Long Obsessively Poems
Long Obsessively Poems. Below are the most popular long Obsessively by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Obsessively poems by poem length and keyword.
Crescent Time Breathing
There is no reach by which we as breathing creatures of crescent time,
Can ascertain the crouching intentions behind an elm tree with acorn outbursts,
Designed to scan the visions of the seething statues which stand upright in dark halls,
There is no grasping the dog tail complacencies by which we as mandrakes can navigate,
The crest-line urgencies behind drawn curtains which beggars a pittance of mild regret,
Absorbed obsessively with intense window flashings at noon with skin and lace,
3 o’clock connivances wearing nothing but a wistful grin seeking summits of perfumed ice,
There is no reach by which any living contrivance can mock the wags of crescent time,
We are ridiculous in our incessant acorn outbursts designed to scan the farthest atom.
Word play, captures me, takes me hostage,
Keeps me enthralled, Entranced, fascinated
Intrigued as nothing else can today
Obsessively manipulated by this passion
I am hopelessly at her mercy. Giving up other things,
Rebuking people, Held in willing exile by word play
She wakes me up with a line in my head.
At two or three many mornings.
Keeps me alive, not fully in this world,
But rather in a linguistic realm, where I could escape
I smile, knowing my personalities and proclivities.
When I stop playing with these squiggles and dots
I will walk away, cold turkey, wiping my sandals off
Never to pick a pen or a pencil up again.
Will it be soon?
That's the beauty of it.
I never know
until that day.
My African-American
young adolescent daughter,
since she was age five
needing a therapeutic home and family,
with Oppositional Disorder
and deviantly diverse neural-cognitive communication patterns,
would have voted for Donald Trump if she could.
In large part,
I suspect and fear,
because she is obsessively attracted
to what and whom she knows is bad for her.
Bad medicine.
Toxic sights and sounds and feelings.
Poisons for all sensory receptors,
Mutually oppositional reiterative disorder
perpetually trading barbs of blame and shame,
games she so loves to hate to play,
with tendencies toward bipolar disarray.
Why does she seem to prefer older
straight
blond boys?
Probably because she identifies herself as a younger
brown-skinned
curly-headed
(in several ways and means)
princess-diva-girl.
Anyway,
she helped me vote for our town's Mayor,
and School Board,
and Propositions about borrowing money
to pay it back later
out of her real-estate and business tax investments.
What she thought would be more interesting investments
for her future,
rather than bridges,
and firetrucks,
and improved highways,
she thought more gardens would be nicer,
and more nutritional in the long run.
As for Mayor,
she told me to vote for "Donald."
Well, honey,
bad news.
None of these candidates is a Donald.
I didn't say Donald
I said vote for Dora.
(Did I mention her speech therapy,
and lack thereof?)
(Did I mention I'm deaf as a post
and old enough to be her Great Gay Grandfather?)
Honey,
I don't think writing in "Dora"
would be a good idea
because she's not one of the choices here.
Well,
just don't vote for Donald Trump again.
Never mind about the "again,"
as if I ever had,
or would,
But,
what came between you and your love for Donald?
He is against my mental health
and my mental health right
to live in a good community
without fear of automatic
or even not-automatic
gunfire.
You've been reading my blog again
haven't you?
No!
Why would I read anyone
not smart enough to write in Dora for Mayor?
("Outside Looking In Merit Badge", 2011, original oil)
Building a Dream
My whole life I have been observing myself
Steadily, obsessively telling a story,
Sure, throughout the day, from to time, I lose myself
In work and play and focus on others
But inevitably the focus returns to me
And all those other moments get added to my story.
This is an obsession that never rests
As the watchfulness that never sleeps
Continues to gaze wherever, in, out, around
While my program runs on top
Piecing it all together
Into a whole greater than the parts.
Now that I am old and the story is long and rich
I can see this life’s work, as natural as it is,
Has perhaps been misguided
Flawed by a fundamental compulsive program
Of being me
A dreamer never really free of the dream.
(7/29/24)
Hands held deep within my mind
Wearing the pockets out this time
Pondering the ignorance held inside
In the everything of nothing I find
Wasted Time...Wasted Time...
Obsessively scratching that itch not there
Drawing blood from skin that's already red
Slight look of indifference paints I don't care
The first impression of the already dead
Wasted Life...Wasted Life...
Eyes cast down in a myopic trance
Feet push forward in a frantic pace
Already blew that one last chance
Please don't look upon my face
Wasted Time...Wasted Life...
The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
Knowledge gained liberates or mutilates.
Ramifications of reality’s realm reached
make your insides want to abandon the body ship.
Rocking back and forth as you hurl dry acidic pain
expelled by the force of shell shocked lucidity:
You’re not good enough to be loved.
Breathing in is treason.
Your heart demands release of life’s lease.
On the kitchen floor
crumpled dreams drag to prostrate form.
Alone…..
Every reason to stay is obliterated.
Ascorbic failures scream.
Heart blood transforms to salty rivulets.
Self-loathing usurps the throne of belief.
"Appeasement sacrifice,” it sagely suggests…
"Your life!"
Relevant Reasoning...
For someone for whom love is cell oxygen
grey matter food
supreme soul sustenance,
life without full bodied Love is death.
Might as well...
Cowardice cackles and goads….
The cut isn’t deep enough.
Red streaked line mockery of mental hell feels
abhorrence breathing between the sobs
that one hears …
No one hears
Troubled mind has drained desirability’s delight.
Not strong enough to live not strong enough to die,
you are spent…
negligence purged.
Silence begs to benumb,
yet a reminder remains.
The thorn of truth finds a home.
Embedded in my side,
it won’t be denied.
Removal immuned
it is unseen by naked eye-
exposed to the naked heart.
With every movement of love making
matrimonial mattress yet exudes
the faint scent of virginal dreams...
Pain permeates
It digs in deep.
Nothing will change.
YOU cannot change.
You are unlovable.
You're troubled and troubling brain
takes beauty down to notch of insane.
Give it all away.
Lavish and ravish.
Obsessively bid for love
while you auction respect away,
but herein is the cursed truth:
You are not good enough to be loved.
You never were.
You never will be.
For Charlotte's Heart and Soul Contest
September 2, 2014
How surprising to find flesh
Where my heart should be stone
Indeed, it pounds for two loves
Only she is left here to hear it
Yet I’ve swallowed my heart
Even that day when she left
She was so close
And I could say nothing
I obsessively kept every rule
But now what good is caution
If it leaves so much unsaid?
I’ll remember all I didn’t say
If only he were so near
As some measure of miles
But I must measure that distance in years
Maybe 60 or so if I can endure it…
But 800 miles can be covered by post
So I must tell her!
What cowardice has stayed me?
Even knowing how silences linger
I have mended my heart once before
And I promised not to do this again
She lives. I love
I know I must tell her.
Depression times – no one went out
To theatres, concerts, movie shows –
They had friends in or went to their homes.
The whole country was more than broke.
There was always drinking at the parties
And a low-lying cloud of cigarette smoke.
I didn’t like the parties my parents had.
They were too loud, too over the top!
Sitting at the top of the stairs I watched.
People danced or sat on each other’s laps
And smoked and drank and sometimes smooched.
Apparently liquor was cheap and available.
Sometimes it got rowdy after a while
When everyone had a bit too much to drink.
Sometimes my mother passed out, and friends
Would laugh and lay her on the couch.
Later, there would be fights between my parents
And threats of one or the other leaving.
I didn’t – couldn’t – understand the times –
That people had to let their hair down,
Let go of the tensions of their everyday lives
And that sometimes they went too far.
By turns I was scared, anxious, embarrassed
And mortified for my parents.
Once, when I was a little older, I came downstairs
And made a scene about the drinking.
My parents sent me off to bed with a sound
Scolding about being rude and obnoxious.
For many, many years, far into adulthood,
I would not drink, would not have liquor
In the house for anyone else to drink.
I still have difficulty dealing with
Anyone who overindulges in alcohol.
Childhood experiences leave us with unseen scars.
When one feels one’s life is out of one’s control,
That becomes a permanent fear, and control
Becomes obsessively important.
My parents weathered those years,
And the ones that followed.
They were married for fifty years,
And I married and have my own family.
But I still find I want to be sure I have
Everything in my life under control.
That’s one reason I still drink very little.
"I'm talking in rhyme during our weekly group session
about panic attacks, schizophrenia and depression.
I can't stop rhyming, it's becoming an obsession.
I can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session.
Hello Carl, Hello Barbara, Kathy and Donna.
Want to talk about smoking marijuana?
Perhaps a different substance abuse?
Oh what the hell, what's the use?
I just can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session.
Let's talk anger issues or maybe passive aggression.
Will I ever stop rhyming during this weekly group session?
And hey, did I happen to mention
that I can't stop rhyming during our weekly group session?
How are you today Kamar?
What do you think of all this so far?
All of my rhyming during our weekly group session.
Will my condition get worse if I continue to converse
in poetic verse during our weekly group session?
Would medication do the trick or would it just leave me sick?
Sick here still rhyming during our weekly group session.
I must get in control of this soon or I'm mentally doomed.
I'm exhausted from rhyming during our weekly group session.
I can't take this anymore. I'm marching out that door.
I'm relieving you all of this annoying obsession.
Please don't take this personally but I'll keep on rhyming obsessively
if I spend one more moment at our weekly group session.
I think I just learned a very valuable lesson.
I should never speak in rhyme during our weekly group session,
because as you all can plainly see I ramble on endlessly
whenever I speak in rhyme during our weekly group session."
...then I walked out the door and said no more.