Long Neglect Poems
Long Neglect Poems. Below are the most popular long Neglect by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Neglect poems by poem length and keyword.
Imprisoned by the way things are,
Breakfast, coffee and cream,
Eggs with toast
Sometimes it’s burnt, branded
By the decades old toaster – former things,
We can’t replace,
Because this one is a memory bearer,
Possessing days gone now,
Days before his heart ached, before
Memories were all he held,
All that he has left of the girl…
She’s still dancing, swaying like the wind,
Songbirds shadowing her beauty, her light,
… it’s not anything like it was then,
Still, that old toaster, like its companions –
The old dishes, the old promises, the old wars,
Raging inside where he might know,
But refuses to admit… they’re still here,
Still with him, though she’s been gone,
Almost thirty years – the time has flown…
She can’t come home, even though home is haunted,
By her energy, - she rambles quietly,
Pacing through his dreams, erasing the possibility of joy,
In the present, where he refuses to know –
She is gone and she is never coming back home,
Where her life colored the moments in gentle feelings,
Assurances that yesterday is more than believing.
Yesterday is like a teardrop glistening, from the soul,
A memory, fleeting yet ever alive – like her voice,
He hears her in the curls of color fading beyond the oaks,
Leaving silhouettes of kindness, flowing,
Caressing his hopes with grace that sings, stirring him,
To never let go of what might have been…
If she hadn’t gone before him, leaving a trail,
Footprints entrenched in every heartbeat,
Each breath exposing the secret she left with him…
Even in death, she is life for him.
Even in death, she still sings her refrain,
The lingering of a love that never quite moves on,
Love that never lets him neglect the wonder of her,
As she fades into the eternal – she will never quit…
Bringing his heart the rhythm so surreal,
The music, her breath – the love, her legacy,
Left to him, until they meet again –
My heart!, how he longs to see her again!
She walked with dreams in her gentle eyes,
A future lit beneath morning skies.
But shadows crept where light should stay,
And stole her breath, her hopes, away.
Sawera’s name, now etched in pain,
A flower drowned beneath the rain.
Not by fate, not by some twist,
But by hands that evil kissed.
What justice lies in silence kept?
While mothers grieve, and sisters wept?
Where were the laws meant to protect,
When dignity met such neglect?
She wasn’t weak;she was betrayed,
By a world where monsters roam unafraid.
By voices that should rise, yet hide,
While another girl's light is pushed aside.
So hear us now, and hear us loud,
We will not bow, we will not crowd.
Justice isn’t just a prayer,
It’s action sparked from deep despair.
For Sawera, and girls like she,
We ask the world: let justice be.
Not just in words, not just in tears,
But in a world where they outgrow fears.
Raise your voice. Break the chain.
No more Saweras. No more pain.
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
God really understands human frailty.
Out the dust of the earth he created
Adam. But out of Adam's rib, he
Created Eve. Dust they were
Made of and to dust they did
Return. And so will all of their
Sons and daughters.
God remembers that we were
made out the dust of the earth.
He understands our physical
And spiritual weakness.
Which is why he is willing to
Make allowances for us.
God sent the second Adam,
Jesus Christ, into the world.
To redeem men, women, boys
And girls.
God knows we inherited our
Adamic sinful nature. God
Knows all about our sins of
Commission and our sins of
Omission. And he understands
The difference between the two.
And he explains it to his children,
Too. Sins of commission are sinful
Acts we deliberately make on
Purpose. Whereas sins of
Omission are acts, words,
And deeds we neglect to
Do. Mainly through carelessness,
And ignorance.
God knows and understands our
Willful and habitual sins, and
Will help us forsake them!
God loves his prodigal sons
And daughters, who repent.
Confess and forsake their sins!
God knows, "the spirit is willing,
But the flesh is week." Our
Fleshy nature wars against
Our spiritual nature. But
Jesus Christ came to overcome
The devil and to deliver his
Sons and his daughters.
"And he whom the son sets free is
Freeborn indeed." Jesus Christ
Sent the Holy Spirit to dwell
Within his sons and daughters.
Who accept his blood sacrifice
For their sins and become part
Of the body and bride of
Our Lord Jesus and Savior
Jesus Christ, who is divine!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
July 10, 2020
Watching.
Staring.
Filming.
But,
Not -
Seeing.
Stopping.
Preventing.
The art of being a bystander -
Is not art, but bloodshed,
It is an act of inhumanity,
To watch Black bodies fall,
The modernised version of lynchings,
Where everyone is complicit -
And no one is innocent
The world’s cruelty knows no bounds,
Where the spectacle of Black death -
Brings people together as one,
From different communities and cultures,
To share the moment - where a Black life is gone
When it comes to the death of a Black person,
The world becomes desensitised to the horrors,
That are done to us -
To them it’s a way to gain followers -
A way to boost their social media platforms
Even videos of animal neglect gets more sympathy,
Their empathy extends only to animals,
But when a Black person is tortured -
For no reason,
The world claims it was our fault
The bystander effect was just an excuse to hide from -
Being held accountable,
Of being complicit - an accessory to murder
Fists clenched, words cut deep
A mother's love, a distant dream asleep
No warmth, no gentle touch
Only pain, a constant clutch
Her face, a map of disdain
Constipation frown, a permanent strain
Narcissism's dark, controlling sway
Left scars that won't fade away
Lies and silence, a toxic brew
Secrets kept, truths withheld from you
Biological father, a mystery untold
A childhood lost, in a world grown cold
Screams and yells, all day long
No peaceful haven, always wrong
Communication, a skill unlearned
Love and affection, forever yearned
A complete wack job, always brash
good at growing that lady mustache
I still hear the loud noise
of your quiet footsteps,
marked across unpolished,
weathered wooden floors.
Childhood suppressed expectations,
starved for genuine praise,
dwarfed by the presence
of a silence never broken.
My inner struggles suffocate,
captivated by the hidden door
latched forever
by decaying, hardened paint.
Scars of turmoil refuse to yield,
mercilessly triggered by this prison,
locked by the one key
still held by you.
A stitched fabric of fortitude—
resembling a carved brand of honor—
is the silent hero I grasp for
in moments of aching defiance.
When the weight of unimportance,
and callous neglect,
rears its ugly head,
demanding more
than my essence can endure.
Still, here I am.
Not asking for forgiveness.
Not asking for explanations.
I am letting go,
just like you did.
"Note: AI image generated to complement the themes of my original poem."
Shattering the Unbroken Cycle
Bully's shadow looms, a pervasive stain
across all sectors, absurd, yet sustained
Governments and schools deny workers' rights
incentives, facilities, and dignity's light
Seniors torment juniors with blows and pain
emotional scars, hunger, and shame's stain
Educators wound with words, with physical might
abuse and fear, a toxic, endless night
Domestic walls conceal violence and despair
husbands, wives, and shattered vows laid bare
Governments neglect, oppress, and deny
basic rights, humanity, and a chance to thrive
Even sacred spaces hide oppression's face
wealth and power, a sharp, humiliating knife's pace
Do we bully for fleeting power's sake?
Is happiness not our purpose, our heart's ache?
Can't we choose kindness, unity, and love?
Break bully's chains, send humanity from above
Lillian's Echo
Lillian’s Echo
In the dayroom’s dim embrace, Lillian sat—a survivor etched in time. The air clung to stories, whispered secrets, and the lingering scent of suffering. She, the one-character legend, spun her tales—prose blabber, raw and unfiltered.
Born into the system’s cold arms, Lillian emerged as an adult onto Brooklyn’s unforgiving streets. There, she tasted the bitter brew of inhumanity—the kind that seeps into bones, leaving scars unseen.
Abortions etched memories on her soul. Each child, born or unborn, imprinted on her heart. Tears flowed freely among the day roomers, their lives force-fed with drugs until the final breath. Neglect and abuse danced in shadows, haunting their fragile existence.
Lillian’s own children—thirteen souls conceived in the crucible of rape. Some lost to the system, others to her desperate choices. Abortion, a relentless companion, etched its refrain: “You will never forget.”
Ms. Smaldone, wise and weathered, shared her truth. Money, she warned, was no legacy for offspring. Instead, travel—imbibe life’s nectar before the curtain falls. Merril Lynch riches crumbled when sickness struck, and family greed devoured her nest egg.
Lillian listened, her eyes reflecting pain. She vowed to seize life’s moments, to honor the lost and the forsaken. Four west day roomers, souls adrift, yearned for salvation. May they rest in peace, their echoes woven into Lillian’s prose.
Dark n Beautiful
Written by
you wear away at me with your silence
not with whetted words
or physical altercations
there are no recriminations
No...
it's much more corrosive than all of that
this is the sad fact
apathy barbed in neglect
is the tool that you use
not aware it's abuse
how it scrapes and it grinds
determined not to leave anything behind
day after day
night after night
year after year
till the memory
of who I was dissapears
a little bit more every day
you wear me away
voiceless, I fade
silent in your silent tirade
only pebbles remain
of a once templed soul
and with a little more time
pulverized,
they blow away...
by the constant silent howling
of your loveless heart
Eileen Manassian