Long Madhouse Poems
Long Madhouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Madhouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Madhouse poems by poem length and keyword.
Who defined
“certifiably insane”?
You see, it too closely
defines those who are
running this world.
The place where technology steals jobs;
Airplanes, crash more than they fly;
Politicians are elected,
based on the most…convincing…lies and bribes.
Where the archaic caste system, is making a comeback;
where diseases are created to win wars
and where medicines are created
to cause more sickness, then they cure.
A madhouse, where viruses are added to seeds,
which become our food.
Where no cure for cancer is ever found,
although nature gave us many.
There’s too much money to be made in…research;
to find too many cures will create less jobs.
Where surgeons sell unnecessary surgeries,
to enhance their lifestyle.
Where those without jobs or money,
are forced to buy insurance or pay fines,
yet politicians are exempt?
A psycho-drome where people disappear,
with no trace and human bodies are plasticized
for exhibition? Who are they, anyway?
Where genocide is an unpunished act,
if the initiator so chooses and
Where theatre-wars are created,
for the profit of world leaders.
Where coal companies freely murder families
and toxic pipelines trump, all human life.
Yes, who defined, “certifiably insane”?
That’s one hand, I’d like to shake…
the truly sane one.
Sometimes life is a Still Frame and I know others aren't as Broken As Me. I can Pretend My Pain Away but I can't Just Be Happy. You can talk about Who I Am or who I was but I will never Give Up To (My) Ghosts.
You don't know My Little Secret; that I'm Not Okay and just want to Run Away From Myself. I only see the Worst In Me or maybe you only se the Worst In Me. You can't tell by looking, but I Hate Myself and behind my eyes, it is Always December and there is no Golden Weather to be seen. I always want to be Anyone But Me and I do feel like a Scarecrow.
I can't express that I can't be Alone With Myself. I'm always Screaming I'm Silence wondering If These Scars Could Speak, would they tell you that I'm Still Breathing in this Madhouse called life? Where this Weight Of The World is on my shoulders because I'm always Strong For Someone Else but not for myself.
I'm not Sacred; I am not Good Enough For God. I'm still Waiting On The Sun even when the sun is shining. I have someone to talk to but the reality is that I don't need Therapy because my Therapy IS music.
I think I have reached my Limit. Please just Let Me Let Go. You can't Talk Me Down, I already have too many Tattoos.
I want to hear someone tell me "You Are Enough" and not breakdown crying. Sometimes, I think I am Found or at least Stronger Than My Storm, but then I go back to feeling useless and not strong enough.
If I could just tell myself Hallelujah I’m Not Dead, just maybe that will keep on encouraging me
He was sitting alone in the corner
In a little cafe at the painting of Monet
And was talking to imaginary friend
About thinness opaqueness fear
Sensation of heat cold anger despair
Cruelty he claimed is the language of reality
Not the barren lame poetry with vulgar
Metaphors hiding behind empty words
Cruelty was the only honest way
To open the hidden heavy doors
Into suffering human soul and heart
And talk about things that matter
Through shamanic art of reaching
Deep into the guts of true teaching
And bringing light to the dark corners
That have never been lit before
Actors dancing in overpowering way
Manikins with terrifying theatrical faces
With empty eyes staring at the audience
And drilling through their souls
Objects of strange proportions
Surfacing in a dreamy scenery
Of unrecognizable ghostly world
Of the modern stage transformed
By the means of the theater of cruelty
It is the only way to be honest
To himself Artaud claimed
And believed
He was right
He sacrificed his life
To this idea
And died lonely forgotten
On the bare floor
Next to metal bed
That stood at the door
He tried to open so hard
In a madhouse
Where magic of theater
Truly belongs
One hundred years on
Our Waste Land we celebrate
Desiccated and dry as a desert
Within our dehumanised souls
Where the tumbleweed of untruth
Sits with such disconnection
From reality,
Myriad voices peddling the myths of the madhouse
Your untruth is not mine
So far apart are we
Secure yet blinded by our own beliefs
Unanchored and ill- founded
Estranged from the truth
And dead to fact
Our refusal to recognise the denatured race
Of our reckless rush
Towards the day of judgment
Destruction and damnation.
False narratives to gullible audiences play,
Such siren songs solipsistically
Softly sing us to our graves,
Fragmentation our final fate
Emotion eclipsing reason.
There were four men
searching for truth
They all knew
that sixteen hundred years before
Someone was asked
by a washing hands' man
to say what was the truth.
One of them
is on the tower of Pisa
which is still bending
since then
'cause he refused
to declare the earth is flat
to the clergy men
to the rappers of truth
Several miles away
another one is convicted
by other false truth holders
he has lost his wife
he's lost his goods
he's lost his freedom
and he's Lost Paradise
And Torquato
has been serving
for seven years through
in a madhouse
for his poetry was full of truth.
The fourth man lies
straight and tall
in the middle of a square
where his unfortunate harsh
took the place of the flowers
He seems to warn the passing-bys:
"Please, mind the truth!"
love me none
I reserve a table for two for a stupid reason.
I am waiting for somebody to return.
Your empty chair inside a deafening resto,
I’m not sure if I’ll ever see your shadow once more.
And I accidentally drop my glass of whiskey,
It hurts fine in my bone; slowly breaks me.
Your memories live in me; it haunts me gravely.
The golden couple ring that we used to dream
turns into a grief-stricken fantasy in my mind.
The piece of cake that we shared on the bed
was too sweet to savor; now tasteless on your tongue.
Your sultry kiss in the cold breeze dawn,
November will end soon; I will miss you more.
This love was once your madhouse,
Jokes sealing my fate; I’m the one being played now.
Ever dear, do you think of me too?
Your friends might not like me now,
I bet you want their attention too.
Just like how I gave everything,
It never meant something to you.
“Lei, are you ready? I will now shut the door”.
You never let me in; so you let me go.
Sometimes I just don’t know where is this going?
Can I just easily forget the memories that keep on coming?
Oh, you’re such a perfectly lovely little man!
“What a waste?” they said.
I’ve painted the one to be blamed.
But don’t ever tear me again.
This love has gotten me deep in my soul.
And I will drink the last jug of ache while I can
I will be brave to move forward; “you’re the man!”
We deserve to be happy; I hope you find you’re the one
But I’ll never forget that once…
You loved me
None.
Lei Strauss 2022
Oh what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw truth tellers doxed, and their addresses listed
I saw images on my cellphone put on by the twisted
I saw a prophet wailing as he was dragged to the madhouse
I saw madmen gaining all the levers of power
I saw wolves out of jail while their victims cower
I saw fools arm in arm with those who would kill them
I saw indoctrination vultures above me turning
Know-it-alls told me what to think, but I wasn't learning
I saw a meteor of old glory barely burning
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard desperate fathers called domestic terrorists
I heard speech is violence and violence is speech
I heard the fury of a woman scorned
I heard a prediction of vengeance, a new weapon borned
I strained my ears in the eye of the hurricane
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall
And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'll hike through the garden with high rising fountains
I'll go off into the forest, and up the mountains
I'll swim cross the ocean, and glide on the river
I'll raft the white water, before the oncoming slaughter
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall...
Shutdown Day 21
The White House
Demolishing what was supremely notable
A wrecking of a Ship Of State unseemly quotable
East wing amidst the devils wings
A First Lady has in it blingy things
Like Blackbeard’s filthy lucre
The sea's treasure troves hook her
Taken the cargo of what it once stood for
Torn apart brick by brick a democracy we implore
Left is nothing but its shell
Fill it with devils’ gold and chime your bell
The Ballroom
Is it he and his faithful spouse
recreating a King’s Palace madhouse
How she yearns for a ballroom
A yearning for a youthful—not for a content trophy groomed
His words we could hardly construe
Music to his ears nonetheless he’ll delude
that the funding be all His,
certainly not the people’s that is
You can’t pull the wool over His subjects' eyes,
sprinkling a few pennies about—not our millions He lies
Ring The Alarm
Authoritarianism is here! Enforcing obedience
to authority at the expense of freedom with fear
Because He shreds the Constitution
Should He be granted some royal absolution?
Or let Him be the mad King George the Third
and declare Him unfit but fated to rule the herd
Bulldozing our regret
For His Marie Antoinette
Already losing their heads
Over (meaningless) shreds
Loyal is His henchman Ingrassia,
who evokes his Nazi streak of nausea
Wishing MLK Jr’s holiday to the circle of hell
As a Vice President shrugs his shoulders and sighs oh well
Whistleblowers you best beware,
This nominee bidder does not care
The People’s House
Tis isn't the modernization which rankles me,
it’s non-participation or permissions by the free
He molests ‘Our House’ —His temporary abode
Let our defiance find strength and our resolve unfold
I live in an improbable bubble, insulated from humanity's ugly warts,
here there are still reasons to believe in God.
Of course, I see what's on the news, but isn't that just a reality show?
I feel overly exposed to the world's injustices as a nightly recipient of
"Breaking News!"
The sky is always falling somewhere, it seems.
And every day, I'm reminded there are places in this world
where freedom is nonexistent,
and the sound of children laughing is but a dream.
In some inconceivable places, folks only see what they are told to see,
and only think what they've been taught to think;
not here, though, someplace else, far away.
Thousands of children die every day,
or so I'm told, over my morning coffee.
But I'm in my bubble; none of that is happening around me!
Isn't it all just reality TV?
Madmen are in charge of the madhouse,
but I'm not mad enough to care,
it's only happening somewhere out there, far away from me.
But should I venture outside of my bubble, I only see what I'm told to see,
and I only think what I'm taught to think; now, isn't that a coincidence!
And yet, in my bubble, I'm free to think and do as I will, aren't I?
Life's comfortable in my bubble; there is plenty for all,
and I'm happy, aren't I?
I'm confident nothing terrible can happen here,
my rights are protecting me, aren't they?
Perhaps, I should stay silent in my improbable bubble,
after all, people aren't really suffering; it's just reality TV,
isn't it?
(Dramatic Monologue)
2/11/2018
Snow sprays off crow wings.
Flurries drift like torn lace curtains
over the blacktop.
The porch rocking chair
is draped like a madhouse ghost.
Nobody is going anywhere,
the side-roads are getting narrower
as cold pinches wind-swirled surfaces.
Every bare tree is festooned
with a year-old loneliness.
There are Christmas lights coming,
and the canned music
of tone-deaf elves – perhaps.
We may gather together
at the holy font of former years
but only if time moves on
away from this day,
only if the highways are not clogged
by lost days and their
dead-eyed nights…maybe,
maybe there will be carols and good cheer,
but only if the lone wolf
and his gun,
for a while have had enough fun.