Long Irrational Poems
Long Irrational Poems. Below are the most popular long Irrational by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Irrational poems by poem length and keyword.
I adorn your flesh in trivial words and heat,
The quartz in each brushwork may deplete.
Ashy blossoms under shattered feet,
In the dusk, inspired by optimization accrete.
Deep-set violet eyes without a discreet,
Reaching clouds that cover your sight beat.
Seeking to deprive the tempo of greet,
Illuminating this obstacle isn't defeat.
When your sight is adequate to compete,
I shall entice you till our bones excrete.
Betrayals occur during the heat of deceit,
Overwhelmed in combustion entreat.
Salt from the sea is in tears and downbeat,
Inhaling every color of poetry may reheat.
I bestow my words to the shells of your feat,
Leaving blurry traces in my vision to meet.
You are safe and muttered during the retreat,
I am inhaling your irrational fear and heat.
Rose petals satiate voids in the heartbeat.
Written: December 04, 2022
If I were to listen to and accept the fatalist's speech
how could I humbly pray to God and to Him, beseech
that He help guide the path on which I should walk?
No, I could not, so I denounce such dour dogmatic talk.
I refuse to believe my future has already been charted
or from the first drawn breath my destiny had started.
If that were true, it would mean I would have no choice
over what I do or say, who I know, for I'd have no voice.
If I had to follow a blueprint, a program already declared,
consider me a robot, mentally and emotionally impaired.
That idea is an irrational assumption, so I shall abstain
from the concept of fatalism, and from its apathy I refrain.
What a boring life I'd have if I could not be spontaneous.
No surprises if every thought I'd consider, 'miscellaneous.'
My psyche would be an empty well, and how terribly unfair
if my heart had no free will to choose one for whom I care.
If fatalism was stark reality I'd accept fate without blinking,
and I'd wander in my existence without need of thinking.
I don't think things simply happen based on circumstance,
for I believe we are guided by our own designs and chance.
If everything was preconceived, I could never be emotive
and set no goals to reach because I wouldn't have a motive.
Fatalism is an illusory impression, a blight upon the mind,
and to that doctrine's point of view, I refuse to be confined.
August 14, 2022
This or That, Vol 13 Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Brazen blessings burn on like the arrival of the dawn
Elevated to the max
Lovely knowledge comes to mind
Impressive words of wisdom come and go…but, it should be here to stay
Empathetic vibes..
Venting
Encouragement
Intriguing,
Nostalgic thoughts bleed through me…entirely soaked in lullabies..
Brainwashed in my past sins…repenting in the present through thick and thin
Roam Home
And stay brave, true and full of dignity
Vehemently vibrant with optimism and pessimism combined
End the highs and lows — I want to be neutral and need His word to overflow in my mind into my heart and out of my tongue of life
Tremendous, yet turbulent feelings…flood…fervently…and…profoundly so
Remedy please? And thank you…
Unfortunately, I wasted too much time..but I’m fortunate to wait on His time frame…the clock is ticking by, tormenting me — can’t deny…
Eager to serve His people from on high
Dreamt of delightful dignity and compassion from on high
Intentions matter…irrational, icky, ill-tempered foolishness — wisdom is needed and whatever happens happens
Gracious glory matter too
Never-ending nymphs of notions flutter in my negotiable noggin
Isolate fear and include hope
Terribly terrific trials make me smile
You’re the one, running the extra mile…with me this time…
We've worn out yet another Anno Domini.
We're twelve months - if not wiser - surely older.
You call it a relationship, this boulder
which hangs about me like a Shi'ite's bomb, and he,
at least, can choose his cut-off point. From shoulder
to knee, I'm (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda
Meir, but we don't flow. We ooze. Like hominy
grits, turgidly. But denser. Stodgier. Colder.
Where once fizzed electricity, hums static.
The best and worst of me is best termed "womanly" -
irrational, irascible, erratic.
I'm sure my verse is worse. Tot up each billable
pretentious periphrastic polysyllable.
But you? You're spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.
You kiss my face and I turn to trace
the tracks you left on the ground;
where have you walked and with whom have you talked
in all of your traveling round?
You utter a sigh and I am wondering why
you just cannot slow down and stay;
capricious you are like a burnt, falling star,
fickle, and quick to betray.
One day you are kind, your fury confined,
the next, you are hostile and wild;
today a soft breeze, lightly brushing the trees,
tomorrow, an unbroken child.
I open my arms to welcome your charms,
but like a ghost you vanish and go;
my emotions are torn by the strength of your storm,
your inexhaustible, volatile show.
I release you! Go scream and follow mad dreams,
go blow to the east and the west;
you try to impress then insanely digress
your plan to pursue an irrational quest.
The day you are through, tame the tempestuous shrew,
come back to my warm, loving heart;
ruffle my hair with the breath of a prayer,
until them, my dear, just depart.
Copyright, August 27, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Rapacious Itch
It felt things coming,
The undeniable bottom feeder reality,
Where thought had no credulity,
Where irrational emoting ruled,
Void of mind’s prep,
Blind of light’s revealing purpose.
Such remained
This well-rehearsed and produced
Pulp life infestation.
It remembered…
Once many clambered to the marble steps,
Where dreams born of teachings
Promised delivery of reward.
But today…
All that is found
Is perpetuation of schoolyard practices,
Where bullying,
Mocking,
And “my dick is bigger than your dick” war-cries
Intimidate life’s playground with slippery slopes.
Down 5th Avenue,
Up Park Avenue,
The viral contaminants parlay their wears,
A far more contagious disease than Ebola.
And it knows…
Unlike a possible cure for a biological virus,
This consumerism equation seems without solution,
Given little of non-material worth remains
Visible on the species’ blackboard mess.
Today’s squirming parade of absence
Is dominated by the pounding of urban-warrior chests,
Of Armani jackets atop unlaced “made-to-look-raunchy” boots,
Ken Doll fantasies courting the strut of Barbie Doll dreams
Clicking attention with stiletto heels
Beneath ripped shorter than short-short insecurity.
On it spreads,
Past the Wall Street reviewing stands,
Where unlike the fickle nature of society’s infection,
Market makers understand a fever’s ups and downs,
Vulnerability’s capricious norm endorsing today’s
Debauchery fashion to Trump-taste,
Loudness to drown out worthy music,
Shock to shatter the true awe of discovery,
And the drowning of excellence
As it continues its desperate clinging,
All while mediocrity’s narcissistic sell-off
Creates another closing-bell windfall.
The pestilence holds firm its lock on discernment’s immune system,
Mutating daily into a mind-shrinking captivity,
A synaptic virulence rapidly rendering this once simple discomfort
Into an insatiable itch that will never realize its pursuit of “Ah!”.
Emotions are irrational and useless
They don't ask why, just leave me bruiseless
They fill my chest, then leave it bare
No warning signs, just silence there
I feel too much, or not enough
The soft turns sharp, the safe turns rough
My thoughts get tangled in the flood
And every joy still draws some blood
I want to scream, I want to sleep
Some feelings drown, some burrow deep
I laugh too loud, then fall apart
No reason—just a beating heart
The past comes back without a sound
I chase what’s lost, it spins me 'round
A glance, a word, and I collapse
Some doors once closed just never latch
I fight the tide with steady breath
But still I flinch, still fear what’s next
Not all wounds show, not all pain speaks
But it still burns in quiet weeks
A feint attempt to stab myself...
quickly found the missus ready to faint
Like a madman possessed
by mailer daemon lemme acquaint
ye with the following verse, I will bepaint
momentary horror, where yours truly
entered momentary third eye blind rage
loosing violent constraint
nearly thrust knife
into right leg without restraint,
which curtailed prospective martyrdom,
thus scotching, nullifying, denying...
me anointed apostolic saint
plus stripping christened name,
one Matthew Scott,
cuz he threatened to harm himself
invariably with permanent
leg a see did taint
moment of spontaneity
instantaneously vanished without a trace
when irrational brandished
white as a ghostly corpse petrified wife,
who merely felt playfully frisky
I haint kitten,
yours truly reflexively reached
for paring, quartering,
halving deboning, cutting...
said kitchen utensil
nearly sabotaged marriage
finding zee spouse suddenly widowed
(never writing last will and testament,
nor in fact ever drafting first)
as husband almost pitched himself
into wuz bin realm
courtesy short nasty brute
mine generic doppelganger
harkening back to dem good ole days,
when regular altercations occurred
heralding grab regarding lovely bag of bones
birds of prey didst carrion and buzzfeed
scavenging any shred of wedded bliss
which auld lang syne times
well nigh witnessed fisticuff strife,
though these previous half dozen years
considerably less rife and riddled
with expletive strewn epithets
that cut sharper than a dull knife.
Momentary loss of reason
every now and again
finds me skull comfortably numb
just another brick in the wall
reckoning, we don't need no education
acquiring diploma courtesy
hard skool of knocks alumnus
attests he experienced
arduous, horrendous, opprobrious, and venomous
environment pinterest tingly linkedin
with congenital predisposition to anxiety/
panic attacks in toto
enroute visiting Wizard of Ozzy Osbourne.
Depart from your accustomed
typically usual routine.
Specialize in being a generalist.
Immerse yourself fully in the whole entirety
of the complete volume.
You’ll be surrounded on all sides
by a myriad and multitudinous plethora
of permanent and long-lasting linguistic verbiage.
Feel like a pedagogical school teacher.
Have an impactful influence on events.
Fly above the earth.
It’s deceptively mendacious,
and fine as French champagne!
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In the labyrinth of the mind, where shadows dance on the walls of consciousness,
I see humanity ensnared in the web of its own impotence, a sea of unripe souls,
Floating on waves of incomplete reason, clinging to ancient myths like life preservers.
Idols rise from the ashes of rationality, statues of smoke and mirrors reflecting only fear,
And humans, eternal children before the universe, bow at altars of paper and metal,
Seeking life's meaning in the empty eyes of false gods, while their own souls cry out mutely.
Irrational passions simmer beneath the thin veneer of civilization,
Hate, envy, revenge - monsters hidden in the caves of the heart,
Struggling to surface, as man dances on the precipice of his own being.
Power, money, the sovereign state, the nation - new idols raised on humanity's pedestal,
Shine blindingly, covering with their golden veil the teachings of the wise,
Buddha, the prophets, Socrates, Jesus, Mohammed - voices lost in history's clamor.
Jungles of superstition grow wild on the ruins of great teachings,
Trees of ignorance stretch their branches over once-fertile gardens of the spirit,
And man wanders among them, vainly seeking the fruit of self-knowledge.
Oh, man, when will you learn to gaze into the mirror of your own soul?
When will you have the courage to stand alone before infinity, to take ownership of your existence?
When will you understand that life's meaning hides not in the shadow of idols, but in the light of your own conscience?
Maturity waits patiently at the gates of your mind,
A golden key for the rusty locks of perception,
Open your eyes, look beyond the veil of illusion, and become, at last, the architect of your own destiny.