy
a love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you; the act of loving in return
Misshapen limbs of the Palo Verde trees add an artistic touch to the landscape. While
Honeysuckle twine about the old rail fence and the spiny Ocotillo flash scarlet plumes.
Mesquite trees, older than the homestead, reach out and cast much appreciated shade.
Saguaro's flank the hard packed drive. Desert poppies lead the way to the home.
Built of stone. Hand laid by calloused hands. Topped with thick rough hewned timbers
and clay tiles. The home welcomes all.
Windows sparkle in the late afternoon sun. Reflecting brilliance that hurts the eye.
Once inside, a coolness calms and refreshes. The native stone keeping the desert heat
at bay.
Beams hewn from the Mesquite adorn the ceiling. Stucco interior walls add a softness
and Spanish flavor.
Arched doorways lead to halls and bedrooms. Each with it's own distinctive fashion.
Soft beds with hand woven blankets. Each depicting a different Indian Spirit. Deep set
windows to let in the cool breeze of spring and fall. Thick draperies to block out the
summer heat and winter cold.
The kitchen, sparse and utilitarian. A soap stone sink, slate counters and open faced
cabinets. dried herbs, onions and peppers hang from hand forged hooks. As do the
pots and pans used to cook simple fare that fills the belly and warms the soul.
A blue speckled coffee pot with a chipped spout is always on the newfangled gas stove.
The old woodburner sit as before. Used in winter to warm the kitchen and bake the
daily bread.
A place of gathering, is the plank top table. With it's brightly colored cover and always
full cookie jar.
back in the main room is a beehive fireplace in the corner. It's bulbous form giving
character to the otherwise plain room. More exposed beams extol the strength and
longevity of the home. While wood and leather furniture offer comfort and rest.
Beautiful hand crafted wood cabinets and shelves hold antiques found on travels.
Shadow boxes hold arrowheads found on desert hikes. Pottery from the local tribes
finish out the decor.
Homes like this are becoming extinct. To find souls who appreciate it's honest design
and accept the happiness that simplicity can bring, is becoming rare. I am one of those
souls. My search is on going to find my place in The Valley Of The Sun.
Form:
The Question, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : La Cuestion
« …Oh ! God, Oh ! Centre »*
for Vicente Puchol
(* Note by the editor, Alejandro D. Amusco, attesting that the above quotation was not included in Bousono’s Antologia poética, 1976, and on the « mysterious Centre » on which the poem is a cogitation. T. Wignesan)
Yes, we know it : would you like to find the secret precinct,
the invulnerable enclosed sanctum,
to enter through any hole into the incredible spectacle,
to penetrate the labyrinth and find the powerful Centre.
As if a thief could rob the totality of light
to find, as I say, the powerful Centre, the absolute Centre,
the immobile Centre of the tempest which moves by itself,
a Centre where nothing is found to budge,
where everything is absorbed into itself, like love, containing
itself in itself,
not on its periphery, but fully wrapped in its contents,
overflowing like the apparition of a card in the suit of Spanish cards,
like an enormous cup of manifestation which augments,
like a wave which continues to mount higher and higher and beyond
its highest limits,
farther yet than possibility’s horizons ;
and keeps growing afterwards, going on for days, and the spectacle of its extermination – the hideous knowledge and the joy of recognising its loss ;
and which continues growing for an immemorial duration in the
direction of its own centre : terrible,
like a persistent cascade pouring down its interior, a flooding within
the experience of feeling well in one’s being,
an existential waterfall without end which retracts - having stopped
flowing – inwards into its own Centre.
Ai ! The crucial question is therefore to enter the labyrinth,
The big question comes down to making the move.
Be warned that it is only an act of penetration,
a simple act of transfer ; it would suffice to make a gesture with an
idea that brings joy,
perchance it might suffice just to find water in the barn
or a path in the woods, or in the woods
to fall upon an exit
through the hole (where we came in), to proffer with the key to the
enigma
the solution of the charade,
and discover the other side of the abysm, the reversal of the plot,
before the roof deteriorates
under probing fingers…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Famous Last Line
ORIGINAL POEM
(Loveliness ---Acrostic)
L~etting out a gasp, the young man stared at the pretty face.
O~pening the curtains, he noticed a
V~evil covering the beautiful
E~nearing visage of a young
L~ady who sat upon purple velvet cushions.
I~nite resting was the decor of the patterned interior of
N~eedlework with gold and purple threads.
E~nursing that the horses were well fastened, the footman
S~lid some cushioned steps before the carriage doors;
S~o that this adorable lady may step down. How gorgeous she looked!
NEW POEM
Famous Last Line:
"So that this adorable lady may step down. How gorgeous she looked"!
(Romanticism)
An adorable lady stepping down from the carriage,
How gorgeously stunning she looked!
Mesmerized and in awe, dumfounded and tongue-tied,
The young man stood as though in a trance.
As is the custom of the 1300s, it was "proper" for
This lady to wear a veil over her beautiful face.
Sid, the love-afflicted well clad gent,
Was determine in becoming the lady's beau.
The Footman having gone for a stroll,
And exquisite stores being opened to peruse,
The lady shopped to her heart's content;
Thus leaving Miss Antasia to carry her parcels.
Seizing the opportunity, the elegant gent
Gallantly stepped forward and offered to help.
Eying him under long lashes, esh curtesied as he bowed;
And allowed him to take the parcels out of her hand.
The carriage doors now locked gave Sid the chance,
To woo this sweet lady in becoming his bride.
What a romance was this tetetet, listening to words,
As Sid leaned against the carriage ardently serenating this maid.
He learnt her name, where she lived and how important her family was.
She in turn found out he was a banker and owned almost half of the towne.
Soon the families were merged, and formed a lasting business bond for all.
These were the days of Romanticism, the American way of yesteryear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Famous Last Line - Poetry Contest
Poem Title: Famous Last Line.
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Contest Deadline:
3/26/2016 at 12:00:00 AM
Instruction: "Please include your original entry, followed by your new entry."
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>>1111>>THE AWAKENING SPIRIT<<1111<<
My analyzing subconscious telling me I have minor confidence in our people,
Full of resistance as high as church steeples,
Heads in the sand uneducated sheeple lost their ability,
Try this with consonance, question our existence,
Get it together and try it this very instance!
Neglected, Infected which brings great drama,
Buddhist monks call this negative karma,
Equip your mind with true armor,
Receive the weapon of writing stamina,
This isn't imaginary fiction,
This is an awakening conviction,
I'm trusting inner guidance for direction,
Taking my hand, introducing me to my pineal gland,
Connected to my tribal land,
I have found expressed to me internally in a sound,
Never contemplating turning around.
Find your way,
Stop listening to what government leaders say,
We need unity instead of broken community,
Unite and open up your vault,
Lets start a revolt,
But in an era of fear,
The average man inferior,
Never looking at their own interior,
Let me explain, in this society of personal gain,
It will make a human go insane,
Wealthy flying around in a private plane,
They have turned down the wrong symbolic lane,
You thinking i'm insane? Your thoughts are coming out in total vain!!!
I'm just a brother with a live spark,
With an inner vision destroying everything lurking in the dark!
A half cast mixed identity given the European surname Clark,
But I don't care, I have nothing to fear,
As I steer my life consciously aware I see clear,
Always near a book, that’s another place you gotta look!
Rookies thinking they're awake, but most cant find the time,
In psychological denial with excuse's saying its validly fine,
Working class living,
Resulting in limited self education receiving,
Which is the highest level of sinning,
In the beginning the universal consciousness was bringing,
What today I am seeking,
Connecting conscious thought together, Forever,
But individualism causing a crash of disconnection,
A world wide collapse bringing stagnation,
This is an invitation to break this current way of civilization,
Go back in time within the mind to make the connection,
Then you will receive true knowledge in a healthy neuron collection,
Listen to what the awakening spirit is saying!
Wordsmithing and living
are like communicating and loving
through a camera lens
when you could just lay down your language-camera,
to step into face-to-face space,
rather than stepping aside from present co-arising,
co-relational empathic moments of opportunity
and co-gravitating issues,
to choose instead to speak
sing
dance ex-cathedra
In what is an increasingly accessible
rhetorical climate moment,
but decreasingly LeftBrain reading
writing
rithmatic tic tic
emptying-out
echo-palace for noble and graceful
and unpaid poets
Our sageconomist gods
and musecologist goddesses
with their anthroprivileged sacred meanings
and mundane busyness purposes,
to chat amongst our win/win selves.
Only nature photographers
and soulful philosophers
take muses seriously
as performance artists;
not just under-commodified
and over-domesticated
giants of useless
unentitled industry.
Sacred ecology smithing
and synergetic economizing
are co-nutritional communication and deep life-loving
through bicamerally reiterative lenses
of Left Interior Ego Landscape
ecohosted by Elder Right Exterior MusEcology Landscape,
therapy for regenerative planning and development.
In EarthParadise
poets rule Interior Ego Reigns
while permacultural ecotherapists co-evolve governance
of Exterior CoOperative EcoClimates,
politically egalitarian
as economically co-op driven,
ecosystemic space/time synergy
here/now win/win balancing
confluently elational body/mind
neurosystemic energy;
learning to speak in mindful face to face
paced time '
and algae-surfing seaside rhythms.
Writing without experience,
outside experience,
beyond and abstracted from context contenting experience,
already takes God's active-verbal name
in panentheistic vain
pursuits of beautifully affordable correctness,
omitting primal wild
dipolar dialectic revolutions,
complex fractal-spiral regenerative icons,
metasystems of time's unfolding reformation
with fertile refolding eco-function,
flowing back to Golden Elixir,
Rule,
reproportioning Ego/Eco-Balance
face to face
Here in Now
like flowing river water identities
in salt surfing seasons
Of Earth empowering deep ego energy
in synergetic Sun's wide
wild museco enlightenment.