Long Objectified Poems
Long Objectified Poems. Below are the most popular long Objectified by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Objectified poems by poem length and keyword.
‘Forever’ drops through the cracks of time.
The everlasting is a way of saying never-lasting.
We had to change its meaning
for the sake of the children
for those who need nursery rhymes,
and the nursery rhymes are too deep
for the children to comprehend.
The ‘children’ are ancient, ageless,
they live on
in the collective unconsciousness.
So we make-up words that mean
the opposite of their true meaning.
'Love' for instance,
love does not mean love something
or anything. Love objectified
outside of you is a mirage.
If you add forever to the word ‘love’
you conflate an idea with a reality.
When you have something to give,
then you can give.
Without this self-loving
you have nothing to offer.
You can only truly love yourself.
Without this understanding
love becomes for-never.
Some say words are powerful
yes and no –
for unless you know the root of a word
you will not know the truth of a word.
Mind, the architect of life’s structure,
obeys what is learnt as the art of living.
Heart, the carrier of nonlinear abstract intellect,
breathes emotive truth in the framework of being.
If the diktat of mind is not pursued,
life is sucked into the whirlpool of chaos,
and not listening to the subtle urge of heart,
life turns into an unfulfilling objectified entity.
Intangible confrontation with either this or that,
designs the dubious dilemma of option,
for lack of equanimity valuing one over the other
causes the onset of neurotic inner conflict.
The foreseeable forks in life’s pathway tests
if judgment and wisdom falter in internal strife.
The rational balance of mind and heart
finds psychic route out of cognitive dissonance.
________________
August 18, 2022
Contest : Inner Conflict
Sponsored by : Unseeking Seeker
(This is about sex believe it or not, which I connect a lot to expressing thoughts about death)
She lives thru the lies. Bruised open thighs
Coasts on the high. soul flows free like a...like a, can't explain it yet.
Open as the sky. Is it the wrong thing to do ?
Addicted to the fact of being in love with the things that don't blend well with the things that are abstract.....
Make cents? No, make sense.
Here to be objectified. She's another one of those lost souls looking for the re-freedom we all deserve.
If she ever makes it out of her head , she'll return to earth.
Wake her up when it's time for the rebirth, until then she'll
spin and spin
and rehearse the emotions
feelings
vibes as you may..
to living till that shiny hearse drives away
into the white shiny glow of the light.
Is this heaven ?
From the age of 10, we were
If boys pulled out hair or poked us with pencils
They liked us.
But we didn't like it very much.
We were 13 years old when we would walk down the street
And had men look at us from our face to our feet.
We'd listen as they completely replaced our identity
From human--to object..
Momma always said "If a strange man is followin' you, go to the other side of the street. And if they grab you--Scream."
This was something we had to learn at 13 just because we were young and naive.
We got our ass slapped in school but it was cool because
it meant we had nice bodies
And they rated our bodies 1-10, if you were a 10
you heard whistles and "damn girl!"
But if you were a "damn girl"
You weren't a damn girl at all
You were just a toy labeled "Do whatever you want to, even though I don't agree."
We had to watch what we were because if too much shoulder was showing
We had to change our clothes because it was distracting the boys from their learning
So the only we were learning were tips and tricks to tie up our shirt so that
It didn't hang too low because that would show the boys we wanted it.
Because wearing shorts and tank tops meant we were flaunting it.
When we were 16, we screamed because the men on the street finally caught up to us
We quietly said "Don't touch me there.."
But that meant go
We said no
But that meant yes
So they grabbed us and unzipped our dress
They threw us down where ur dignity sank lower than the ground
They hovered over us as we pleaded for them to stop
They got on top of us and you don't need to know the rest because we're some
Of the 68% of victims that never tell a soul so we'll just grab our dress and go home
We'll take a few showers and try to get some sleep
In the morning, we'll choose an outfit that looks the most discreet
Because we never want another man to look at us and think
We're sweet enough to taste.
We will sit in the back of class so know one ask how our weekend was
Because if they do, We might just burst into tears
We went from boys poking us
To men provoking us
We went from playing with toys
To being to toys ourselves
So boys will be boys
And us women will never tell...
PAs or Care Agency?
The thing that you need most if you’re disabled,
Is respect and control when you’re being assisted,
‘Cos you have a distance from your personal tasks,
Sometimes from birth, so you just need extended.
PAs respect, cherish and give you freedom totally,
When they’re caring or simply just standing by,
And because you choose them by interview,
Friendship’s possible, and they can maybe say hi.
However, if you want banter or direction,
Home care from a care agency is right,
Because they'll help you move and function,
Letting you overcome a confusing night.
They talk about their families instantly,
And the films and shows that they've seen,
And if they can, they'll talk about nutrition,
Give you a clue about what grams mean.
But, I have to say, they’re very often grouchy,
If you ask for something new or different,
And there’s domineering carer-types that chide,
Who want to control what’s your entitlement.
I had PAs for approximately seven years,
But I think my mum hated them, though silently,
Because they loved and treasured me and my beliefs,
Which objectified in proclivities to live fluently.
I hope that one day I leave the home care system,
It’s not for disabled people anyway, just the elderly,
Who are accustomed to their own home environment,
So care visits for them are fine most definitely.
I don't like not being free to live my own life,
Eating and all else just when they come, are here,
And sometimes I need something when they’re gone,
When I’m alone, by myself, to shrink and fear.
I watched left behind on Channel 5 last night,
As I thought that the Christians had recently got it right,
About just what exactly it is that they believe,
That the rapture and tribulation out they did leave.
But no, it was there as the films main event,
The godly disappeared because they did repent,
Avoided the 7 years tribulation of storm and upheaval,
That was for those who weren't on for removal.
I was glad that it objectified things I'd been taught,
In my childhood when I was told I'd been bought;
I tried to convince my playtime carers that I was chained,
To freaks who thought that by the blood they were stained.
I told them my parents thirst for Jesus in my throat remained,
But they surmised that my position was untenable, not too strained;
So I welcome the much needed assertion of sanity it's brought,
And know that for some of us Left Behind’s a well considered thought.
Bt I'm sad that it's spreading a message of division,
And for those that watch it who come under conviction;
The influence of the film screen and its cinematics mean,
That the more vulnerable may be taken by it and overly keen.
It was a ridiculous scenario, thought and possible occurrence,
And I need to say that there is no God with complete assurance;
But there should be no hesitation or diffidence in asking if he's there,
For about rational inquiry and philosophical thought we should care.
20/9/2015
Our heart is where desires arise
and where they are in time resolved
but since we cling to wisps of smoke,
we remain in our dreams involved.
Seeking love that soul may expand,
causes suffering since we seek,
whilst if we embrace and release,
monk mode plugs the energy leak.
Ego has objectified love,
reducing it to an exchange,
so when the echo returns not,
we feel morbid contractions strange.
Belied expectation breaks hearts,
destiny delusion foretold,
so it’s best to be void centric,
inking heart with love hues of gold.
True joy that does not come and go,
throbs within us as vibrant bliss,
at an octave of agape love,
bestowed by Divine Mother’s kiss.
Grazed by spirit, our heart is healed,
never to be broken again,
for we see this life is but play
and pristine soul is free from stain.
Hark bliss beats call to one and all,
as God’s sublime effervescence,
which is mirrored in every heart;
light eternal, our quintessence.
Let’s take this outside
Your turn to be objectified
Necktied offside and brutified
Come step outside
Where you can no longer hide
Now you and me can collide
You’re worse than godzilla’s bride
Torpefied and vilified
Uglified, mean and evil-eyed
Always snide and undignified
Ringside, in your false pride
the eyes of Hitler recognized
Executing his genocide
Feeling justified nationwide
Lately I’ve been preoccupied
With thoughts of homicide
Accident by countryside
broadside you flip side
See you land in the fireside
For all the misery aside
you put me through - testified
Is your meanness really classified
I’m no longer taking it - qualified
I‘m no longer hiding it - quantified
No more excuses - are you satisfied?
Germicide and pesticide
Have you ever tried
To drink a ton of formaldehyde
To soften up your cowhide
Now we can go back inside
Your reign of terror on override
You’re toast and you’re fried
You’re been hogtied and humanified
Stupefied and rectified
Just as prophesized
AP: Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on May 16, 2018 for contest 8-MILE STYLE POETRY CONTEST sponsored by NICK TRIM - RANKED 4TH
“The Nazi’s had no value of life,
They neither understood it,
Nor did they reckon it merited any value,”
My dad objectified at the table,
One Remembrance Sunday,
When I was young.
Although November the 11th,
Was inaugurated by King George the V,
In 1919, just after World War I,
As a day of remembrance of the Great War,
We use it as a day on which,
We can consider both wars,
And, for some, any war.
The King never wanted again,
To see any more bloodshed between nations,
And so rendered it as our choice,
By making it the people’s contemplation.
We must remember their resilience,
Their hope in the face of certain death;
Tirelessness embroidered in tears,
Their well considered bliss in pallid gloom.
Fight and figure jostled the in-education,
Of the German’s thirst for war, power and dictatorship;
And truth flamed in our side,
Until by our character we succeeded.
That valour is perhaps passed on to us,
The kids of future generations,
Because from our older relatives,
We can understand how they fought.
With this bravery, we need to cultivate,
Trust, love and understanding between nations,
Between our foreign neighbours and friends,
So that killing and maiming is not a possibility.
The spices release their scent to ease my heart,
numb ~ yet tracing glasses brimming with tears,
aching for a touch of chamomile wisps,
beneath a sky that reeks of regrets
and words unspoken ~ too afraid to rephrase,
like smoke incensed with sulfur,
like blue cheese and old pickles,
tickling the curves of this melanin melancholy,
urging these fingers to purge forgotten rhymes,
as if there is no ingredient for healing,
when loneliness creeps like a slow poison…
But must I thaw the ice within cups of compassion,
infused with clovers of peace,
when I am a mere reflection of your mistakes,
a table adorned with plates of bitter weeds,
listening to the sagas of the rain and sun?
They taste not my pulse of patience,
as I remain, the feeler of phasing appetizers,
rotting in ruins ~ objectified and rejected,
by the twisted tongue of vanity and silence…