Long Overuse Poems
Long Overuse Poems. Below are the most popular long Overuse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overuse poems by poem length and keyword.
Hand surgeon, aptly named Charlie
Had a habit most folk view bizarrely
Each day before patients lay on his table
He sniffed a line or two which made him able
To slice and dice, hyped up head felt cathartic
Injuries presented, varied and complex
Imbibed biological Bibles, known reflex
Mere matchstick puzzle, bones twenty seven
Mirror met snow snakes, elongated elevens
Intensified his focus on anethesised subjects
Doc performs ops. at astounding rates
Each one completed, eager Charlie takes
Another line, consumed with smoothest relish
Ability to tinker successfully, truly embellished
Speed increase propels the money he makes!
High as Heaven Charlie felt himself a professor
Straight surgery defunct, fine skills suppressor
To rip skin open and zip through job, elating
Benefits of blow for bone shifts, no debating
Need to nourish nostrils with coke, incessant
11th September 2020
Of course, this phenomena is common in many industries,
including surgery. Not sure if in contemporary time,
surgeons are drug tested, but I doubt they are.
- Have been told first hand by a surgeon that it's
regularly practiced to hone their performance.
- Unfortunately, patients are not audiences
being performed to!!
- Perhaps the general public has faith in their
white collar workers, to avoid overuse.
"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit,
I told him to take my poetic pen.
He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate."
In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry,
surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind,
I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew.
Insecure with egotistical lame labels,
tormented by attention seeking tags,
irritated from imitative compliments.
Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from
reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon.
On the edge of personification,
symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize.
Sometimes there can be too many words,
sometimes not enough,
yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts.
I guess there is an art to pretending,
yet I watch my artistry fade.
We weave webs turning the internal into external,
but I question whether I was ever a poet.
Pondering if my poems served a purpose.
I have lost patience for personal prose,
rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting,
the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets.
as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy.
I hear alphabetic patrol sirens,
their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual.
An assassination of alliterations,
is causing a massacre of my muse.
There is a void in my verses,
which prevents me from roaming free.
My soul feels like a starless supernova,
a moonless sky drifting into a black hole,
as fatigued fingers become a mistress
to simple scribbles.
I yearn to be forever silent,
with no motive to write for a legacy,
so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum.
I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill,
so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden.
I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas.
Silent One
15 February 2022
dawn's over-usage
Again, again I hear another use of the word dawn in a poem,
in a phrase, in a conversation ... in my headache
... another sweet dawn, another morning dawn,
... another break of dawn, dawn's eyes peaking, another dawning
dawn, dawn, dawn
that sneak
why, why, why
please,
I want to vomit with her overuse, already
her smug little face i see every daybreak
every morning
please,
no i'm not jeolous
such rotten eggs to my eyes and ears
dawn, dawn, dawn
can life shed some good light
put it this way
Connie's going to have a cow soon
it won't be pretty
listen connie
helps on the way
Connie we hear you, we do
trust us
help is on the way we repeat
we're sending your physch doctors right away
okay,
then again maybe we're not
okay, rats
it's just that everyone's in love with dawn, doc
why the infatuation
like i woke up to a new dawn, please
people writing, like she's an animate object
people speaking like she'd a god, doc
that she ... oh, oh, will spring to life and open her arms
like an angel, or celestial being
please
she's not, doc
she nothing special
she not the easter bunny,
she's an overused phrase, doc
point being how how often do you read
about eve standing center stage
getting fawned ,exposed
not as much as dawn, doc
that ...
where did you go doc,
doc, help ... what was that about blasphemy
where did you go doc,
yet. yet just look what I read
Saturday's Wall Street Journal
head lines
vomit time
Trump Starts A New Dawn
Please, you
please, find an answer to this riddle
connie pachecho
1/24/17
AI poetry and aureate prose is quite often repulsive.
Bathetic prose relying on synonyms isn’t persuasive.
Content, more important than labels, that spins on looms
deep, thought-provoking poetry that eternally blooms.
Evocative language that hankers to an idyllic past;
finishing with a flourish leaving an impression that lasts.
Grammar rules adhered to and the spelling precise;
high-energy prose that wants me to read the poem twice.
Imagery well defined transporting me on a journey
juxtaposed with tantalising realms, but never corny.
Kicking over the traces and not flinching when
language treated as an art form with an aurum pen.
Metaphor must be transparent—never an enigma or obscure;
no ambiguities of puns that we as readers have to endure.
Originality—no plagiarism—goes without saying;
poetic licence, within limits, can be quite satisfying.
Quest for illumination on issues that are often moot.
Rhythm and sound have primacy over meaning to boot.
Sensitive treatment of the subject matter will always win.
Tautograms and alliteration mastered … overuse won’t win.
Unusual perspective on a topic, but not a lot of baloney.
Voice of the poet that clearly shines through cacophony—
winged inspiration that soars without fear or favour.
X-rated and risqué offerings would definitely not be devoured.
Yammering critics like an ostentation* of peacocks, while
zealotry that rankles leaves a bad taste—it’s no one’s style.
At some point you are going to need to impress more than a few friends with some burnt toast. I used to have an old, heavy-gauge chrome-plated toaster with a dial to adjust doneness from 1-5. I took a Sharpie and scribed a 6 at the extreme. The pointer doesn’t actually go there, but it is useful for indicating my intent. It works better than the 5 setting which merely chars the surface. But 6 chars it darn near all the way through, enlarging the pore structure to retain even more melted butter. You gotta be cautious not to overuse that feature because it’ll burn the toaster, as in overheating the thermostat and melting the whispy wires. No more toast for you. Back at the store they were quick to figure out your attempt to exceed the capacity and the clearly worded statement in the ownership contract will be pointed out to you, that glamorous document with the curly-Q decorations making it supremely authentic like a stock certificate from the 1960’s. They replaced my toaster once, but the second and third times I only got a stern look of reproach. The manufacturer has black listed me through my credit card so now all my toaster purchases are cash only.
Dusk, prone for a head-on collision
For the trees brace themselves
Huddle as tribesmen to swat away
The human dirigibles taking laps
Around this pathetic attempt
To rape nature for commerce
With intimate kiosks acting as
Mini brothels looking to get laid (and paid, at 70% off)
I hear the trees whimper slightly
Marginalized for the margins and cracks looming
Inside each retail fish* tank
Let's choose to ignore them
Let's oxidize together
For the trees need this more than us
Because guess who's left standing
When the brothels close
From diseased indulgence
And reddish overuse
When the game's over
After last rites granted
And the lights go out
When we simply need to gaze
Towards the heavens and
Honor these angelic trunks
Of tantric glory.
(10/23/14)
*replacement word; actual is not allowed by site standards.
# Inspired by many people who overuse hash-tag for absolutely no reason whatsoever! (#):
# You’re acting like a fool,
experimenting on every flavored pills!
Hash-tagging is worthless –
Who gets hash-tagging thrills?
You’re just looking for fame if you use that sign (# so lame)
It does eventually lead to shame without a name!
#’s overrated…seriously annoying as well!
What’s the point of using it?
Who can tell . . . It’s annoying (# just a bit!)
It’s even worse than someone saying something’s swag
# you’re so RAD! You’re bad to the bone I must add!
But, you can be a useless tool – repairing naught!
# What? Why are you still using the sign? You’re crazy and cool (# not!)
What’s the purpose of #?
It’s overused like a filthy, wet rag!
No more hash-tagging! I don’t wanna hear you brag!
# Your lame and so is your hash-tagging ability!
I hope you know no one cares about your personal life – # it’s not a cup of tea
# Say goodbye to the overrated sign!
Find something else to do than put up statuses with hash-tag in it –
I already heard about you through the grapevine – # you’re a gossiping target – I’m not trying to be rude! Obviously, I’m in a bad mood!
Don’t shut me out or ignore my calls! Hash-tag is okay to use once in a blue moon – # you are still “swag” and legit, so don’t throw your childish fit! Get over it and grow up, dude!
Okay! Maybe hash-tag is overrated in this verse, # but I have no regret! You wanna bet?
Everyday we get more dependant
Reducing our span of attention
Rendering us less independant
Diminishing our skill of retention.
Like this, like that
Me.. Me.. meme.. Me
View this, watch that
We’re all on TV!
Obsession regression
Responsibilities admonished
Overuse of powerful words
No one truly is astonished.
You ate a meal, well good for you!
You’ve cash for food and phone,
Take a photo, tell the world
What right have you to moan?
Attention seek, “Just don’t ask!”
Think I’m falling for that?
Like me! Like me! Desperate sad
Pleas that all fall flat.
Tech to make things simpler still
Swipe left, swipe right, unfollow.
Offence is taken in a keystroke
Fake friendship - promises hollow
Scan the code to know it all
Constant information,
Screenshot, bookmarks, save for later,
Constant life narration.
We’re overwhelmed to know it all
To friend each glancing stranger,
This hunger for what seems progression
Is clear and present danger.
the tattoo on her eyebrow frowned
at the sight of yesteryear’s cutlass
the well-rounded blade had become
blunt dull and worn down from overuse
and yet straight to the point of salvation
the pain cut unceremoniously deep
like a double-edged sword that
protracted the kill in anticipation
of slicing from a lacerated mind
saw teeth serenaded an ode to demise
one more incision and the blood flow
would take her across the river of tears
lacerated dreams punctured and carved into
her epitaph a forgone pleasant conclusion
the point of no return loomed un-capriciously
her wounds had festered in purulent beauty
and she appealed to her inner resolve
why prolong the inevitable release
and she was calm with no tremor
as she faced the extinction of terror
her glance fell upon the scalpel
next to the toothbrush and lather
and the mirror liked what it saw
cracked glass a few shards missing
a borrowed fantasy and reflection
of a bloody life unwanted as she
pondered upon what message
to inscribe on her tombstone
the shower curtain ready for a last splash
cheered her on ‘don’t you worry’
‘I’m easy to clean the mess will abide’
grout bleach and tiles lured a whitewash
and the toilet brush smiled in applause
cacophonous bristles caked in foul smell
took her closer to the crappy memories
which had darkened a life not worthy
of living and she let out a flatulent moan
ultimate and terminal the fizz pounced
and she gripped the rapier with
surgical precision and intricate joy
then Occam’s razor pleaded for parsimony
and she went back to self-laceration
prolonged suicide suited agony’s hurt
much better than a knife in her heart
17th May 2021
Knife’s Edge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
trudging up the stairs to the dais
he knew what was waiting......
grains of sand, heated then
blown into spheres shaped like
his friend, Gaia, perched on
loving hands carved from Mulga
Wood (they knew his favorite tree)
grimly, he looked out upon the
hushed audience, hoping to be
reassured.....
suddenly, the stage collapsed!
......from overuse, they later said,
everyone ignoring the warning
signs....
too many awards
too many speeches
too little time....
* Tribute to a 'Real American Hero' from Minnesota...Will Steger
For more info...globalwarming101.com