Long Overridden Poems
Long Overridden Poems. Below are the most popular long Overridden by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overridden poems by poem length and keyword.
Never Too Late To Say "I Love You" Until...
Futile lamentations reverberate along
corridors of times long gone, this papa
tearfully apologetic revisiting his base,
fitfully lachrymose torturing unrelenting
voluminous wrongs against thee dearest
precious daughter aware poetic/ prosaic
ministrations cannot substitute bonafide
nor ameliorate cumulative forsaken joys
requisite to bolster compromised delicate
innocence exhibited upon begetting deux
darling (wool worth more than fine spun
gold) healthily nurturing priceless progeny
two quickly grown to young womanhood
priceless offspring, whose treasured quasi
nubile kindled joie de vivre far surpassed
petrified plaguing yours truly (particularly
during pre/ post pubescent phase), outlook
grim to take life by the horns, nee apathetic
pestiferous psychological, frankly zapped
wracked, plagued aversion to live steering
any natural borne autonomy, (within meek
minecrafted muffled mortgaged self) bereft
existence, (albeit manifesting during latter
sainted days of boyhood), a death grip vis a
vis anorexia nervosa (robbing, stunting, and
halting critical puberty) against attaining my
maximum potential, nee then and every sub
seek went till present day truncating, stifling
raining aftermath of torturous, noxious, jinxed
insufferably hellacious, (hence reiteration to
cease livingsocial, rather antisocial) under_
scored, ordained, narrated by whirled series
of unfortunate events, (without courtesy of
Lemony Snicket), which passivity degraded,
exacerbated, fouled... gradual punctuation to
adulthood overridden when me as man-child
never tested survival, but found this scrivener
beating hasty retreat defeated by emotional
illness demarcating the Waterloo which I
fitfully fought when mandatory ultimatums,
measures, dictates...forced eviction within
cocooned hideaway (such as bedroom at 324
Level Road), which parallel repeated when
decamped at 1148 Greentree Lane, the latter
poisoned your welfare, with dire declaration
of toxic dependence (Zison's harshness) fed
deprivation, and desperation, while ye bore
brunt of emotional, financial, mental...fallout
indelibly etched within impressionable
Tabula Rasa, now the anguished suffering
ye unfairly experienced.
AU REVOIR!
8/3/21
When I get drunk I smoke THC like a chain smoker
Never been able to stay sober
A new day and hangover
Stand in the way and it's game over
It's time I take over
These fools can't even play poker
All they care about is their Range Rover
Burn 'em down with a flamethrower
Then follows a strange odor
Dagnabbit
On this planet
At times, I nearly had it
Sick of always being an addict
And such pitiful habits
You'd think I have on a strait jacket
Tearing at the very fabric
Of reality during a Black Sabbath
There's constant racket
And endless havoc
Eventually we all end up in the casket
That's just a given an automatic
Don't be a chicken
And always panic stricken
As of today, nothing safe from being off-limits
It could soon be forbidden
In this odd world we live in
I was able to fit in
Yet I didn't
I don't like religion
Or history because half of it could be fiction
I try to see it all with crystal clear vision
Easier said than done, the same can be said for wisdom
It's global, not just here to Great Britain
There's always competition
And shady politicians
As well as brain washing on the television
This is not no superstition
Or just my intuition
It's going beyond that, regardless of if you listen
A lot of good in the world was overridden
There's more than meets the eye, therefore something's hidden
Meanwhile the plot continues to thicken
Like a diamond in the rough, I glisten
Always completing my mission
Yet no luck with women
To this day
It's sad to say, and the cause of much dismay
No I'm really not okay
Like anyone
I just wanted to be loved
When push came to shove
I turned to drugs
And always got a full mug
Now I'm always numb
And hum to the beat of my own drum
Not proud of what I've done
A lot of which has been dumb
I admit at times when I was young
I was a bum
And often glum
Now I have come from
A long way and then some
At time I can be one
Hell of a son of a gun
Continually I've dug
It was all for none
Ugh
I can't continue to shove under the rug
I need a lot more than a hug
Or a juug
Off another plug
Love should only ever kindle the present and the future. Not the past…
Primarily, I am second.
For I have placed others on similar platforms
Made of charred cedar and revamped memories
Unintentionally
It is not intent that we embrace, but the end result.
Good, brief.
Bad, seared.
Branded
I hang my smile on half-mast remembrance,
The elaborate touch of yesterday’s smile
Forgotten
And days go by
Where cryptic anger holds me dear
Because my identity becomes nothing more
Than a discarded 140 characters
Yet, this handsome error
Will still smile through the equally equivocal flaws
Of others
We are a marathon running on seismographic parallels.
Faults, unbecoming
Faults, embedded
One-sided
Expiration, denied
The pricelessness of my heart, cost overridden
Perhaps it has become the only option
To keep love’s punishment, subdued
While songs of psychic animosities,
Lay judgment on unawareness’ smile
It is not easy to reach wanton goals,
While attempts to (mind) read incoming ruptures
Incorporate 50% success rate
We stumbled when we ran yesterday.
We will stumble when we walk today.
We shall stumble upon the sunrise & sunset of tomorrow.
Why couldn’t you just hold my hand when we fall?
…
I am, Error.
One day, I will become a candle in the wind
Extinguished
Will the winds upon angel’s wing
Be guided by those same smiles
Tossed into amnesia’s similar gust
©D.J.E.
Living in the Now Generation and I'm eating the snails dust
In this world I've been cast in it's be Number One or bust
I'm watching the pitcher pitch and the batter bat
But who nowadays truly cares for all of that?
We want to get the most out of our day, quick as possible, please
People twist the meaning and think something crude, when I say "Get on your knees"
It's a four letter word it seems... P-R-A-Y
It's pleasure first, and soul second, no one wonders why
They'd rather get caught up in a dreamy haze
Maybe I do the same, the way I look back on bygone days
Some might call me a penny left in the storm to rust
If that's so someone come save me and someone come earn me
And I know it will be just your luck cause
A couple hundred years ago my quality was up to here
Almost close enough to kiss the stars goodnight
But due to inflation and our technology overridden nation
I'm just too far away for you to see my light
At the Superbowl we look like savages with war paint
Ten thousand people here - why do I feel so alone?
Give me the small crowds, the kids eating flavored ice
I guess I'm honestly not all that BIG so I'm going HOME
I don't come to the game to see who's winning
Truth be told I'm falling asleep right at the third inning
I can't see the score anyway, it's blurred by the sultry weather
But damn it, at least back then we were together!
Oh on onlookers oversized overridden octagonal oceanographic organised octaves
A shrouded sinister sparkle said hello to a dish cloth today. But the array of plates, pans and cutlery shouted in protest for they required much manual labour to clean and manual labour is neither a manure making messy meres nor is is meandering moonlit motorways moving linking lineages. "Oh do pass one the bottle then of caper spiced spirited sauce" for to remain stoic is to symbolise a washing line beam on a radiating clothes horse. Drying not driving. Method of medial sip. And thus sauce was consumed. With a twist and a twitch from a comically positioned moustache to place in fakery. Not real you see. Rather unbecoming. And the lady's green sea skirt next to me caresses my hand in delightful tidal torques. But Torquemada would be a blind moose in a bakery or a fried frightened biscuit placed close to the fire on uneven levels. So said the party of evening ten. Which droned on and on and on and on and on. Until the misted mistletoe maid slept for three quarters of an hour then left to milk the many lines of the herds. Oh simpleton shrinkage! Hark at arks in prismatic glow style. And go to a view. Ha at no one. Z to slumber. And merely observationally at eighteen peeled plus to fourteen koalas kayaking in kitchens. 1 2 3 4 ~ -
Form:
Sail from afar of my journey made.
What could be the sound my ear do hear?
This seems to be that of a glorious celebration,
Which needs no ear to be put on the wall.
Ogiri leti.
The wonderful work of men in women at the village square.
When asked of what celebration it could be.
The Independence and new birth of our nation.
In purity of joy my heart celebrates the celebration from this long term slavery.
Not knowing that it's starting of the yoke to be place on us,
The foundation which was laid in 1914.
While now at close sixty still a crawling lad.
Despite the cry for this change and that change.
Hmmmmm...
When the foundation is destroyed, what can the righteous do?
Now we're amuse by fulanization of us which has been brought by RUGA.
Why the cry is coming now when our silence is grace by the Independence slavery.
Equity doesn't help the indolence but the Swift.
War here and there is said to be the eminent solution.
How dare you note that?
Trust that you've met with the victims of the Biafra war,
Your testimony would have changed.
Ibere ogun lanri kosenitoleri eyin re.
Dear great Divine kindly arise to our rescue for kwanshoko has overridden the belly.
Ode to Fanny
Her start in life was rather poor
with wastrel parents, ones to abhor
She avoided living in the gutter
Earning enough for her bread and butter
Her break in life came rather later
Before, bigamy and babies to underrate her
Her kids grew up in the care of another
She never took to being a mother
Her culinary skills proved rather good
She could write and critique on all kinds of food
Destined to star in sixties telly
She graced her shows in glitzy finery
Her zany persona was rather dippy
Her dress was ball gown and misplaced lippy
Shunning apron and hat that looked so drab
‘Cos cooking and baking should always look fab
The man she had met was rather fine
Ex army major, life was divine
They fronted shows as man and wife
Fanny and Johny, well matched and no strife
Her fame continued for rather a while
Overridden by others in different style
And gaffes too many, they booted her out
No telly shows, no gowns to flout
Her recipes of the past still rather great
She put pizza and prawn cocktail on our plate
She and Johny, always a couple
Poor but content to remain conjugal
Ooh rather!
I was right in the middle of commenting to peers at Poetry Soup when the power went off and I found myself in utter darkness and feeling disappointed since it was still only 10:45, a time much too early for night owls like myself. After groping my way upstairs in the dark, I have managed to locate my pen and paper (can’t even find a flashlight!) and here I sit out on my porch step using the little light of a nearly moonless night and of my trusty cell phone. The sound of crickets around me is large! Their chirping fills up the silence, and there's the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance. Even at this late hour, I can hear cars zooming down streets several blocks away, but all of that is overridden by the crickets and the wind rustling leaves on nearby trees. Cooled by the night breeze and feeling undaunted, I begin to work on my little poem.
This Mellow August Night
Out here as I sit on my porch,
cooled by a summer breeze,
I’m soothed by the rustling sound of
leaves on the nearby trees.
The chorus of crickets I hear
chiming in as I write
is a lullaby without end
this mellow August night.
Aug. 17, 2012
I awoke to the sound
Of the rooster crow
Red handed with green thumbs
Covered in dirt and soap in my eyes
I walk down the hall
Of this house that is now mine
Wander into the kitchen
Turn on the stove, I prepare the roast
There is a note stuck to the refrigerator
"John and Mary will be over later,
I'll be home around two."
I check on the garden
I visited last night
Only now, I harvest
I grab the shovel
That I forgot in the rain
And place it in the shed
I'll come back for it later
Next time the plants need to be fed
Now that the aroma
Of the freshly cooked meat
Has overridden the stench
I go into the dining area
And place my greasy knife
On the bench
"Honey! I'm home!"
Somebody cried
"Honey's not here"
I replied
Now blood is everywhere
I go fetch the shovel
I didn't think would be needed
So soon, it's only noon
I sit and I wait
On the love seat in the den
For the night to live
And the day to be dead
Form:
The Cry of The Virgin
I am weak, I am naive and innocent,
Yet you marshal your deceitful might,
And mount yourself upon me,
To rob me of my innocence.
My cry for help calls for your humane attention,
But my plea for mercy is overridden
By your malicious act.
Why thrust your manhood upon me?
Why spew your filth and pollute my purity?
An eve of darkness hoists fear,
As I visualize your act.
The whispers of wind amplify my cry,
And God’s breath burns hot to curse your advance—
Yet you do not heed my voice.
Are you a father figure or my spouse?
Are you my guardian or my tormentor?
Are you my brother or my villain?
Are you my savior or an opportunist?
Stop the malicious touch.
Do not force a laugh upon me,
For this is my virgin cry.