Long Mediocrity Poems
Long Mediocrity Poems. Below are the most popular long Mediocrity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mediocrity poems by poem length and keyword.
I have spent my entire life building a fortress out of the silence, layering polite smiles over the rotting beams of things I never said. You always thought I was quiet, perhaps a little shy, but the truth is, I was terrified that if I opened my mouth, the truth would burn my tongue.
I never told you that I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I loved you too much, and I was watching myself turn into a monster—a desperate, grasping thing that fed on your certainty because I had none of my own. I sabotaged us. I sat in the center of our happiness and whispered that it was all temporary, that I was a ticking time bomb of mediocrity.
And the worst part? When I finally did break us, I felt a shameful, sickening sense of relief.
It’s been five years, and I still wake up at 3 AM looking for you in the bed, only to find the cold, hard reality of my own making. I am sorry that my healing had to cost you your peace. I am sad that I am still, even now, writing this to you in a diary instead of bringing it to your doorstep.
The silence is still here, and I am still building the walls. I am afraid that if I stop, I will finally have to meet the person I am when I am not hiding.
I’m a hopeless romantic
Now please cut me some slack
Yes, there’s more to this life
Than love’s beaten track
I just can’t write about fish
And I can’t write of the farm
I can’t write about frogs
For me that holds not a charm
I can’t write about wars
And I can’t write about keys
I can’t write of history
Go easy on me, please!
Yes, I guess I’m limited
Stuck in mediocrity
I’m trying to be diverse
It falls flat, can’t you see?
So I write tales of love
And I write about passion
Can’t write about trends
Or the latest fashion
I write about suicide
And I write of addiction
I write about my life
Not some sort of fiction
I write about my daughter
And I write about hubby
I write how much I suffer
To be thin and not chubby
I write about God
And I write about heaven
But can’t write about 9
Much less about seven
So please hear what I say
What you all write is grand
It’s just not my way
I’m stuck in love’s brand
I’m cheesy, I’m sappy,
Dripping with goo and such
But this hopeless romantic
Loves your poems so much!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
My passion gallops
Without restraint
Reckless and free
Unbridled
Unbridled like me
If you can’t keep astride
Don’t try to rein me in
Gets your hands out of my mane
Or I’ll drive you insane
Nothing can stop me
It was meant to be
This passion
This fire in me
Unbridled
I won’t let you break me in
Confining me is a sin
I won’t be tamed
So…be ashamed
You’re no match for me
With your mediocrity
Lukewarm has no command
On potent sensuality
NO! I was born to be free
No care for a corralled society
A mare
Aware
I’m on a dare
Without a care
Watch my flair
As I stomp and stampede
Till I fulfill my need
Hooves tossed to the sky
Watch me fly
For you can never know
The strength of passion and so
Set me free
Let me be
My passion is like me
Unbridled!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
PS….I make no apologies for being a sensual person, a fact that is reflected in
my poetry. I’m tired of living in a society which is confined…a society in which
sensuality is defined by skewed parameters. If you find the content
distasteful….just scroll on.
A ripe body of Adolescence, nuzzled by beauty
on which hair is polished by crystals and sapphire
but lacks in the garrison of virtues and patriotism
becoming blind to the significance of its own felicity.
So gullible is its owner, that Dorian Gray is her preferred suitor,
so false are her choices like bringing Tilapia to Canada to strive.
Protracted human disasters have not altered her Oestrus
yet barren even with the plethora of fertile males
she's an ignorant keeper and owner of a unique talisman
causing a huge surveillance from selfish sugar daddies.
In the midst of her turmoil, she stays ludic
inflicted with so much pain but cry so rhapsodic.
Swimming with the fast in pretentious avocation
entertaining in self deceit, through every dulcet move.
Well formed mouth without a beak and limbs with soft knees;
her metamorphosis should be complete, yet a chrysalis she remains.
A complete turnaround requires an economic Hasidism
for the existing gross mediocrity to be evanescent
then refined existence in juxtaposition between an idyllic present
to a radiant future would be once again fully established.
Somebody should kindly tell if we hail from greed.
For so many years’ darkness has thrown its effect on a nation,
Everyone on the globe tries to please each other.
Sounds of slavery is tearing the heart of humanity into distress.
Cruelty rules all over the beautiful cities straight down to the hinterlands.
In the midst of danger, hills fight against mountains.
Breaking down the core relevance defining peace.
Shame is running down the veins of men.
Blood is seen on a sword,
The sword belonging to a deadly lord.
Who is killed?
I guess a Dracula`s belly is already filled?
No statement found as answer.
Weakening true power through untreatable cancer,
No place for righteousness to dwell in as a secured goal.
Inequity seems to be the head of a broken home,
Where bad leaders keep fix to get its head bone.
Across the borders do we see sets of deadly flags,
Towards us are singers of horrific tunes against blacks.
Oppressed under alienated rule,
From hundred years ago with a deal to make a Blackman a fool.
Society got nothing to change a mood,
Condition is teaching about the pain of stings.
For what then have all got to break out of doom?
Perhaps, that`s when mediocrity is deleted from what Africans think.
Then switch to what enlightenment brings.
Under the enigmatic glow of twilight,
Where shadows blend into the fabric of existence,
I find myself caught in endless thoughts,
Whispers of consciousness undulating like waves,
Reflecting on lives of ordinary circles,
Spinning in loops of insignificant aims,
A tragic dance of souls chasing ephemeral dreams,
Unaware of the profound loss in their routine.
If one could decipher the horror hidden there,
See beyond trivial pursuits that consume their days,
They’d grasp the magnitude of their forfeitures,
The burden of deferred dreams,
The unextinguished fire of potential lost in the winds of time.
In the labyrinth of the mind, thoughts carve paths like rivers,
Reflecting on general laws, invisible chains that bind,
Watching lives entangled in loops of trance,
Seeing the slow, silent erosion of spirit,
A gradual dimming of a light that once shone brightly.
What matters for a soul trapped in the prison of monotony,
Condemned to the slow death of an unfulfilled existence,
But to break free, to shatter the illusion, to reach the infinite,
Nothing else carries the gravity of this aim -
Escape, to taste the true essence of freedom.
Each heartbeat echoes through the silent corridors of the mind,
Aligned with deeper desires to rise above mundane life,
To feel the thrill of unbound existence,
Following paths undictated by trivial aims,
Breathing life back into suffocated dreams.
Navigating through the sea of quiet introspection,
Seeking answers in the soul’s silent whispers,
If living means being shackled by minor aims,
Then true life must be beyond those bounds,
In vast, uncharted realms where freedom reigns,
Where the spirit soars free from the weight of empty pursuits.
In the silent embrace of night, beneath watchful stars,
Struck by the melancholic beauty of this truth,
A sorrowful yet hopeful symphony in realization,
That to live fully, one must strive to escape,
Break the cycle, venture beyond the bars of mediocrity.
In the end, what’s serious, what truly matters,
Is self-liberation from the decay of insignificance,
Seeking and embracing boundless freedom
Beyond the horizon, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary,
Living life in its most sublime and unbound form.
AI is groupthink, it’s hewed to pre-existing work,
which it aggregates into something bland and flat.
If you don’t want your work scraped and copied by AI, try
writing off-balance ideas that aren’t for everyone and have faith
that AI will never be able to actually rival human creativity.
Deny AI the echo chamber of predictable content on which it feeds.
I polish my pieces to a pointless sheen, which gives
them an algorithmically indecipherable quality.
When it comes my to poetry, I have to admit,
I’m working through mediocrity—hoping that it’s just a phase.
If failure is essential for growth
I’m going to be a giant
But after all, someone has to define the baseline.
You’re welcome.
Ok, Let’s wax poetic..
There are thousands of stars
in that black outer-place
where gravitas holds them
firmly in place.
I fret not about avian abductions,
or unidentified flying soccers,
still, I’ve a waxed on them
in multiverse
.
.
Songs for this:
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles
When the world won’t let me be,
And religion just screams.
And everyone keeps telling me,
What they think I ought to think.
And by the looks of things,
I don’t think I want their version of peace.
Peace doesn’t blame,
Peace doesn’t shame,
Peace doesn’t scream,
Peace doesn’t always look the same.
And from what I’ve seen.
Peace can’t be summed up by your latest religious meme.
You see,
Truth isn’t always what you wish it to be.
It stands alone
And doesn’t rely at all on me.
You see,
Peace sometimes wields a sword.
Yet sometimes offers the other cheek.
You see,
Peace can’t be purchased with modern dime store democracy.
Can’t be controlled,
With shiite theocracy.
Or with bible belt hypocrisy.
Can’t be contained by your good deeds of mediocrity.
Although your store bought Botox smile may look down on me,
The gastric bypassed mindset,
May only see what it wants to see.
First world problems,
Of the “plantation’s” convenience,
Never solved the issues of humanity.
You hole up in your ivory tower.
Telling me I need to shower.
You’re hoping that you’re sin’s well hidden.
Refusing to attend
The feast to which we’ve all been bidden.
You find it quite embarrassing,
That I wear my sin out on my sleeve.
Open for all the world to see.
You see,
I’m trusting in the One that covers me.
His strength/my weakness.
That’s my building block of peace.
You see,
The Drummer in this band I seek?
He metronomes a different beat.
It lights my path and guides my feet.
And if it’s all the same to thee...
I’ll march a different road to Peace.
No estate should be able to turn away health inspectors,
No estate should be able to turn away ambulances,
while bleeding internally,
No estate should need to employ so many muckrakers,
or bush lawyers.
No estate should hold so many water rights,
if they pour cold water over journalists,
who want to investigate,
No estate should hold so many gun licenses,
until shooting oneself in the foot is no longer endemic,
No estate should be given awards for mediocrity,
No estate should have license to print money,
to pay for influence.
No estate should be bereft of microscopes,
or access to an eye specialist.
No estate should hold so many contracts out of state,
to stifle competition,
No estate can survive without bread and butter
or an understanding that no freedom is absolute.
No estate can survive when it no longer sees the need to spellcheck,
and uses words covered in sauces past their use by date,
No society can survive when it has a fourth estate,
that no longer pays heed to the edicts of,
Walter Cronkite or his ilk.
Dylan's The Times They are a-changing becoming prophetic
Crime escalating fueled by
Government interference and bureaucracy
Negating reward for achievement while
Praising mediocrity taking steps to insure
Self esteem for the misfit justifying
The politically correct
Now I wonder
Does the liberal perception of freedom emasculate us
If so take me back to a time
When James Dean was a rebel and heroes meant
Integrity respect and values now absent
In today's society
Lunch can in the corner
Daddy's home and supper's on
Hugs provided warmth that the old Heatrola
Could never match
Needle and thread resurrecting a sock
Making a pair again
Take a bath it's Saturday night and there's church in the morning
Church picnic in the park in the afternoon
Damn Damn Damn we never found Utopia
We gave it away