Long Opt out Poems
Long Opt out Poems. Below are the most popular long Opt out by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Opt out poems by poem length and keyword.
Some lover's jealousies are such a tight squeezing embrace
that the loved one can't help feeling
coiled and embroiled
like in the grip of a loving beast or literally a bear's hug
And which makes her sigh,
why God ever chose to model her into a beauty
For the near perfection of her face and figure
highlights to him his imperfections
such that her illustrious famed facial grace
transforms him into a suspicious tamed beast!
A possessive kind of guy miner tis he
who jealously guards
this beauty secret
like upon having struck gold
and wishes to lock her up from the world
like a real-life Rapunzel's witch.
Yet as no black clouds can hide the radiant sun
her world soon comes to know
of her innocent screened charms and beauty
despite his protests and measures.
Yet in a world of unscruplous looters
this louvred love cage turns out to be that blessing in disguise
She can no longer be preyed upon by any predator guys.
Thus both lucky and unfortunate is the comely woman
But let her bloom and breathe
in love's cell or engulfing dungeon
for a free bird she was never meant to be for long.
And let her wedded man be her love's protective warden
so no body but he is lured by her look and lovesong!
She can't just forever fly and sing foot-loose and fancy-free.
A plethora of cocks out there might try to charm her
with their new feathers
serenading her with new love songs in the wind.
All she must do is
snap out from
and slip away from
their flirty fantasy.
For she can either opt out and walk out
or stay in and stay on, but not both,
for the sake of her beloved
and wise values of scruples and principles.
My best friends are “there for me.” Each, in turn, presents their partial list of people who’re upset with me - with my “social suicide” decision to opt-out of my senior year and go, instead, to university.
It seems that by forgoing 12th grade, I'm rejecting their way of life, attacking mass production or committing an act of terrorism.
I try to explain this obsession I have, since the pandemic lock-down, to get out and into the world.
The great pandemic isolation scraped away at me, left me feeling ransacked and empty. I can’t ignore the call of freedom any more than I could yank out my heart and continue living.
They can’t seem to hear me - it’s like I’m mumbling, speaking in tongues, or talking to myself
If you are new to Wainuiomata,
There are some things it is good to know.
If you lose your Wallet,
Don't panic,
Continue with your picnic,
The Wallet will most likely find its way home.
No harm will come to you,
If you give a nod or cheery hello,
To those who on the street pass you.
If you are only shopping for a few items,
You will generally be moved to the front of the Que.
If your IQ is not too emotional,
And you wear a mask.
Owners of dogs,
Are usually trained well by their pets.
The weather can be quite tricky,
And if you see a few rain clouds,
Don't think it means you can opt out of mowing your lawns.
It took us thirty years to get it right,
But some have been known to do it in twenty.
My electronic pen as drunk as a blind bat rattles along the virtual pages of my computer trying to make sense of its staggering direction,
Not knowing which word will next come out of its nib, mainly keeping a balance, endeavoring not to topple over, or to make scrawling blotches on its whitened board.
It is interesting that one can surmise the demise of a pen, by checking the balance of ink life that remains. However if the pen is drunk it will display uneven levels of ink life as it rocks and staggers across fallen white leafs destined to change color.
Many a writer has become an idea dwarf. Hence, what is called writer’s block, sets in. I have found myself down that street a few times and have exercised my drunken pen’s syndrome option to its fullest.
Nothing quite like it though, as this form of writing makes no sense to the closed minded reader, but a satisfactory opt out when the writer’s mind is blocked, to resort to using their drunken pen.
This is a rewrite, because I am firing blanks and this says it all.
I wake again, the sky still ash
Mostly soft, not quite the weight of lead
seen at five a.m; that god awful flash
of knowing there is nothing when dead
Here inside a room, trying to recall
if sleep or darkness shapes it all
Whiskey breath eats away my face
Oh good! Aubade… finally shows a trace
The afterlife sleeps in, it always does
Woken up in the usual way
Another drink, a top-up buzz
Lifts my spirits, just above dismay
I fumble around with unopened post
Get dressed, eat flakes, feeling like toast
Hope and despair make a meagre pact:
That life bears fruit, and breakfast lacked
I breathe, then sniff, try steady a hand
light a smoke, or slap on a patch
Gesture defiance, attempt to stand
brave it out past the hallway latch
Go search, or not, for what comes after
opt in, opt out, call on the pastor
Who's high as a kite on altar wine,
“There's nothing” he sobs, “or do you bring a sign?”
His eyes light up, as I offer him a line
And you know! that day turned out just fine.
Life is a never ending series
Of highs and a bunch of lows
Where we're heading, what lies ahead
We really don't want to know
Let it all be a big surprise
We're just along for the ride
Some make a lasting impression on folks
Some don't as hard as they try
Some seem destined for greatness
Born with a silver spoon
But in the end, when their number's up
It's farewell financial tycoon
The most successful entrepreneur
Cannot opt out of the plan
It's not the size of your portfolio that counts
It's your value to your fellow man
When we really get down to basics
We put pants on one leg at a time
So give yourself a reality check, my friends
Be helpful be generous and kind
Life is a never ending series
Of highs and a bunch of lows
Where we're heading, what lies ahead
We really don't want to know
©Jack Ellison 2012
Life is a never ending series
Of highs and a bunch of lows
Where we're heading, what lies ahead
We really don't want to know
Let it all be a big surprise
We're just along for the ride
Some make a lasting impression on folks
Some don't as hard as they try
Some seem destined for greatness
Born with a silver spoon
But in the end, when your number's up
It's farewell financial tycoon
The most successful entrepreneur
Cannot opt out of the plan
It's not the size of your portfolio that counts
It's your value to your fellow man
When we really get down to basics
We put our pants on one leg at a time
So give yourself a reality check, folks
Be helpful be generous and kind
Life is really a never ending series
Of highs and a bunch of lows
Where we're heading, what lies ahead
We really don't want to know
© Jack Ellison 2014
I made my periodic visit to the medico the other day.
Said he, "Hop on the scale, I want to see how much you weigh!"
He didn't say a word, but I knew from the look in his eyes,
That I'd better opt out of eating cookies, cakes and pies!
Water cress, cottage cheese and tofu I really do abhor.
They just don't satisfy my cravings and leave me wanting more.
When meat and taters and fancy desserts are on the board,
For me, those are delicacies that just cannot be ignored!
I reckon I've tried every diet that is the latest fad.
My spouse tires of altering my pants to ensure I'm properly clad.
When that tire inflates and begins lopping over my belt,
Its time to diet again, slim down, and look a bit more svelte!
My spouse has decreed we're going on another exotic cruise.
What's a feller to do with all that grub from which to choose?
Bouillabaise Marsellaise, Beef Wellington, Lobster Thermidor;
That doesn't even include desserts, which I simply can't ignore!
I exercise, count the calories, but its tough to shed those pounds.
Will-power I lack when such delectable food abounds.
Lord, my supplication is to help me exercise more fortitude,
That my craving for all that fare will be of lesser magnitude!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
There are many games you can play in life,
But the only one, that one stands any chance of winning,
Is the game of Love.
I have been playing it for seventy years and hope to die still in the game.
I was born into it, but being born into it is of limited advantage,
As there are a thousand enticements to opt out of the game,
For short-term gain and long- term pain.
There are strict rules for this game,
Any one of the following will get you started in the game:
Trust, integrity, empathy, realistic expectations.
But be aware there are always going to be people with no integrity,
Who will gleefully sell you fake chips,
That are only redeemable at the tables of,
Hate, Envy, Jealousy, Self-loathing, Revenge, Unrealistic expectations, and Greed.
At any stage of the game, you may find yourself landing on a square,
That requires you to make a sacrifice if you want to own,
A get out of jail free card and increase your chances of staying in the game.
I suggest you make the sacrifice, and you will find,
That it was no sacrifice at all.
I have several get out of jail free cards, at home,
And if you find yourself sitting at a table other than the table of love,
If you admit your mistake,
There are angels both earthly and heavenly,
Who can help you get back to our table.
My electronic pen as drunk as a blind bat rattles along the virtual pages of my computer trying to make sense of its staggering direction, not knowing which word will next come out of its nib, mainly keeping a balance, endeavoring not to topple over, or to make scrawling blotches on its whitened board.
It is interesting that one can surmise the demise of a pen, by checking the balance of ink life that remains. However if the pen is drunk it will display uneven levels of ink life as it rocks and staggers across fallen white leafs destined to change color. Many a writer has become an idea dwarf. Hence, what is called writer’s block, sets in. I have found myself down that street a few times and have exercised my drunken pen’s syndrome option to its fullest. Nothing quite like it though, as this form of writing makes no sense to the closed minded reader, but a satisfactory opt out when the writer’s mind is blocked, to resort to using their drunken pen.