Long Paradox Poems
Long Paradox Poems. Below are the most popular long Paradox by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paradox poems by poem length and keyword.
I only speak in Absolute
Yet this is not my only attribute
Im also fluent in Paradox
Contradiction and Outside the Box
Though Deception is my native tongue
And Manipulation my lips have sung
Not in ages have I conversed
In languages of the damned and cursed
On occasion I'll use Diplomat
To suit a purpose
Or if the situation calls for that
Never will I speak in Babble
Though in Hypocrisy I sometimes dabble
But my character i do defend
I only do this to reach an end
And Haughtiness if 'tis the season
And Hoity-Toity if there's a reason
And also in Conformity
Though it's sprinkled with Repugnancy
While in forgiveness I can read and I can write
My Understanding is riddled with my Oversight
I never learned to speak Coquettish
But I do admit I have a fetish
I understand a small amount of Bliss
Which I think derived from Righteousness
But honestly I'd have to say that Theoretic
Has always been,will always be,
My favorite aesthetic
Form:
To the end of a season
once so full of questions and experiences denied and unsought.
Open minded souls
might relish this paradox of a life giving way openly to steps of death.
Silent, quiet passing, nothing left,
full yet without words, as all has been said.
Understanding silently within
that it is but a passage through time
from the physical to the spiritual.
To those of us left behind,
who must remain,
it is full of pain, tears and heartache.
Solace and comfort
come reluctantly, empty gestures
that cannot fill the void.
A space lies forever here
wide and open hearts, holding on and letting go
somewhere wavering in between living and dying.
Just in time
a season passes
from then to now as the door closes.
To the end of living
to the beginning of dying
in solitary unspeakable aloneness
brings us
to the end of a season.
The brush too needs a cubist eye,
hands that inscribe
the architecture of
aftergrowth’s return
to collapse and crawl ~
into the crying rivers of chaotic colors
where the canvas reflects
the cruelty of craving
the tortured tremors of thirsting,
for love did not know
how to lull the lament
of childhood wounds she suppressed
in solitary silence,
while the claustrophobic ghosts
in the murky depths of her mind
keep screaming for an eloquent release,
tracing tumultuous teal,
tearing at the greying grief,
confined in corpse cloudscapes ~
like embers of equinox
emanating from the deep dull darkness
of her splitting sight,
a crippled conscience
in need of a cosmic cure,
while the artist perceives not her angst,
but only her magnetic madness,
distilled through sharp,
shapeshifting shades…
She was an enigmatic alteration,
~ picturesque paradox ~
of a melancholic mannequin,
composed in clamorous calmness,
yet no breeze could
read her unwritten truth.
She fears intimacy, imprisoned
in black-and-white blurs,
the imprints of commitment,
for her nails painted in envious acrylic
resemble her jaded heart,
roaring with jealousy,
afraid of being abandoned,
as romance is the demise of tranquility.
No pill, no pigment can purify
the poison that lurks within
her pining veins, paining in vain…
O demented diamonds of drowsy dusk,
must dialects define
what ebbs and flows between the lines,
like phantoms drifting
through cloudless lamplight?
The psychological turbulence
no fingers could frame ~
and no flame could fathom,
as every emotion ~
is a geometric fracture,
painted as the
funeral of a fragranced future...
"Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink ~
Let's reform now hermit, for we're on the very brink"
~ quote by poet
On earth we dwell in the midst of many forms
but each soul is in truth living all alone,
carrying heavy burdens through turbid storms,
unable to share fears and desires homegrown,
whilst secretly seeking radical reforms
in happiness index despite toxins sown;
such is the strange paradox of our thinking,
resulting in swamps of apathy sinking.
The cause of our despondency is quite clear,
being simply a case of head over heart,
where self-centredness blocks God from drawing near
and although we may employ free will to start
shifting our consciousness and let His will steer
our life, adding thus joyfully love to cart,
we will continue to dwell in dark despair,
simply because our head and heart do not pair.
Upon choosing to give rather than receive,
our Father in heaven becomes pleased with us
and then our destiny He Himself does weave,
whereupon adversities do not nonplus
since cravings of lower mind cannot deceive
our vibrant, blissful soul aboard God's bliss bus;
with this understanding, let us now dissolve
deluded concepts to here and now evolve.
25-January-2023
Acquaintance and Neighborhood Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
In the long shadows of the evening, I traverse the desert of the soul,
Lost in the silence of thoughts, we meet ourselves,
And in that sacred space, where silence intertwines with desire,
We discover the truth of solitude, carried by the echo of the heart.
The wind whispers tales of arms that no longer embrace,
Of healed souls that no longer fit the patterns of pain,
In a world bearing hidden scars, where bonds are formed
On foundations of suffering, seeking healing in the other instead of peace.
We find ourselves alone not from lack, but from an abundance of self,
In a reality where silence becomes our shield,
Seeking a love that knows no compromise, only truth,
The euphoric bond that clothes us in authenticity and righteousness.
It is a paradox of our times, where 90% of connections
Are webs woven from the thread of pain, two halves searching,
Not to complete each other, but to stick together, fragments of souls
Ruptures that unite in the search for an illusory whole.
And thus, the healed remain alone, seeking in silence
That soul that asks not for healing, but only pure love,
In a world struggling to acknowledge its wounds,
We, the healed, embrace our solitude as a divine gift.
Each moment of solitude becomes a cathedral of introspection,
Where we meet our true self, mirrored in silence,
And in that infinity of thoughts, we discover that love
Is not a refuge of pain, but a celebration of healing.
Let this truth sink deep, carving into consciousness,
For healed solitude is a sanctuary of the soul,
A place where peace and true love find their home,
In a world still learning to embrace healing.
Written: December 27, 2024 For Contest Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
_________________________________
At dawn of a place cocooned once in avarice
silver-haired savvy savor sweetness
serene symphony of silliness...
Each echo is adorned
in mirrors of moments whilom
Still, the illness remains a threat
Silhouettes shaped by streetlight gloom.
Luigi Mangione delivers an arcane calix
crestfallen at awe-in junction of cathartic pain,
mark of jeopardy, spirits who stumbled
amid intricate twists of a complex web
where wellness waltzs whimsically as demon
sibylline, errorless, and suave
flimsy fusion of flux and mellifluous maunder.
Let us linger in lurched odds of yeender,
covenant, of concept, and courtesy
firm freedom fetching fairness for all.
seeking serenity in the scripts of statutes.
Yet we wonder, wrapped in a
whirlwind of wearying red tape
frailty of fitness, a puzzling paradox
where reviews reverberate as an epiphany
as doctors and designs decide the merit
yesterday's valiant victors,
confront morrow's troubling disregard.
Oh, the convoluted challenges of continuing!
a clock clicks constantly in the foreground
each tick teases the transience of time
whilst systems swirl swiftly shift and shape
to the tempo of transition, a thrum of turmoil
In a society that shuns, or selects to shun,
figures featuring fervent faces, fates at stake.
We stand strong, side by side, in such a struggle
amid a wave of apathy and regulations
the price of wellness is presented plainly
a burden of broad-based break bears our back
yet, we discover dynamism in togetherness
a steadfast strength of souls have survived storms
in chuckles of cherished seniors, once more liberated.
As we ascend from the abyssal katabatic,
let us linger on the lessons learned
a frailty of life, a grace of guardianship
and let Luigi’s manifesto heard an odyssey
a clarion call for a fairer future
where the weak are warmly welcomed
and the whispers of a wretched world
weave a wondrous wave of wellness.
The ephemeral consciousness of being, and the longing that seeps through this universe. The greater trajectory of leaving and being left stands small before those who watch it unfold. The nights where tears ricochet, and the tiny yet eternal lights that make someone name a crater after their wife, stand still in the face of all this sehnsucht.
The incandescent rage that binds one soul to another in an event of absolute cataclysm absorbs all that the universe sends their way. Abundant, yet empty. In astronomy, it is defined as a paradox that does not let a giant sink. For the world, it is a miracle; for the heart, a hope. The rage carries on—undefeated.
Conceited, one wanders this world, creating distances that supersede time and time that supersedes life. Multiple versions collide at one common point, seeing eye to eye, reacting infinitely similarly. Yet it is so quiet in the black expanse of this realm.
In the grand scheme of things, the world has stopped creating moments; everything has gone dry, the motion is dying a slow death. And yet, we are alive—feeling, burning, naming craters after our lovers, writing poetry, singing songs, living, breathing, crying, dying.
In the final undoing of all that burns, even absence acquires a mass nothing escapes. Longing becomes the final surrender.
The lines written in happiness are now flames dancing within me,
A leading role that turned me into a ghost on divine stages.
A forgotten radio play, without a director to guide its way,
Piano notes float inside me, echoes from a particular realm at bay.
Is it pleasure or fear that I feel in the depths of my profound being?
The awakening of madness, a mix of cries and deep silence, agreeing.
With trembling hands, I cling to the thin threads of reality,
A paradox opening my path to the labyrinths of eternity.
It's a bewildering paradox I live with every passing moment,
A book written by me, yet burned, leaving cold ashes in atonement.
How long will I wander this road, without a place to rest my head,
Always moving, knowing there's no home where I can be led?
I am a traveler lost in time, a dreamer without a clear aim,
In search of meaning, a longing in my soul that never fades, never wanes.
In the stream of consciousness, a silent song is born, struggles, and breaks,
And in this silence, a melancholic magic, a destiny that never forsakes.
Is it possible
that a day would come
when all you feel is nothing?
That point along one’s timeline
that can fully be empty.
Could one ever really be
fully empty and full of nothing
or is that a paradox, an impossibility?
One singular undaunted moment
when there is nothing;
a forced long, deep breath,
an all-encompassing inner sigh
that took/takes in air
and nothing else.
Upon release, all worry, fear, joy and pain
are emptied and expelled
revealing and recognizing the void,
the loss of emptiness, everything gone
leaving nothing, feeling nothing,
empty nothing.
Feel alike you've been through a war?
You say you relish it, yet you failed to soar.
With numerous salvos, you ignite brightly.
Indeed, you will be rewarded blithely.
I'll be gone soon; often I must leave.
Maybe there's punter room in line to believe.
I'm getting aboard a speedy train just now.
You've given it your all to beat there; how?
But you can't seem to draw a release.
Your mind will snap, and you'll lose peace.
It's your lifeblood, and I need a break.
Sweet Sista Jane, it feels as pain ne'er forsake.
You may stress faith or attend the council.
But ideas are racing, riling psychic arousal.
Moreover, you are a walking paradox.
Nothing I stated even rang in your box.
I can stay until morning; you realize it's late.
Isn't it elating to be riding through a golden gate?
You've given it all you had to reach there.
Still, you are unable to secure your share.
But you can't seem to beget a release.
Your mind will snap, and you'll lose peace.
It's your lifeblood, and I need a break.
Sweet Sista Jane, it feels as pain ne'er forsake.
Sweet Sista Jane, you will endure the agony.
A war rages in the depths of your waggery.
With your silent fight, cracks will soon appear.
Your pain is growing behind a grin; it will smear.
Do you sense the gravity of the instance?
Where should I implement the insistence?
Is the turbulence inside you worthy of a war?
You are shown to be in favor of the explore.