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.
A CRY FOR HELP.
O to live a life that's free of pain.
Will I ever see that day again?
I hope and pray I see that day,
For constant pain is now my way.
A simple accident did it for me.
But at least there's hope for me.
As there is an operation that might cure me
In the meantime I search for a remedy.
I'm sorry for the overuse of Me,
But when you're in pain it's always Me.
All you want is to be free of pain
And back to normal again.
So I searched the internet for some advice.
But the news I got was not nice.
As I thought I was not the only one.
There are many, many much more worse than me.
Stories of suffering and despair were rife,
So many with a life full of strife.
Suffering has no respect for age ,sex, race, colour or creed.
And it never seems to dwindle just breed.
From babies to pensioners,
Young and old,
The stories still the same.
Stories of endless pain.
There are Societies, Associations and Support Groups galore,
With help advice and much,much more.
For Urethra, Colostomy, Bladder, Cancer plus many more.
But we all know what's in store.
But lets be positive and take stock.
A Panacea, a miracle cure may yet be found.
Though it might take a few pound. (£)
And suffering may be a thing of the past.
I hear you laugh aghast.
We all have our Bad days.
And we all have our Good days.
Lets hope the Good days outweigh the Bad days.
And live for the Good days.
We all have things to live for!
I have my children and grand children.
We all have things we'd like to do
And on my bucket list there's still a few.
Pick a Charity of your choice.
And help a loved one or a friend.
Help the search for that Panacea
And fund more doctors and nurses to help aid their recovery.
The Charities are there!
And they need our support.
I have chosen the Urology Foundation.
But that was my personal choice. You make yours.
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
The day they kidnapped you
Was the day I found myself lost.
I found myself mostly numb
In a frosted layer of my own tears --
My eyes now dried out from
Years of overuse.
I've never missed something this badly,
Even after losing my own dad.
Sadly this takes the cake.
I almost feel inhuman for feeling this way.
But isn't that what I am now since you fled?
The monster under my childhood's bed?
One of a total of eight -
One for every forsaken flame
That kept the fire of my childlike zeal burning -
And eight years of work still can't raise the flame from its slumber.
Forgive me
In the chill of loneliness' cavern
I've forgotten the fondness of a smiling heart,
Or the levity of laughter's luxury.
I have lost the grail of passion,
And a passion for people.
People --
Love
People laugh
People listen
People link arm to arm
And lean closer
Eye to eye
Bonded by the light transmitted between them.
I am not people.
I am not persons.
I am but deserted versions of
burdens long forsaken,
behind the curtains of sermons sung
and versus not forgotten,
yet buried under the misery of betrayal's semblance
Remember
Meekness
Patience
Temperance
Gentleness -
These are healing balms
From the palms of Gilead
In symbolic remembrance
Of the one whose palms hold the bonds of light
Which people transmit -
Who submitted His will
And became Grace itself.
These are sermons sung
And versus not forgotten,
And my shaking soul
Left lifting its melodies
In search of the harmony that will
Someday heal its scars.
I am the lamb
written into each palm.
I am the woman
who draws from His healing balm.
I am the human
whose imperfections only grace can heal
into sacred psalms of eternal calm.
I am
the lamb of
I am -
The only way
the only truth
the only life
the only one.
My first major task today at 11AM on January 13, 2021
finds me dropping my bride off for a pedicure appointment.
Rather than pick her up later, I decided to wait for her.
I spot a parking lane among the many that are available.
It is approaching mid-January and a bit of sunlight is my chosen friend this early winter. It's a sunny day about 55 degrees as I start to read and finish a chapter from the book of Jeremiah.
I grab another book to read and get sleepy at the beginning of
the very first chapter, not finishing it. I succumb to reclining for a nap instead and before long, I begin to appreciate the soothing warmth as I am tucked in graciously by the sun's shinning upon my head.
The sun begins to speak to me in gentle and tender tones of love. She says to me, ''Your Lord and mind picked this spot and space for you, orchestrating the life of the two of us. I, 93mm away, cast a light of tenderness, a tone of quiet and solace for you, and I am enriched to be of service to you.''
The sun is so very far, but yet at this moment in a very special way, I feel so close to her. With that sense of bonding, I looked toward the sun and threw her a kiss of gratitude. I then reclined again to capture and absorb her loving nourishment.
Scientists say that the radiant energy of the sun is heating up the planet and changing the climate as a result of mankind's lack of care and overuse of earth's resources. These things I hear and read about but know not for certain how such prospects will play out. However, I know and believe, because the Bible tells me so, that the sun, just like today, is ordered by The Lord to rise and set for the good of all mankind, including you and me. So, would you join me in Kissing The Sun?
013121FBPSPH
Curtis Johnson Sunday, January 31, 2021
"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
Should’ve realized it faster;
Scrolling on phone would be a disaster!
Only a few hours left until the deadline;
How I wish I could rewind
It wasn’t my plan to overuse
those time-vortex apps to be amused;
I unlocked my phone with useful intent
yet, there I was, consuming endless content
Now I’m triggered hearing someone talk
so insensitively about crimes, as a laughing stock;
They berate and belittle my kind,
yet, get a platform for a rotten mind
I wondered how I complain there’s no time
to sit back a moment and unwind
yet, I catch myself wasting time online
despite knowing what it does to my mind
The scrolling isn’t entertaining yet I got hooked;
Everyone used it casually, wherever I looked;
I believed it’s not a big deal
then caught myself scrolling even during meals
I see others online going live with media friends;
Chronically online to keep up with trends;
I wasn’t the one who would participate;
Only observed from a distance behind a gate
that was locked up with my insecurities and self-doubt,
all while feeling lonely and left out
I look at edited bodies posted for clout
to loathe myself and label the natural “too stout”;
My Reason to be here was for my art;
Thought I’d receive a good headstart
yet, I’m being unproductive
instead of creative and imaginative;
I hope this realization doesn’t get lost,
as, immense anxiety and melancholy would be the cost
For all my lost time, I wish to compensate;
All my wandering focus, I’ll redirect before it’s too late;
I know it’s possible, I can do great
and that’s a fact not up for debate
Hey! you over there in Texas in good old America
ask your peoples to shed a tear or two over there
for the miseries of peoples here in Africa
whose plights are self inflicted we confess and declare
the peoples here are led by the nose by their leaders greed
with no empathy or compassion for those they lead to their demise
Africa's leaders are chosen from the hovels in desperate need
for guidance to peace and prosperity and hope to realize
for as long as Africa has leaders with no integrity
leaders who know only to destroy and havoc to create
with arrogance their peoples control to suit their vanity
then rant and rave how the Colonials left them in a dire state
their lies and deceit has stenched stale and foul from overuse
and bigotted laws edicted for the mass to incite
cry shame, shame on you Africa for the pain and abuse
Africa's soil has turned red from the despots might
for Africa can for its people a glorious paradise be
if not for its thieving,lieing despicable tyrants spree
able to attend the needs of the worlds many a nation
and its own peoples lead out of poverty and starvation
remember peoples of America, when your land was once like an Africa
how nice it would be, if here in Africa, we could proudly say
we live and prosper, free from greed and strife in a just Africa
today
so please uncle Sam, ask your peoples to shed a tear or two for
Africa.
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
she leans in space
spins with grace
rotates, vibrates
regenerates
her only disgrace...
hosting the human race
call it abuse; our overuse
neglect with few regrets
past civilizations
cease to exist
do we believe
we're immune?
are we so arrogant
ignorant and blind
not to see reality?
generations give
generations take...
now we greedily consume
beyond what Earth
can tolerate
our convenient
extravagant lifestyles
exhaust the very one
who sustains us
remember...
it's not only about us
animals look on in disgust
should they be fortunate enough
to be alive
as our lush ecosystem
teeters off balance...
never the same
so, go ahead...
return your bottles and cans
recycle
process refuse
grow vegetables
hoard seeds
fall on your knees
weed global garden
be sure to look up
the stars are watching
toss your car and cell
tank up your fallout shelter
hide away...
think of self
that will help
vote or don't vote
gripe, grope and complain
become self sustained
innovation is a non-stop flight...
destination negation
good-bye vegetation
or...
have faith
in the human race
stop listening to
media manipulators
live each day
as best you can
Love
be free...
be thankful
for every sunrise...
live in the light
walk in the light
be a light
do right
for in our hearts
there's a will to live
the desire to give...
to respect
honor
save
our Earth
'heart'
holds the key
not just for survival
but for abundant
thriving life...
ever solving
and evolving
It enters one's life quietly; as silent as
the falling snow: the need for a few
additional hours or minutes of sleep.
As the years progress and the hair takes
on a silver sheen the bones and muscles
that sprang into action so readily in one's
youth now yield to the slightest overuse
and seek out a comfortable place to relax
and rest.
The old clock in the hallway chimes eight
times in the evening and the thought of
retiring enters one's mind and the comfort
of the old four poster bed beckons as does
the warmness of the multi colored quilt that
has sheltered you these many years.
You awake in the morning and realize that
your night was filled with exhausting dreams
and your body protests the first attempts
to rise and you lay there in the warmth and safety
of what has become your haven from a world
that you no longer understand and that ignores
the wisdom that you offer as the result of many
decades of experiencing life.
As the years slowly pass and the tiredness creeps
deeper and deeper into one's body, as if seeking to
consume one's very soul, the distant light that
represents relief glows brighter and brighter and
the mind begins to long for the release that is eternal sleep.
©Charles Hampton Gragg, December 20, 2015
Note from author: This write is not intended to be morbid but
instead is intended to cast light on how aging may be viewed by some
in the twilight of their lives. A simple philosophical view. No more, no less.