Long Piling Poems
Long Piling Poems. Below are the most popular long Piling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Piling poems by poem length and keyword.
All kinds of bills are piling up,
collectors keep on calling me...
making their threatening phone calls;
I would like to unplug the telephone wire
and have some peace at night...
but borrowing money is not one of the remedies!
My car insurance is due by the end of the month,
this paycheck only covers some necessities,
trendy attire and expensive dinners with friends must wait;
God forbid, I do oversleep and I am late...
portion of my earnings is a tremendous loss,
and in deeper waters I'll swim, never reaching shore!
My cell phone is overused and is too invaluable,
it could spare me some headaches on some stranded highway;
I'm thinking of switching to a prepaid one to save me a bundle!
Even my haircut must wait, once a month, not twice;
ah, this economic stress...is really testing my sanity!
What should I do from preventing those embarrassing lawsuits?
Finally, I called on some friends, whose situation isn't that bad,
they said they'd help me...since I helped them when they needed a hand;
interest-free and a long-term loan, and would like to know beforehand:
what I am going to tell those greedy and inconsiderate bastards from my bank?
" Keep your money in the vault, I refuse to borrow it and make you rich;
I have found a better way to improve my financial situation by making you itch! "
When I was at the Hilton
And I didn’t feel strong
You jumped a bandwagon
Yeah you were real wrong
And it’s taken many years to carry on
So I’m gonna tell it and put you where you belong
I would arrive at the loft very warn out
When i talk I’m looking at your scoffs and frowns
Reaching out for hands and feet kick me down
to the point I don’t talk and mute the mouth
stuff crushing my chest
Clearly needs addressing
friends, you were my best
missed the fact I’m stressing
my 3 oldest mates piling on the pressure
mockery, aggressive and I ain’t got no let up
But Durbin and Lauren could see i was upset
As you 3 joked “you get what you get”
Mocking most enjoyably
blind you were destroying me
Took your age old loyalty
Sacrificed for joy it brings
but those two didn’t resort to calling me a blagger
They didn’t push me over because I walk with a stagger
So you can take our friendship and shove it up your sitter
And be forever jealous that I’m funnier and fitter,
So you can sit and say you did nothing
Claim your innocence
“I’m out my mind”
Get out my life
Get out my life.
Stop and think how Dom feels inside because,
He’s sure I nicked his bike when I was in Cyprus,
Telling people too don’t say I talk with slyness,
It’s becoming very obvious he never really liked us,
And Colino’s too naive sat smoking too much weed
If Dom carries grief then his side Colino sees
When even out the country his story you believed
And I’m bullied at work this is the last thing I need
And Kev and Cols join in blindly
Ignore because with no mind free
inadvertently treat unkindly
my mental health declining
no one stopped to think what I was going through
What I told about the Hilton was never seen as true
attention seek through stories is all I ever do
Now I’m having breakdowns and leaving you confused
Cus I am starting fights when I’d normally be amused
When in my darkest hour only Lauren came through
So you can sit and say you did nothing
Claim your innocence
“I’m out my mind”
Get out my life
Get out my life
Media mania floods our screens with state certified hysteria.
Pushing panic to the top so it can reach the most vulnerable area
Every day I open my phone I’m faced with something scarier
They’re raising me for slaughter, grown to pick, agraria.
This burial of free thought is scarier than we thought
Cause they’re teaching us to think not, trying to make us all hot
Under the collar and my mom says
It’s just making my brain rot
And she might be right, I get caught
Up in this tangled knotted
around all my problems
I can’t see past my damned phone screen.
Every day it’s harder to reach the people around me
I thought it was supposed to be
easier with all of this
social technology, but all these fears and problems just keep piling up on me.
Trying to keep us hooked,
Taking advantage of our fears
Maybe I need to take some time to myself?
Read a book, close my ears
DON’T STOP, the algorithm says listen! Cause this “alpha male” says women belong kitchen
And this famous artists ex boyfriend is dissin
And every word I say gives them more ammunition
Look I don’t care!
I just wanna let the world keep spinning!
Spinning? Our world is frying and people are crying, and animals and dying even ones we don’t reap but WAIT!
Don’t go to sleep, I know you want to just keep sinking deep
Down further in the rabbit hole, no escape in sight, protesters and rallies and least someone’s trying to fight but even though they’re trying to shed a light, instead it’s making guilt that’s eating me alive
GOOD! That guilt will keep you here, don’t go outside,
here’s another thing to fear.
We’ll keep you locked up, your own mind is a jail
If they keep us all separated
Of course we’re going to fail
They wriggle inside our minds,
Feast on our insides like Taenia.
But I’m so tired, it’s so easy to sink
Down into this media mania.
In the Chilly Month of December
And so comes winter, after late fall,
When from ashen skies of low-lying clouds,
Snowflakes fall, enshrouding the town
And piling on people tramping around
Who are out and about, embracing nature
In the chilly month of December.
Snow fills footprints, extinguishing traces
Of icy stares glinting on smiling faces
From people uttering steamy graces
When encroaching upon each other’s spaces,
Expressed gaily with warmth of timbre
In the chilly month of December.
And this I say to those venturous kind
Who are enjoying the wintry weather:
“Beautiful is the sight that enthralls my eye”
In the chilly month of December.
As we slept, in the depths of winter
in the dead of the night,
cold temperatures and icy wind
moved in with howling sounds.
Piling up snow drifts over the ground,
we wake up at dawn to a magically gifted playground
of a sparkling crystalline carpet of snow.
Taking away the sun's warm glow
silver icicles hung bonded to the peaked
shingle roofs as dripping water froze.
Dressing warmly, running outside to play
delicate feathery ice flakes,
dusting our faces, making our cheeks rosy red.
Snow spades are dug out of the shed
to clear driveways and sidewalks.
Pushing and shoveling,
spreading the snow aside.
Chattering teeth, tingling fingertips,
feeling the bite of cold—
it is time to go in.
The warm fireplace draws us near its charm.
Around its cozy, gold ember crackling fire,
away from the cold
It's a welcoming bathing warmth of comfort.
Snow is calling,
"Come and chase my snowflakes around,
or turn me into a snowman,
or ride that thrill on the sled down the snowy hill."
We bundle up and run outside to have some fun.
Even snow angels join in the fun.
We would love to be out all day,
but the sun is running out.
Time to put aside the chores and fun.
Our spirits need to slumber.
To do it all again tomorrow.
12/1/2016
To her, their apartment was the whole world—a small but cozy place where she felt safe and loved.
It was early morning. She heard her sister squeal with joy hearing that schools would be closed today due to the heavy snowfall.
In her pink onesie pajamas, she shuffled across the speckled brown-and-gold carpet. It was worn and frayed in places but soft under her little feet. The living room was cramped, the walls filled with photos of a family's happy life. An old sofa was wedged between mismatched end tables and a wooden bookcase overflowing with encyclopedias. The plastic-lined cushions sagged from years of use.
A crack and stain on the ceiling traced where water had once leaked. The radiator clanked and hissed, making the windows sweat against the icy city air. She climbed onto the sofa. The plastic cold and squeaky beneath her pj's. Her small white footies barely reached the edge.
Their living room was everything—
a playroom, a dining room, and, on the coldest nights, a bedroom where they all huddled together when Mom turned on the oven for extra warmth.
Her pigtail tickled the back of her neck,
but her eyes stayed glued to the TV.
A gray rabbit with twitching whiskers dashed across the screen,
and a little man with a big nose and chubby legs was chasing after him, gun in hand.
Outside, snowflakes swirled around the window, piling in soft heaps on the fire escape.
She and her sister would make snowballs today
and lie in the snow laughing, making angels.
The smell of coffee, fried ham, eggs, and toast wafted from the kitchen.
She was looking forward to the delicious frosted sugary oat cereal
Mom would be preparing soon.
Dad had just walked in from work.
His usual booming voice echoing down the hallway. Mom’s quiet hush followed from the kitchen.
Everything was perfect. Everything in her little world. . .
Until she heard the gunshot—
and Dad lay dead on the kitchen floor.
“This circus is falling…”
It’s circa 1997; I’m in Charlotte, NC
It’s a 13-week consulting gig, my longest ever
I come home every few weeks
Long days at the customer site
A hostile environment;
they don’t really want us there
A server vendor is trying to make inroads at a bank
I’m there working for the vendor
After a long day, a swing by Harris Teeter:
pre-packaged dinner and beer
“The big top is crumbling down”
And so is my life
Evenings are spent
hunched over a laptop
in a dark 1 bedroom efficiency
Programming late into the night
Until the eyes are too tired
And the beer has run out
Music is a constant companion,
most of it, soulful, sorrowful, some upbeat.
Counting Crows, Matchbox 20, Sting
“These train conversations”
Are truly passing me by
No coworkers here.
No family here
No interactions with anyone outside of work
Just a call home early enough in the evening
that the words aren’t slurring too badly yet
“And I don’t have nothing to say”
Just ache
I want to be home
I miss my wife
I miss my kids
I miss my dog
“You get what you pay for”
They are paying me well
I’m getting all the overtime I want.
I am piling away the money for a nice trip to St. Thomas
For all of us
When I get home
And I don’t care; I just want out
“But I just had no intention of living this way”
Warp forward to today
Life could not be any more different
Life is wonderful, life is good
I have purpose
I have meaning
I have family
I have love
I know and am known by God
I’m working out in the barn
I’ve hooked up the old stereo
I see the “August and Everything After” CD and I fire it up
I set it on “Raining in Baltimore”
“I need a phone call, I need a plane ride
I need a sunburn, I need a raincoat”
And for a brief flash,
I am back at that dinette table
Alone, in the dark
And terribly lonely
When it is uplifting, music causes our spirits to soar
But it can put you right back
in a particular place
In a particular time
And that’s not always a good thing
“But what would you change if you could?”
Uh, August and Everything After…
click.
————
Quotes are from “Raining in Baltimore” off the
“August and Everything After” album by Counting Crows
Part Two of the Fun Series...if you haven't read Part One, Half-Fast Fun, please do so! Thanks~ #JWE
Constantly, I am trying…
Not to cry and die away inside…
Quit lying and replying
To my sighing that I can’t hide
Jealous of me? Why you mad at me?
Oh please…don’t even...
Sia gave me chance to dance…funny?
I’m a tease…saw you leaving…
I won’t grieve for your front door slamming…your shame spamming…
My thrills are priceless and you keep acting a pill
Let me breathe and unwind…sick of society's deceived programming
The piling bills on the table were left unpaid still
Stressed, hardly anywhere to go and no one knows
Release me from this rut with sympathy that shows
God tells me to start again…
Sins erased seven times seven…
Where have you wandered off to?
Have you gone astray too? Is that true?
That’s right…don’t be a hypocrite
You make mistakes as well as me, we do choose
So, quit being mean with wicked wit
Bring up good topics without any further issues
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
Don’t make me low when I am high
Because you are low and blue
Be nice and so will I…and so will I…
Afraid and ashamed, who knew
Was pretty mad,
Now, I’m glad
Not sad
Not, not anymore
Sorry you and I were bad…
Sore – no, no more
We had
Times so rad
Vanished like ad
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
This time, I'll eventually sleep away
My problems tonight, I have to say
Don’t hurt me so like you done in success…
Or you’re next with future sadness that is of the abyss
Instead, I will repay you with forgiveness
I'll never hold grudges, forget it
Some people can act loveless and careless
Live with it and deal with it a bit
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
Full-blast fun – for real…a filling meal
It’s hard to conceal it, so I will reveal…
Turn the wheel as you and I appeal
Dear Graduates,
… Sometimes, a spring breeze softly blowing
whispers that a presence needn’t be seen to be felt …
… And sometimes, the people piling onto the benches
of packed bleachers sense that a sacred space
is simultaneously filling …
… And often, clustered families gleefully
crane to glimpse their cap-and-gown-clad graduate,
but once the band pipes up
and you triumphantly take the field,
you’ll know you’re in perfect view
of missed and remembered mentors rejoicing
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating …
… And usually, principals and presidents will proceed
to spawn perfunctory speeches … politely received …
by the assemblage patiently waiting …
… But always, always, count on this classic climax
creating an incredible crescendo:
Thunderous applause will
rumble through the bleachers,
rambling onto the field, and
rocket through the air,
rolling onto the heavens
as a sprinkling of caps rains
up, up, up so high, so very high
and … for a slice of a second …
before starting to tumble,
mortarboards are a sea of confetti
tipping their corners in displays of gratitude
to the angels smiling upon you … from
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating!
E. V. Wyler
Collection of Neuroses
To the dead I gave the waste of my mind and to the philosophers their terrible deaths,
To youth I offered poems in prose and endless neuroses braided into each other's breaths,
My stutters boil ferociously in the mouth that never learned to speak the truth out loud,
And the chance to be furious burned out before I could scream my whole bitterness to the crowd.
I banned love from entering like an inept dwarf guarding a rusted gate with pride,
I rummaged through your heart with philosopher's hands and a terrified mind inside,
The neuroses of youth sit on the shelf like a collection of dead butterflies in frames,
And the deaths of my thoughts keep piling up... uncountable... forgotten... without names.
The stutter is my only authentic language — ferocious and real and raw and true,
All other words are philosophical waste dressed up in a deaf parade costume and hue,
The chance for rage walked right past me like a night train that never stopped to stay,
And I remained on the platform... with my neuroses... and my heart... to rummage away.
To youth I stitched prose from poems and poems from prose without borders or end,
To the dead I sent the waste and to the philosophers the questions with no answers to lend,
Love stood at the door like a furious dwarf waiting to finally be let inside,
And I denied it entry... and I stayed alone... and empty... and blue-blood inside.
The collection of neuroses stretches across the shelves of my mind all the way to the ceiling,
The stutters boil in my bones and the philosophical deaths fill every window and every feeling,
Your heart rummaged through the chest found there an inept and furious and broken dwarf,
Me... the waste of the dead... the neurosis of youth... the stuttering philosopher... never a saint at all.