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.
When failure hits you hard,
you realise you have played all your cards.
Stuck in a room with just yourself,
you inner voice filled with hatred can turn you deaf.
Time that's passed makes you guilty.
The achievements of others makes you feel filthy.
Standing on the edge you realise what you lost,
you fret every second for the opportunity you flippantly tossed.
The smile you give camouflaging your sadness is ephemeral,
it's followed by a night which leaves you devasted and vulnerable.
You are daunted by the future and its uncertainty.
You look out of the window remorsefully.
You wonder will life ever give you another chance?
Will you forever be stuck at this mediocrity or will you ever advance?
There's this feeling inside you which makes you feel worthless.
You try to shut it but you are helpless.
Self love seems like an imaginary concept.
Optimism seems something you cannot accept.
My tunnel has turned into a maize with no light at the end.
I am too exhausted to keep smiling and pretend.
Crashing waves pound the shore dashing wildly up the sand
until exhausted, they reach their limit then,
bubbling, drift back into the sea.
Like lovers that rush towards you with ardent intensity
until they get so close, it scares you.
Slowly, you let them drift away.
Ideas that pour a thousand times from your young mind
until grownups gradually dash your hopes,
you slide to mediocrity.
Paris, Rome, a short romance, marriage "I'll love you forever," they said
until they found another.
Four years it was; you never knew.
Children bought up with love, wonder, and excitement
until inevitably, one by one, they leave.
Drifting further away from you.
"Buy this buy that we'll let you have the money, the payments good, it's all fine"
until the crash, the loss.
They repossess your house, your home.
Pats on the back, "well done for 30 years you are a credit to the firm"
until you got replaced.
You're 52 and out of work.
A fresh new wave pounds the shore dashing wildly up the sand
until it touches the tips of your toes;
you follow it back to the sea.
We oppose mediocrity, not an anecdote for souls,
but forged they’d be in the furnace, a burning coal.
It breaks up the mundane, a bolt of lightning flash,
aspiring to be heaven’s host, waking from the ash.
We’re not just transcribing, etching a fading script,
but artists of the abandoned, by firelight dipped.
We explore the remnants where society lies low,
where shadows are cast and worn currents flow.
With a rebellious stroke, we embrace the divine,
from the false facades, a truth-telling we assign.
We toss aside the nutrition that dulls the soul’s fire,
and build soaring meditations, climbing ever higher.
Our ink is not just black, but stars’ scattered light,
a testament to spirit, tenacious through the night.
Against the corrosion, a steadfast, gleaming beam,
the poet’s defiant quill, chasing the endless dream.
Nothing will be more beautiful than the sea,
To forget the misery of our little souls,
To forget the pride of idiots,
To love the woman waiting for you in California,
Nothing is more beautiful than the sea,
To finally get to know each other,
O servitudes, you imprison us in our walls,
In our nights without poetry,
Nothing will be more beautiful than the sea,
To hope for a bright future,
To see New York, or the temptations of Bahia
In a white shell on the sand,
Without asking any unnecessary questions,
Nothing will ever be more beautiful than the sea
To taste Couperin’s silences,
To keep the torments of the sprawling city,
Heavy looks from luxury cars,
To forget the war over everything, like leprosy
Spread On the sky.
Nothing is more beautiful than the sea, calm spreading, exposed and free,
To see the sun glistening on the oily waves,
To take an interest in the great journeys to the Pacific,
To escape the mediocrity of lucky souls,
To let his gaze be immersed in the great goodness
Of the world,
Forget; forget that you are watched from high ramparts,
Escape, escape, dive into the deep water,
Write down your destiny.
In the subtle twilight of our ephemeral existence,
when long shadows stretch across the landscape of our souls,
we find ourselves contemplating the unresolved mysteries of the world,
mysteries that elude science and sociology with their polished lenses and complex theories.
Our birth, our death, our existence in the present moment—
they are not enigmas to be deciphered,
but open gates to inconceivable realms,
valleys of self-discovery, empowerment, and hope for humanity bound in a common destiny.
In every breath, we hide a silent invocation,
in every heartbeat, we step deeper into the truth of our being.
But our culture has banished this magic, alienating us from the essence of our own existence,
turning us into consumers of cheap products and even cheaper ideals.
We are on the edge of a dark city; the clock ticks ceaselessly.
Our legacy will be judged harshly if we let this moment slip away,
if we allow the light within us to be extinguished by tin-can ideologies.
Let us not lose ourselves in the meanders of mediocrity,
nor surrender control to the least enlightened among us.
Instead, let us reclaim our place under the sun,
stepping boldly into the light with hearts full of hope and minds free.
The world is not an enigma to be unlocked,
but a living mystery, a symphony of life waiting to be lived.
In moments of silence, we touch the infinity of possibilities,
where hope and power weave golden threads into the tapestry of humanity.
We are not mere spectators in this grand theatre of existence.
We are the artists of our own destiny, each holding a light against the darkness.
Let us rise, awaken to the light within us,
forge our own path through the mystery,
and advance into the light of our becoming, guided by the inner star.
In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the wind,
I find myself contemplating the essence of life and death,
Not as a mourner, but as a witness to the unfolding of a flower.
For death, in its inevitable silence, is merely a concluded chapter,
A final note in the symphony of being, neither tragic nor triumphant.
What casts a shadow on my heart is not the end itself,
But the days and nights squandered by those who live halfway,
Who waste their moments in pursuit of empty pleasures,
Their lives, a series of hollow gestures, devoid of true reverence.
They drown in the mundane, their minds stuffed with cotton,
Swallowing beliefs and doctrines without a single thought,
Their souls slowly eroded by the waves of conformity.
Forgetting the art of thinking, letting others script their existence,
Their spirits numb to the grand music of the ages,
Unable to hear the melodies that once stirred the human soul.
They live as shadows, mere echoes of what could have been,
Their deaths, a silent testament to unlived lives, unfulfilled dreams.
In this melancholic reflection, I wander through the corridors of my own mind,
A stream of consciousness flowing through the landscape of memory,
Questioning, yearning, seeking truth in the silent spaces.
I see the faces of those who have passed, not as mourned figures,
But as memories of the vitality that life should hold,
A call to honor each breath, each heartbeat, with the intensity it deserves.
For the true tragedy lies not in the final breath,
But in the moments lost to apathy, passions left unexplored,
Love unexpressed, potential unfulfilled.
In the quiet of this contemplative dusk, I vow to live intensely,
To embrace the symphony of existence with all its dissonances and harmonies,
To be fully present, fully alive, until the final note fades into silence.
And in this vow, I find solace, a defiance against the approaching night,
A promise to honor the gift of life, not with mere survival,
But with a fervent celebration of every fleeting moment,
For in the end, it is not death we should fear,
But the unlived life, the wasted potential, the silent surrender to mediocrity.
"If it's a human flaw to occasionally desire to live in oblivion,
I plead guilty to my fault." Quote by Poet
I wish I could fade into a realm of oblivion
even if it's just for a few moments in time.
Or be unaware of the mountains I climb
Long enough for my heart to heal
from wounds it continues to feel
If only I could recede into shadows of oblivion
so sorrowful memories might vanish with me,
or seep into the sea and set my mind free.
I'm weary and my soul has become bleak
trying to be rid of the past, I'm too weak.
Let me slip into the darkened void of oblivion
to wilt and wither like petals of a cut flower.
I'd thank the gentle mercy of the wind's power
to hide my jagged scars from prying eyes,
but I cannot don a mask in life as a disguise.
I would vanish in a raging storm of oblivion
as my fate to disappear inside a nimbus cloud.
I'd be quietly meek when thunder roars aloud
and mingle my tears with pouring rain
if I thought I had something to gain.
Don't deny me my quest to be lost in oblivion.
Never wake me from the beauty of my dreams.
Let me linger in darkness because it seems
I can shrink into a stupor of mediocrity...
content to be abstruse; invisible in obscurity.
If my usual wasn't so ordinary
And didn't span great feats of generic
It may just be shy of extraordinary
A mediocrity so bland I'm hysteric
Enormity in normalcy's highest gear
Worked out so hard and never got abs
Without an ear my regular cannot hear
I'm the base tested against in labs
An everyday, workaday, 10 of a kind
Fantastically, head over heels habitual
Frequency, ooze from me, for oddness I pined
This middle of the road, uniform fool
An average in math I lack sum of the fun
My highest point is the peak of just typical
If my usual started with "un", not a prefix of none
This run of the mill status is biblical
I'm routinely symmetrical time and again
Burst at the seams in familiarity
A dullery so wild it verges on zen
Like a quietness without any clarity
I've searched the great depths of the known
Looked for an in but found not a trace
For my explicable or scrutable down to the bone
Destined to be dazzlingly commonplace.
Brave New World
A 'world' it is and it spins around in mad circuits of loopy loops.
Has reached an infinite array of denominations in which foolish
insane clowns have taken over the asylum once more as bedlam
pretends liberation as the counterfeit currency of nauseating progress.
'New' I have my doubts though when fiddling with reconstruction
conjures novel aspirations from Holocaust to Hiroshima from pure
race unadulterated megalomania to narcissistic greed ‘all can be
done’ but the genie emerges from Huxley’s toxic bottle unrestrained.
'Brave' should pertain to courage when golden means and common
sense of virtue defaced by ugly grimaces facades mascara of tainted
moderation succumbs to mediocrity construed by disingenuous evil.
An aberration of jesters plotting naked feasts of blinded engineering.
Temptation is an ancient theme and just because we are capable to
plot our own demise does not preclude some hesitation or valid
inhibition as courage must incorporate the rationale. Not to follow in
wolf’s clothing a script of Faustian cloning just because we can.
Manipulation of chromosomes through twisted recombining helices
as a stairway to hell gave us Dolly the sheep. Another incarnation
braying ‘Give me body parts’ to harvest stem cells modified amino
acids like little devils on steroids and protein shakes of unpredictability.
The most cunning argument for creating whole new persons brought
to the fore the notion that if we the ‘good ones’ do not follow science
to create what evolution failed to build from nature’s garden and God’s
promise then the malign others surely will and consequently all is lost.
The mind boggles in the light of self-righteousness and the delusion
that refusal and resistance are signs of cowardice and the misconception
that two or numerous wrongs result in right and law when duty could
prevail as guardian for another world of sanity and accepting our limits.
The thought police and miscreant paradigms of Dolly’s dogma will surely
try to silence my opinion that courage has another merit than the scientific
infestation that my mind and brain needs to be cloned in order to restrain
my voice of caution but when I shout ‘enough’ at least my dignity remains.
All of which I hypocritically love and hate
Are the greatest guilty pleasures I enjoy too late...
All too often I refrain from the mediocrity of normalcy,
When really all I wish is to never fade to obscurity.
All of whom I hypocritically admire and despise,
Are always looking at me with those eyes...
So many suddenly becoming one step further ahead,
Leaving me thinking if only I could finally be dead.
All of which I hypocritically praise and critique
Are actually made up of what makes me unique.
There are times I get what I always wanted,
But then there are times I am left feeling haunted.
All of whom I hypocritically shun and embrace
Never truly leave me without leaving a trace...
For all these people and things in my life
Have long taught me how to overcome my strife.