Long Pity Poems
Long Pity Poems. Below are the most popular long Pity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pity poems by poem length and keyword.
waterfall from skies compete with my thoughts
must be doing something else,
yet here I am,
Here. I am.
Again.
Why do I keep coming back here?!?
A mental shake,
as I chastise myself
I shouldn't be here, don't belong here anymore.
Most likely, I never did, just pushed myself in this place.
But I feel like a homing pigeon,
where this is the only place I know
that I can be and not be.
Where I can hide and expose myself at the same time.
With repercussions? Maybe.
I sit in my own corner and immerse myself
in the chatter, the laughter, and other matters
Nobody really notices me,
but that's ok.
I'm getting used to it.
I guess I keep coming back here
for that sense of familiarity, of a somewhat home,
for the memories.
Of myself in happier times,
of a chapter in my life that I have written
yet somehow botched up. Badly, so badly
that the words are all swimming in their own tears
Oozing ink, drowning.
But it shouldn't surprise me anymore?
This is me?
Of course I will always somehow manage to mess things up.
Some ways more than the others,
'my-esque' askewness
For some, that chapter in my life
is of course negligible. An erasable footnote perhaps?
It hurts, but we all have our own worlds,
where you may not be as important to others
as you thought, as you wanted to be.
There I went, pushing myself again,
only to be pushed away with a
thousand mile barrier of silence.
All along, being dust in that corner.
I gulp a bucket of tears,
because I will not deny it--
how much it hurts. Still.
But like what I say,
have to get used to it.
My hands are cold,
and I wipe snot from my nose,
a dainty trickle of snot, but snot nonetheless,
have had my snot-in-sheets phase,
so this is progress, that trickle.
1234, my clock says,
12345678910, I count to myself
collecting, breathing slowly
needles in my feet and shivering
Gosh, can I get any more pathetic?!
Yes, I have and I bet I will still be so.
No, this is not a pity-me thing,
more like a slap-myself thing
So I can look back, read this
and say to myself:
Others have it harder than you,
yet they stand,
I'm here sitting,
yet others stand.
...
the sky is still drumming the earth with water
and my eyes are threatening to do a duet. Again.
I chide myself, Enough now.
For my bags under my eyes are already so smooth, too deep
Too weathered and soaked for a year.
----> 'slap-myself thing', remember??
Remember.
A DREAMERS PLIGHT ON JUDGEMENT DAY
Give solely sovereign sway & Masterdom.
The air nimbly & sweetly recommends itself unto my gentle senses
To commend the ingredients of my poisoned chalice.
But this same thing we desire the most
That makes us say 'the one I love the most is the one I hate the most'.
The love that follows us at times is our trouble.
How tender it is to love the babe that milks me?
And make my face vizards to my heart,
Disguising what they are.
False face hide what the false heart knows.
From a dream, I hear a shout; a loud one
But hear it not, the dreamer; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell
For sleep is the cousin of death
Which keeps the face pale as lights thickens,
The crow flies away to the rooky wood.
Nights black agents rouse to their preys.
As a dreamer wakes unannounced from nightmare
And eats his meal in fear
Sleeping in the affliction of those terrible dreams
That shakes him nightly.
The torture of the mind which maketh lie
In restless ecstasy...
My virtues will plead like Angels trumpet-tongued.
Upon the sightless winds
Shall blow the realities (of life) in every eye,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature gives way to in repose.
Innocence & pity like a naked new born baby
Striding the blast or heavens cherubim riding on an horseback
Then arose to escape the thrills of the instant
Living a coward you ones own esteem.
And I asked: is it nights predominance or days shame?
But knowing where my path leads to; I follow my journey
Even when the dark night strangles my travelling lamp.
Would nature hold God's benison from those
That would make good of bad and friends of foes?
Maybe with vivacious or flushed face, we all go to the grave
After life's fitful fever, we sleep well
And be not disturbed, nothing touches us further.
Just like a possessive man trust are their great grandmothers
He sleeps well not, because six feet of solid earth
Hath not keep her permanently underground.
She would creep out - so many Lazaruses from the grave
But after the dead which goes to peace
And at the end, hears a voice cast from pure gold, calling
Heaven or hell, the book chooses
Even he who was left unwept, untombed,
A rich sweet sight for the hungry birds beholding
Leaves for a permanent and eternal home.
Get set.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2009.
Somehow it's like you don't exist
The stars above are missing you
You've been away for oh so long
And I'm drowning in your absence,
Just like drowning in quicksand
I can only stop the struggle
To avoid the complication
You're gone, away
You can't believe
How the fire you lit so long ago
In my soul
In my heart
Can eat me up when you're not around
We're planets apart;
So close, yet so far
And when you're roaming another world
Carefree and smiling
Unaware of the turmoil
Your absence causes
Here I lay, drowning in your memory
No-one to keep me company
But myself
So I sit, and think… and just exist
And the magic you have on me starts to fade
The beauty and meaning which you brought
To my life
Seem to die away
Into pictures of Utopia
Abstract euphoria
They fade into the charred night sky
Weighing heavy on my heart tonight
Like a coal ocean breeze,
Or a cave painting, of what used to be
And I start to remind myself… of myself
I see my ugliness, stripped naked
Staring into the mirror
No longer saved, rescued, hidden, covered
By your beauty…
My pity, my shame… my agony
Bare, unclothed
No longer lifted by your confidence,
Your pride, your pleasure
My blasphemies, lies, my defiled soul
No longer sanctified with the purity, the faith,
The truth you plunge me into
This is my ugly truth
- - -
I am myself now
My old, pitiful self
I'm the monster I was running away from
Before I crashed so hard… into your arms
But it was the best crash
Fate steered me into
My hero
My savior…
Now, with no shelter
I am a pit
Of everything I used to be
There's no running away
No angel to fly me skywards
To lift me and drown me into the sun
To save me
I'm left to sink in a muted sea
The sea of tears I cry for you
I cry when I miss you…
I never thought I would
And before I run out of air,
I just want you to know…
You brought the meaning to my life
You colored all the black and white
Without you I'd be a careless soul
You are the one who made me whole
You saved me from me
From the killer that I was
And if I could sing, to you, my final words
I'd say this…
You taught me the art of human passion
You taught me to love myself so deeply
And then, I'd be able to love someone else
You taught me to smile when I wanna cry
That there are no limits—
Not even the sky
Thank you
I miss you
I love you…
I have a disability I’ve had my whole life long.
My memory disappears whenever things go wrong,
My first memory was wondering where and who on earth was I.
And who were all the people that I did espy,
When we moved to our first house, it struck me yet again.
Thank goodness my brother came along on his bike just then.
My mother came outside, and looked familiar so I followed her within.
I actually thought that I was normal, when I was very small.
They took my hand when I went out, so it mattered not at all.
Ingrained habits kept me in the yard, with my friends, and at their knee.
I was such a quiet thoughtful child, they were happy to let me be.
Who am I and where am I, became my quiet refrain.
But I didn’t worry because they always there to call my name.
My parents never caught on, no not once, never at all…
I actually acted like everyone else when I was very small.
I looked normal to others so alone I had to carry on.
Then I went to ballet class, I studied so very hard… for oh so long.
The day of the recital I lost it all in front all where I wanted to belong.
My mother thought it stage fright, and finally took me from the throng.
What good was it doing, she thought, if I did not want to learn the dance?
And then I realized to live my life I’d have to work hard for every chance.
And if I had an argument with a friend, it was over oh so fast.
For the stress made me forget and my life became recast.
So if they didn’t come around for a while I didn’t really care.
Because I would soon forget they had ever even been there.
Eventually they would come back and my memory would come back.
Then off we’d go to play again as I studied how to avoid another attack.
When asked what I wanted to play, I’d smile at them you see…
And they’d be happy as I said, “whatever you want is ok with me.”
But do not think to pity me for my stubbornness is truly limitless.
After 12 and ½ years in college… I became for 30 years, a true Chemist.
I raised a son and held my own in a world that couldn’t understand me.
But with all those bouts of confusion the world still became my cup of tea.
Quiet, stubborn, hiding my pain, and with lots of daily notes…
Lots of time spent studying ways around my problems, I would devote…
My family had no pity, just the charge to get out there with mankind.
And here I am successful at 58, now with poetry on my mind.
I can see the smiles all over your face and something is telling me that you have found a new date, what could be so revealing when a new year’s resolution throws you all over the place, you walk by in a hurry with a pleasing personality and there is something so different about you it is as if your long-awaited dreams have come through.
Your spirit is bold, your steps are firm, and you are ready to take on the world. I can’t tell if it’s real because I am viewing it from the side of my computer screen.
Some things look larger than life and what you see on the screen can be very deceiving. I can put on an eye glass on your face, and I can change the color of your race, I can make you look younger and make you look stronger with the technology in my fingers.
I can see your smile evoking pity with the divine and there is something different about you that cause everyone to click when you start a conversation, you have that mesmerizing voice, baked in the spirit of manipulation and if you asked for a wish, I would tell you that you already have it in your dish.
There is something that is different about you that cause me to think, It is the way you maneuver your body when you stand at the kitchen sink, the brief flash back moment you had holding the umbrella and standing next to the natural juice vendor at the street corner.
I kept seeing that image everyday with you holding the mug on the StreetSide and the rats running around in the bushes and the dogs barking in the streets. You can lip sing in South Africa and your voice can be heard all the way in America, you can shout from the back bushes with the same voice and the sound can come out from someone else’s mouth, let the ventriloquist tell you what it is all about, some voices are deceiving not everyone can sing the amazing grace hymn.
More than a century ago when civilization was just getting out, men of valor walked upon the face of the earth searching for an answer; they got it quite alright, but they had to put up a long vicious fight and then they walk around the bewildering town scattering garbage all around trampling the dignity of the city to the ground and the earth began to shake.
I can see the smile on your face, it’s as if you are holding up the entire human race; your heart is big, your spirit is bold but deep down the wounds are festering in your soul.
There are visions roving inside my head
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist? I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity,
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.
Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.
I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.
I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died? No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be!
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist.
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing.
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.
Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy,
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone.
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
I should really be writing my essay (due tomorrow!) but I can't have this poem stand here
under my name without some well due editing. I would remove it but I feel like I have not
given the idea a fair amount of my effort.
Let me tell you the story of the man who wared with time
Let me tell you of the lying man who thought himself free from fate's monotonous rhyme:
This lying man would not a true story tell
To the masses: tales of himself in a regal crown he would sell
And they would ask: How come you here, great king?
And he would weave tales of abandoning his office for a woman's ring
Some would jeer and others cheer
But always he would smile ear to ear
At time in its grandeur he would leer
To priests he would lament of his heinous crimes, to never repeat them he swore
Begging their pity and reveling in the new skin he wore
So why, you may ask, does the liar lie of heinous acts
When he could lie of owning the grandest tracts?
And the snake of snakes would slither its tongue
And shed its skin, a coat in its closet so neatly hung
It would tell you a million tales, not one of them true
And never itself shed in any hue
For the flesh beneath may be soft and fickle
But the skin above is always rough and brittle
The flesh beneath once shed, would still the beating of his heart
The skin above once shed, would instill in his life immortality, the one true art
And always the happiest man alive he would be
Living the lives of any man his mind could see
And so the lying man would not a true story tell
The lying man would lie till the day he fell
That day the king of kings dies
The day the criminal meets his demise
While the lying man that was lives on in every story
As friends and foe would debate the king's glory
All the while the lying man that is sinks deeper into his grave
And that priest would remember a criminal who only mercy did he crave
And that coat of skins would weaken and tumble
The skins within gone brittle and begun to crumble
As the lying man that was, flesh and vulnerability, decays
All those skins he left behind, time will one day erase.
And so lying man, you had smiled in the face of time,
Done no great dead but steal what was theirs and mine
You had fallen thinking you had bested the clock
When only you had deafened yourself to the echo of tick tock
© Samir Georges
2010
The dark rooms of my mind take me to a new place every night,
This place beams of sunshine, with beautiful sight.
This feeling is indeed real, but far from reality,
Still, this place thrives my personality.
This is a dream, but I did not choose it, it chose me,
It is a new era in a different country,
Where it is normal to be a 'she.'
I can't recall the year, but maybe it is 1976 or 1983.
This era, back in 1976, History ribs were still not broken,
The pages of humanity were still not blood-soaken.
That time, mothers worried about her girl,
About what she'll have for lunch or in which dress she will twirl.
The time where footsteps don't dissolve in dust,
When pedophilia, child marriage was considered a crime of inhumane lust.
The time when ambitions were praised,
And healthy children within healthy families were raised.
The time where father, husbands, and men were true protectors,
And not Satan, whose role was of autonomy and tormentor.
The time where women like me and you had power in their ink and voice,
And the institution of marriage was a choice.
The time when daughters were not restricted to breathe fresh air,
And mothers did not gulp in guilt of having a girl as an heir.
This city was none other than the city of Kabul,
Back in the day, in the year 1976, back when the city was a fable.
Convince me all you want,
Tell me I am a wannabe,
But I know a gender apartheid and genocide when I see.
Every day where massacres are happening in shadows,
Still, everyone except people in power can hear the echoes.
Why did I choose this timeline, you ask?
Because this is clearly an injustice, which you call culture as a mask.
I may not live in that land, but those screams drag themselves to my city,
Begging for freedom and asking for our pity.
Why did I choose this era, you ask?
Maybe, because even in my own land being a lady is a frightening task.
The way a girl measures her skirt,
Because her dignity is defined by the length of the shirt.
The way a no feels like an invitation to fight,
And the constant worry of safety is the pain we hide.
You call it culture?
You call it a tradition?
But I know a cage when I see one.
That's all the reason for my choice to stay in that utopian time,
Because as you are reading this tonight,
A little girl is going through a horror, and she can't fight.
Where does my conscious go, when demons raise their fiery eyes,
They steal my very soul, killing all which is sanctified,
Engulfed by instant fears, no longer hearing loved ones cries,
The beast within appears, telling me I am justified,
I have already lost, no reprieve from my mortal sin,
All reason now is blocked, as I become the beast within,
No pity can I feel, as I make my grandiose stand,
Yes the horror is real, as I destroy all that I can,
Where do my feelings go, when demons raise their snarling lips,
Bringing an all new low, into my life now torn to bits,
Certain of being right, I flail and thrash as if in fits,
I threaten and I strike, with great fury the demon spits,
Yet I still stand and shout, my ugly hate and derision,
Accusing lies said out loud, revolting words - degradation,
Just look at what I’ve done, I scream my blatant confession,
Ready to blame anyone, for my evil molestation,
Where does my true love go, when demons raise their gruesome head,
Destroying all I know, without slightest hesitation,
There is no where to hide, hideous deeds - infinite dread,
Shame crushes senseless pride, nothing left but devastation,
Recoiling in horror, reality enters the room,
Now begins the torture, judgment of my now mortal soul,
The evil that is me, my conscious has become my tomb,
I look and all I see, marks my spirit and takes its toll,
Where does salvation go, when demons raise their awful screech,
Making damnation grow, as dark shadows envelope me,
How can I persevere, and escape from this demon’s reach,
For he is always near, and may kill eventually,
Cold and chilling insight, I now realize what is at stake,
And the one path which might, protect the ones I truly love,
But how can I just leave, this world I worked so hard to make,
And cause even more grief, for family and God above.
Where does my resolve go, when demons raise their deadly claws,
Tearing at all I know, stealing my conscious care and pride,
I can’t run anymore, all is destroyed everything lost,
Now beaten tired and sore, I’ve lost my path into the light,
Who can I reach out to, when all I love recoil in fear,
Eyes beseech black and blue, where once was love - now only hate,
Yes I know - I’m the cause, the reason for each falling tear,
And while demons give pause, I must face my terrible fate.
Form:
grabbing at straws the luck of the draw
some live big some live raw
a few like gods on hills of gold
every things fine just do what were told
A man on the corner needs something to eat
money walks by thinks dirty deadbeat
separated so the poor don't offend
at least when your down no need to pretend
late at night at the castle on the hill
a drunken success pops another pill
doesn't talk to his kids doesn't have real friends
his wife loves spending and the hottest new trends
a mother and her children prepare for the meal
what little there is seems so surreal
Everyday she struggles to provide
all she has is love and great strength inside
the driver takes him to the company he owns
he makes money by working others to there bones
always watching for a worker whose down
to remind them hes got the best jobs in town
eight sharp she takes the bus into work
she works for sol ittle just to please some rich jerk
the boss points out maybe its time for some new clothes
hes pays so little cares nothing for what she owes
the girls need braces but theres no way to pay
she smiles real big and says well get em someday
but shes knows she probably wont ever afford
she can barely make rent on her own accord
when he enters his mansion he feels quite alone
a beautiful house but know sign of a home
he decides it be better if workers lost there medical coverage
the company will save and even the overage
two people so very different one thinks hes what most people want to aspire to
the other wonders how long she can hold two sick days she'd be out on the street
the first one is selfish drinks every night avoids his family and lies a lot to
the second is down but will never give up and her children love her she is so sweet
these two people we see everyday I'm willing to bet you may look away
she just doesn't know how to save irresponsible i hear people say
when you see the man in his top notch suit and perfect smile
i hear people say what an outstanding man i like to talk for a while
When i see the man in his thespian role i feel a ting of pity in the heart in the soul
all the money doesn't help him see the person he his the one he could be
when i see the women struggle all day i wonder why we aren't all this way
her strength and courage virtues indeed a path of love is always richer then one of greed
Form: