Long Maladjusted Poems
Long Maladjusted Poems. Below are the most popular long Maladjusted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maladjusted poems by poem length and keyword.
He struggles with emotions
He struggles with emotional wounds
He struggles alone unable to share
He struggles alone slowly self destructing
For his well of tears is dried up he cant cry
He was socialized to believe men don't cry
He was made to believe men don't show weakness
He was made to accept men never admit weakness
He struggles alone unable to shed those healing tears
For his well of tears is dried up even hurt he cant cry
The soul wound festers making him maladjusted and bitter
The once jovial youngster now days is all gloomy and sad
The once promising destiny has now been poisoned by fate
The once radiance person now walks with his head cast down
The well of tears dried up but id rather he digs deeper- tears
So I’m forced to take responsibility
For the actions of leaders I never trusted
And if I lack this absurd ability
You’d claim that I am maladjusted
But where were your morals when I suffered
What is your share of responsibility
For my troubles, why didn’t you offer
Your very supportive reliability?
Please don’t worry about to react
We both know the answer, don’t we
You may victimize me just like that
Then accuse me for playing a victim’s ennui
It’s an old tribal song, to shift the blame
To the poor, sending them to fight
I’m responsible for different songs to play
And I do, when the time is right.
Abysmal is the void that silently exists
Breeding fear as an eternal risk
Catatonic state offers bleak-filled rest
Death just an invented sanctuary at best
Edify, exemplify, fact & fiction are mind bending
Forfeit creative thought before it loops unending
Give up on intervention, there is no use pretending
Have faith as it cuts down on your needs
Inject the abject horror of all dreadful deeds
Juxtapose the emptiness with unfallen tears
Kaleidoscopic darkness that absorbs remaining years
Light - a fabrication, you see only with shut eyes
Make believe you will wake up, along with other lies
Nether is a venue, a horse drawn carriage ride away
Only if you can wake up to die another day
Placate all of the demons by portioning up your soul
Quasi-sink into a philosophical black hole
Retrofit a new narrative that reverses sleep
Soliloquy an incantation to burn beyond the deep
Truly emerge on the other side carnal and awake
Unreapered is the brand new fall, there's more of you to take
Vexed and wholly rested
Wanton and cruelly tested
Xenodochy should not be trusted
You should know you're maladjusted
Zealously pursuing good times, til you are once again busted
We love this road,
it has trees.
The manicured ladies
stand upon the lawns,
beacon with unwinking eyes,
scrutinize beneath shading hands,
pry open primped lips,
proclaim their fierce love.
We love this road,
it has folks.
Those maladjusted to suburbia
hear and move on
knowing they are not to be loved.
The road goes along
until it renames itself at a quaggy stretch
riddled with renters and other suspects.
We love to be just here
where everybody loves our road.
The mowers go chagigah here.
The lemonade stands go chug-a-lug.
The chemically clean love to be seen.
Minivans rage quietly as they bake,
and drive backwards into the sun.
Every day our love is green and yellow
and sprinklered.
In every way we testify
to the love we have for this
well-regulated wellness.
Neighbors slow-pass
gawk in their cars,
arms parading and waving
at the well turned-out children,
the small curly dogs.
A cavalcade keeping up
to whatever is better.
We love this place,
it has yards,
love to be this well situated,
planted and plotted, mail-boxed,
and groomed to be fixtures.
Buzzards whisper on high,
as the toothy and pumped-up
flex their love openly,
declare a solid solidarity -
watch each other closely
for any flaw in the matrix.
The house I wrote in
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.
The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
of a younger blood,
flood me
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.
Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now I am upholstered, a place
roomy enough
for returning younger words,
their brain dizzying songs.
revisiting, unearthed,
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving
from abandoned living-spaces,
from the forgotten foundations
of elsewhere.
Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep.
In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors. “I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said.
I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (‘political science’), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed.
I envy those defectors, I pity those defectors, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know.
Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal.
Maybe there’s something wrong with us?
Can't cope so forgive me
I see the world in true form,
Not the fantasy easily reached and perceived.
Truth is the standing which resonates,
a strange sense of comfort
It is not negativity, but positivity,
in a Victorian fashion of bewilderment
It is the pulsating vibe of the bashful butterfly
And the satisfaction to the parched throat
Gently hypnotized by succulent refreshment
And self rewarding.
Though dilenquent among others
A raw sustenance, in solemn acquaintance
I am not alone, though inherit no home
And I eagerly await anyone who shares,
and begs for anyone in agreement and care
This is a DNA molecule and hair
When the sh*t hits the fan and the plates hit the walls
And Mummy’s voice screeches, “You ain’t got the balls”
The sound of wood splintering leaves kids with hunches
That once again Daddy ain’t pulling his punches
At least it was wood this time - unlike before
When what Daddy fractured was not just a door
And Daddy’s voice shouts, ‘I work all that I’m able
but when I come home, I want food on the table!”
Upstairs, the children cannot speak their fears
Three kids on their beds with their hands on their ears
While five year old Lucy is wiping her tears
And Tommy chants ‘La La’ to drown what he hears
But ten year old Gerry, wise, for a young lad
Has a best friend with a Saturday Dad
He seems to get by, and he states with a sigh
“I get to go places… and Mum doesn’t cry.”
With siblings sent ‘up’ with no food in their tummy
Because Daddy had to, “Have words with your Mummy.”
Gerry, would get them the food they were lacking
He wasn’t surprised to find Daddy was packing
He’d taken a chance when the rows turned to silence
Which had to be better than out and out violence
Daddy said, “Don’t creep about like a mouse…
from now on, Son… you are the man of the house.”
Lucy was young and she idolised Dad
Tommy was older and, for a while, bad
But Gerry now charged with his own father’s plan
At just ten years old… became a young man
And with Daddy gone to a town far away
Gerry stayed home till his mum had gone grey
But one day she had a new man on her hand
And Gerry was happy to make his own stand
Twas eighteen months later this very deep thinker
Let a girl get to him, hook, line and sinker
He hugged her and kissed her the day she miscarried
Yet he and the woman he loved… never married
The house I wrote this poem in
became an apartment for the ocean,
then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted,
then a garden for dreaming cats,
then floor-space - just floor space
to walk back and forth on.
The room I find these words in,
these metaphors, these bewilderment’s
these vernal chimes of a younger blood,
flood me now,
now in my narrow redoubt,
now in my condo-maze-ment,
my spindle-boned easement.
Once I was a simile, similar
to something else, a green fracture,
the unseasoned sap of an analogy,
now look at me.
I am upholstered, a place
roomy enough for a younger poem,
for returning to younger words,
finding ghosts in the spaces between them,
breathing through vowels,
with their open lungs,
their brain dizzying songs.
Revisiting
underlining, unearthing
blind roots, simple cyclic thoughts
as if they had just come to me,
and had not been arriving
from freshly abandoned living-spaces
places excavated
from under the forgotten foundations
of elsewhere.
Don't point your finger
and indict me as a spoilt child.
You made me this way; you built me
with your blueprint.
I've seen you mistreat people around you.
You've spewed poisonous bile
in my presence so many times,
and I learned to do the same.
I've watched you batter and bruise mother,
now I've learned to abuse the opposite sex
You've raised the rod against me,
now I've learned to be abusive.
You never gave me much encouragement,
or reassurance when I needed it;
I never received atta-boys I deserved,
now I wallow in pessimism.
I've tried and tried to please you, to no avail.
You've never exercised or taught acceptance,
and I grew up to be cold and distant.
I'm a copycat. I learned from the best.
So it's funny you think I'm a disappointment
to you, I suggest you take a close look
in the mirror, Dad, and you'll see
your reflection. We are one and the same.
Note: This is pure fiction, written from the perspective of a maladjusted teen.
Date written: 03/14/2021