Long Normalized Poems
Long Normalized Poems. Below are the most popular long Normalized by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Normalized poems by poem length and keyword.
Career has developed huge glands
a surrogate, closing the eyes from loved ones.
Suit and tie on the pages of priority
sucking life away until age loses its lubricant.
Banks hold the candy, but only stored in the oceans
virtual becoming more real than evident links
absorbing trust, kindness and patience to make humanity less.
Power tussle of nations to show who owns the pie
while poverty and greed slips underneath to make it taste sour.
Religion and sectional identity, emerging lords
never voted for, yet mandated to sting.
What matters the most matters less
and what matters less is craved the most,
a lesson unlearned, not until attacked by a virus.
Lockdown necessitates a two-day hold of papa’s hand,
which is a hundred times more than the previous ten years.
Societal red flags normalized for the world to move fast,
family is life, to love is also to live.
When basics are complicated, the world needs a reset
no thanks to affliction, history still is the teacher.
Family, love and happiness, others should remain appendages
this should be on every flag when we are set free.
III.
Making it worse, the doctors had told her
that great damage had been done by the birth,
she could never carry children again,
was bound to be childless on this earth,
for months she was just a big ball of hurt.
And when she thought of the junkie boy’s fate
she felt growing inside a ball of hate.
It made no sense, why God would do this to her,
but reward someone who had done such wrong.
She’d always lived her life the best she could,
and tried to operate by morals strong,
even when it meant she wouldn’t belong.
But the degenerate got to have kids
despite all the awful things that she did?
She felt like she was being punished for
something, but what it was she didn’t know.
And what kind of God would reward evil
yet lay upon a good soul such a blow?
Then break her womb, and leave her without hope.
Maureen slowly stopped going to the church,
would worship no one who left her in the lurch.
Her mind would just fume, it went on for years,
thinking of that damn crack-baby out there,
living out the life her son was denied,
no doubt trapped in a world of great despair,
and she knew just how that child would fare.
Trapped in the system, born of ruined stock,
to be in trouble until cell doors locked.
That’s what had been preferred to her own babe,
to such a wasted life God was endeared,
a worthless cast-off nobody wanted,
Who would grow to cause many people fear,
that was what the Almighty wanted here.
For years she just limped on, angry and bereft,
so much so that Mark eventually left.
About ten years on she normalized a bit,
enough that she started to work again,
swallowed the pain, save for her son’s birthday,
when she walked to the hospital and then
the pain would return, fill her ever sense.
That was all that Maureen cold bear to allow,
she stuck to this as if she’d taken a vow.
But way back in her head the hate remained,
for the junkie and the boy she gave life,
and no matter that mask that she put on
she knew the world was evil, and not right,
she just no longer had then strength to fight.
This pattern continued many years more,
until one brisk day when she was fifty-four.
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
#Hashtag Me Too
#I like you
#me too
#me too woke
#me too just awaken from my sleep
#me too everything not normal it stinks
#me too It started in grade school, when I pulled your hair
#me too back then it was a dare
#me too nobody cared
#me too girls in pain, boys thought it was cute
latter on it was junior high
I spit in your face may have slapped you on your chin
high school comes and I want to come in
touch your buttock, your thigh
trying to be sly(shy??)
while all along
my no training on how to really treat you
your always a lady
now adult hood
Not a piece of meat or wood
Not material thing you can just cut up or muddle
misdeeds covered up
this you see maybe D. Trump
it was simple that Clinton lawyer-ed up in speech he said
I didn't have sexually relationship with that woman
Lewd remarks to full blown assaults
Familiarity to normally
ignore them now it's reverent
social net work all communication even Twitter
Tagging that makes it possible for others
Find my messages with a specific theme or content
Men all our perfectly gentle
NOW
Group topics of discussion together
Negative treatment normalized men behavior
Myriad incidents, was that an assault
You touched me we knew it wrong
Only my God, husband or doctor can touch me there
Men who weren't ejected passing sex scandals ensnaring
Ungodly and uncaring
Women now new move in packs
To keep from being over drinks
People did people done
Some in the name of religion
Self indulge forgiveness
#me too
#me too have you been violated
#me too
#me too money and power means I own you
#me too
#me too De-stigmatize those bad men powerful good guys
Too strong, too righteous to be convicted ha
#me too God be with you
12/01/17
Are we the shade of the shadow
or a shadow in the shade.
Are we sashaying toward pinhole dreams?
While trudging above an open grave.
It all seems like a giant garish gothic play
acts and players hand-picked centuries in advance.
Hobbled masses humbly kneel on crumbs to pray.
Realizing opinion nor ballot was ever worth a damn.
These two-legged, greedy, greasy snakes.
Eyes made of slag have no vacancy signs.
Clogging up our gossamer soul veins.
They're here to minimize, intimidate.
Project, disappear, dismiss, assassinate.
Straitjacket the masses with normalized madness.
We, the people, are not the ones playing God.
Poisoning water, field, sky...
Smiling in the light while eating innocents.
In the shadow of ritual and sacrifice.
These devils openly mock and taunt us now.
(byproducts of a boiling swamp).
Yellowing the face of flailing freedom.
A billion greenbacks can galvanize
such audacity and shallow bravery.
Of these deeply soiled oligarchs
and pathetic plastic kings.
They twitch along nerves
still wired to those fever
induced rooms, memories
of faces pressed against
windows, peering in through
curtains with their red eyes,
screams stuck in throats
suffocating to a groan
in gaping mouths.
There were places to hide
when day came around,
a dark cave inside
an iron shed with pale
constellations of old nail holes
feigning starlight overhead.
The world was kept
on the other side
of a peep hole
in the wall of the shed.
And yet there were lovely
flowers blooming
under a bright sun,
the day would carry on
with the ordinary things
that had to be done.
Terror would wear off
and morph into something
else instead, normalized
by the trick
of becoming numb,
or be little more than
a slight disturbance
fizzing in the wiring
of the head.
Besides,
who would understand
when what was there
has now moved
way beyond the vocabulary
of a word weary tongue.
How does one merely object to corruption?
When all that would amount to is an exhalation
A statue is made to crumble
But a statement is eternal
I’m alone again
I didn’t know loneliness like this could exist
In my “home country”
Where I hide from even myself
The insidious sensationalist ethos
Entwined with noxious entitlements
Layered in chemical chaos
Wrapped in morbid malevolence
My lungs do not breathe hypocrisy
My heart does not pump oil
I cannot thrive in an idiocracy
My soul cannot help but recoil
I grasp my index finger
As a tiny child would cling to their mother’s leg
Feeling my own pulse
Like a calming rhythm of her safe love
I feel as if I’m living on a red cartograph
And the only thing I’ve had to brace myself
Are the very few and far between blue toothpicks
The unshakable base layer of toxic red
As contiguous and intact
Since the very first colonies of religious and racist entitlement falsely took hold
And now, even the toothpicks are purple
Stolen, my energy and love mustn’t also be
Transmuted into bombs and bullets
Tearing apart our neighbors’ families and erasing cultures
Killing our sisters, daughters and mothers with pious neglect
They shall not receive a penny of my tax revenue
They shall not know the warmth of my blood
They shall not earn a drip of my sweat
They will never see a drop of my tears
I categorically reject their normalized bigotry
With every single fiber of my moral being
I forsake their weaponized animosity
And refuse to ever be contributing
Wake.
Commute.
Work.
Repeat.
They call this living?
I call it the hamster wheel—
spinning faster each year
while the cage only shrinks.
Three jobs to afford one roof.
Two hours of daylight between shifts.
One life slipping through fingers
calloused from climbing ladders
that only lead to more ladders.
We've normalized exhaustion,
wear our burnout like medals of honor.
"Busy" is our battle cry.
Our worth measured in productivity units,
our time sold at wholesale prices.
We scroll through highlight reels
of lives we're too tired to pursue,
while notifications remind us
there's always more to want,
always more to owe.
They say "Rise and grind"
But never ask
what's being ground down.
It's us.
Our dreams. Our wonder.
Our capacity to stare at stars
without calculating their worth.
When did we accept that breathing
was enough to call it living?
When did we decide that survival
was something we should be grateful for?
I want more than to exist in the margins
of my own life—
stealing moments between obligations,
budgeting minutes like loose change.
Living is not this endless math
of hours versus dollars.
Living is not this constant fear
that one misstep, one illness,
one market crash
could erase everything.
To merely survive
is to be haunted by the ghost
of the life you might have lived
if you weren't always running out of time,
running out of energy,
running out of hope.
We were meant for more than this—
More than automated responses.
More than weekend recoveries.
More than counting down days
until we're free, at last,
too old to use that freedom.
So tell me,
when do we stop surviving
and start living?
When do we reclaim our heartbeats
from the timeclocks?
When do we refuse to measure our worth
by our economic output?
Because I am not a machine
designed for consumption and production.
I am flesh and blood and wonder.
And I want my life back.
I want all of our lives back.
This existence of barely making it—
it's not life.
It's a sentence.
And I'm demanding a pardon.
Right now.
Today.
Before the next alarm.
Before the next bill.
Before the next "I'll live later."
Because later keeps getting later,
until later becomes never.
And I refuse to call my one wild existence
a mere survival story.
They go the way they come
the way that would always make tears drop
silently, or with a wail
by the air, or by that they left behind
they go the way they come
toothless and helpless; all, but not their heart
strong, willed so promising
without the strength of their hands and feet
illogical, unreal
all the thoughts that thriftily pass their minds
unversed to us, "normalized"
squarely straight to us like in algebra
they go the way they come
without asking, nor with permission
and thus, this blood, this tear
would always flow, like cold rain, drip
today, the next, the rest
they chose to go just how they came
Could I, should I, and may I?
You are my poetry. I am in love with his present, that my future longs for.
My poetry is you, pale love.
Your giddy eyes mesmerize me, your plump lips catch my attention, and your charm and sweetness entice me to approach you, but your disposition begs me to stay with you. Your hugs and smiles make me happy. My heart feels like a nuclear bomb might detonate when I touch you.
Could I, should I, or may I?
Even though it is nighttime, light displays remain motionless against the rain.
However, as we play around, Your lips begin to flow within mine, and mine begin to flow within yours.
But the rain continues to fall
However, you've forced me to see love as painful even though it's also fascinating. You've made me crush my love like an elephant tramples an ant, you've normalized pain while making love seem strange to me. Even though it shocks me when I see it, and you've forced me to question my identity even whilst forcing me to discover it.
What is intended for you is the will to act.
What is wished for you is a passion for care.
What I wanted for you was to understand my love.
We judge in others
what we secretly fear within ourselves,
the mirror of hypocrisy polished daily
until it blinds our reason.
I have walked England’s most expensive street,
and as a Black man,
I was clothed in poverty not of my making—
criminal, beggar, illegal—
an identity sewn into me by design,
to dehumanize for the comfort of others,
a madness normalized as truth.
When I sought only direction,
Miss White turned her face,
her lips cracked with scorn:
“I have no money!”
Her eyes had already robbed me of my dignity
before I even spoke.
This is the devil’s philosophy:
that white is holy,
that pale skin is wealth and high class,
that color is a passport to an imaginary heaven.
And thus we measure souls
by the shade of their flesh
instead of the depth of their wisdom.
I have traveled—
Europe, Africa, Asia—
and everywhere the darker the skin,
the heavier the chains of suspicion.
A second-class citizen
in a world built on fear and mirrors.
Tell me—
has your consciousness evolved enough
to sit in judgment over another soul?
If color and money can buy respect,
then respect itself is counterfeit,
and the empire of prejudice
is poorer than the beggar you despise.