Long Poppers Poems
Long Poppers Poems. Below are the most popular long Poppers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poppers poems by poem length and keyword.
"Is tomato soup more important than friendship?" by Poet
I try to talk to her
but she's too busy eating her tomato soup
I hit the chat machine
and all I hear is falling parmesan cheese
but the drama in the online community is too wide
I only wish that I could find a friend
a friend that has time away from her soup and cheese
I try by proclaiming my loneliness
my life without tomato soup
but a chicken souvlaki salad is what I eat regularly
with jalopeno poppers and chicken pastina soup
why isn't my soup better than hers
and why does she spend more time with her soup
than with me
I pray one day I'll find the answers
but for now I spend countless hours alone
while she sips and devours her tomato soup
Doctor narcotic slinging jellybeans and placebo
with one twitch of the wrist, one life goes on the tilt
distorting the dream and wrecking the rainbow.
His red-nosed ribbon circling twice around the block
most are panning for happy and coming up with salt
poppers become sniffers become lifeless rocks.
His minions slowly slipping one darkened soul at a time
shiny new nuggets recruited- thrashing in the krill
the black scythe taps another name into the shrine.
Doctor narcotic watches a thousand funerals pass by
through the black tunnel of his desperation mill
hardly a tear in his green jellybean eyes.
I peer through
Into your world
I smell the fragrance
Of family
Cooking roast dinner
I listen intently
Party poppers
And Happy Birthday songs
Someone singing in the shower
I see colours and shapes
Moving reflections on glass doors
Dancing couples
A dog, shadow tail wagging
I feel the warm air
Of the inside world
Tangible moisture
Making my eyes steam up
I hear a phone ringing
Friendly chatter
About nothing important
Laughter
I peer through
Into your world
Yet, I am not to be invited
In from the cold
So I reverse
Retreat into the empty
Silent, homeless streets
Of a large cold city
The paper words
Letter unposted
Still clutched
In my calloused hand
Seems like we've all become
A nation of ruddy pill poppers
A pill for this, a pill for that
Even sex, now that's the topper
How did it finally come to this?
The doctors are making a killing
Prescribing a pill for a hang nail
And patients are only willing
Always trusted, the family doctor
Upstanding pillar of society
That was then, this is now
Seems like a lack of propriety
The code of ethics that used to be
Are forthwith being ignored
In favour of that almighty dollar
An outgrowth we can ill afford
Old rules have been abandoned
It's all about the bottom line
Say bye bye to professional ethics
From another place and time
© Jack Ellison 2013
High ho! High ho! What a wonderful beautiful day
The birds are tweeting, squirrels are chittering.
The sky is glistening with faeries and poppers
Streams of happy sunlight beams disarm faeries
Compelling monarchs to light on my marigolds.
Nothing can take my fire; I am ready to write THE poem.
I have a new purple notebook and smooth roller ball pen.
“YOO HOO!” Oh, man!
Mrs. McGilly has something to say.
Could be an all-day thing.
I pretend I cannot hear her, until we are touching noses.
What are you doing?
Writing.
I write!
You do?
She runs home for her baby books to prove it.
Returns with two friends. They have brought a little picnic.
You shouldn’t have! There are two sentences on the page.
They were not brilliant, instead hurried.
I try to escape into my house where I maybe could write something.
But my sons-in-law drop by looking for an apple pie or a cheesecake.
So I feel compelled to make them.
By three p.m. I am sitting on the toilet with my notebook
rapidly writing down two more sentences.
“Hey, Mom!” are you okay in there?
My three daughters have come for supper bringing my six grandchildren.
Maybe tomorrow I think.
I was four when I partied like it was 1999.
Didn’t know what Y2K meant—
thought it was a new kind of Ribena.
Mom said the world might end,
so we had fish fingers and Angel Delight
like it was our last supper.
She danced in the kitchen—
hip in one hand, remote in the other—
Prince on the telly,
sky outside grey as school uniform.
She said,
“If the world’s going to blow, we might as well boogie.”
So I did—
in jelly sandals,
on sticky lino,
thinking bombs were just what happened in cartoons.
The grown-ups were worried about computers—
I was worried about monsters under the bed.
Same thing, really.
I built bunkers from sofa cushions.
Told my teddies we’d be safe.
Asked Mom if I could stay up ‘til midnight
to see the sky explode.
She let me—
even though it didn’t.
Instead, we counted down
with paper hats, party poppers,
and a bowl of Wotsits big enough
to survive the apocalypse.
Prince said life was a party.
Mom made it gospel—
taught me the sacredness of silliness.
She sang with her eyes closed,
as if she could out-sing war.
As if dancing could un-plug the world’s doom switch.
And maybe it could.
There was a lion in her pocket too—
fierce in her softness,
roaring through a tinny tape deck.
She had a knowing in her sway,
like she understood what purple skies meant
long before I did.
Now I’m older,
and every headline feels like a countdown.
Still, I keep Ribena in the fridge
for emergencies.
Still, I dance—
barefoot on carpet,
arms full of invisible glitter,
like I’m four again
and nothing bad can touch me
while the music plays.
If the world ends again,
I’ll dance.
I’ll think of Mom.
I’ll play that song—
loud enough to shake the windows
and remind the sky
that we were here,
dancing,
as if forever still mattered.
My mind is yours
I think of you
As I stab away at your heart
I think of you
As blood spatters all over my face
I think of you
As the life ebbs out of your vassal
I think of you
As my hate grew into a flowing river of your blood
I think of you
As you stare into space with those dead eyes
I think of you
As they bury you in a poppers grave
I think of you
A childhood robbed
I think of you
The hand of god stealing an alter boys innocence
I think of you
Rotting piece of flesh in the ground
I think of you
A hateful cruel man of no honor
I think of you
No more
Your rhyme reads like a rap they say,
a rap I say,
a rap they say,
perhaps but rap is rhyme you see,
it's rhyme really,
it's rhyme you see,
this poem is not lyrical,
no not at all,
not lyrical,
'cus songs use words repeatedly,
repeat you see,
repeatedly.
We'll use that as the chorus,
it's easy and thoughtless,
lets build a rhyme fortress
with verse summersaultus,
not a word but I don't care,
eating apples grapes and pears,
seeking angles of praise from flair,
story starts now take a chair.
Out in public with clothes removed,
I've had this dream but now it's true,
a dude that's nude and on the move,
without a pube all in plain view,
swing it like a helicopter,
round and round 'til someone stops ya,
grab some weed and party poppers,
run down streets to dart from coppers,
drinking aftershock that shocks ya,
always after the shot has docked ya,
stick your head between some knockers,
wake up thick lipped at the doctors.
(Chorus)
Write it like a conversation,
it might give it a new dimension,
in that last verse you forced the rhyme,
of course that's fine in this rap rhyme,
'cus rap is rhyme it's rhyme they rap,
that is a fact a fact is that,
by it's nature rap is rhyme,
if it reads like a rap then it reads like a rhyme,
does that mean always rhyme is rap,
of course it isn't it's less than that,
now that sounds mean,
what do you mean,
rap rhymes are rhymes and rap,
rhymes just rhyme they're not rap,
well what's this verse then is it rap?
No my friend this verse is crap,
I hope they remember this is a conversation,
they're not reading you lost their attention.
(Chorus)
A third verse now this is long winded,
it's forced and pointless poets cringing,
get back to the story,
now you were knocked out,
yes and I remember nowt,
then what the hell's this rhyme about,
it's like a selfie with lips that pout,
no one cares except the poser,
that means no one notes the nose hair,
wrap this up it's going nowhere,
rap it up like you're a rapper,
this poem keeps on getting crapper,
no one's read as far as here,
in this worse rhyme you've wrote all year,
at least it flows like hip hop songs,
it flows with flow its flow is strong,
to flow like this use words not long,
here's the chorus lets sing along.
(Chorus)
it reads like a hip hop
POTD 17/10/2018
To those of us that struggle with addiction,
It's a choice you could say a self-infliction.
You’re a slave to the substance and you’re not aware,
A heavy cross for one to bare.
All the wheeling and dealing you can muster,
your wife a Tweeker you can't trust her.
Shady characters come with a song and dance,
getting ahead in this game a slim chance.
Every night you pray for a tomorrow,
another day filled with betrayal and sorrow.
Everyone is a liar, a thief and cheaters,
junkies, pill poppers, coke heads and Tweekers.
A mirage of addicts come and go,
tomorrow someone here could be Jane Doe.
The same thing day in and day out,
sometimes there is enough others you go without.
Addiction is with you everywhere you go,
It outsmarts you, you have no control.
Addiction comes in all shapes and sizes,
hand in hand with denial, deceit and lies.
You can never really be at ease,
My name is Addiction and I'm your disease.
TURBO1904 OCT. 2021