Long Recover Poems
Long Recover Poems. Below are the most popular long Recover by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recover poems by poem length and keyword.
In life,
Sometimes
the fire rages
and is so intense
we are certain
that we will be left charred
like seared blackened wood
unable to ever lift our heads again
or ever recover
In the midst of that
fierce emotional blaze
The pain grips us like a vice
refusing to relent
twisting inside of us
as if it too
wants to break free
we clutch our bodies tightly
and rock and sway
in a motion to self soothe
some remembrance
of the comfort found
within our mothers' womb
our bodies crumple
under the enormity of weight
and mental ache
we weep
hot acid rain
that scorch our cheeks
and flow
from only
the most
guarded parts
within us
our heads
droop into our chests
and our bodies fold inwards
convulsing with
uncontrollable heaving
we gasp
to catch our breath
our lungs expand and contract
like a bloated accordion
we can only hope
that our minds
collapse
under the enormous strain
of that which engulfs us
It is the darkest
reckoning
of human anguish
that one
can feel,
in life
My Boys
Your mother, I am, forever and always !
I love you both forever and in all ways !
I have been, both mother and father !
I have been there, to nurse your wounds,
both physical and psychological !
I have been there, in your times of sorrow,
to kiss away all the pain you were feeling.
I have kept a roof over your heads !,
long after you should have left the nest.
I have kept food in your stomachs.
I have, long after you should have been self-sufficient,
paid for your entertainment ( phones, cable, internet ).
I have ended up paying for your cars, car insurance !
As men who should be taking responsibility for yourselves,
I should no longer have to sacrifice my financial freedom,
in order to help you as I have – financing your businesses,
paying off the debts you incurred doing business.
After they failed, I lost my financial security,
and to this day !, I have never been able to recover !
The list goes on and on my dear sons and so, where do we go ?
As men, it is time to let go of my apron strings !
As a woman, with grown children, it is time !,
time for me to stand up and take off the apron
no matter ( for all of us ) how much it stings.
It seems to me, you, as middle aged men,
I am still being a slave to motherhood !
It is time for us to let go of past expectations
and move on and look after our own needs !!!
Your Mother !!!
B. J. “A” 2
June 27th, 2014
Perpetual
Intellectual
Mother
Just another
Smother, then cover
“Too weak to recover”
“Be our good maid”
“Just to be betrayed”
“Don’t give her a voice!”
It’s not love if there’s no choice.
To deal with perpetual self-assertion
The old sisterhood of overexertion!
Sarah Baartman
Wu Zetian
Cleopatra
Anne Boleyn
Joan of Arc
Sophie Scholl
Sylvia Plath
Marilyn Monroe
Micaela Bastidas
Yang Guifei
Fate bestowed a bitter gift
A curse more grave than death’s drift
A life where they were lured and torn
Left gasping, alone, forlorn
Once the universe had lost them
Cruel hands never let them astray
Their trials, none atoned
Their weary souls never left alone
Battles fought, voices shorn
Our bodies spent, our spirits worn
No rest, no vindication, no excursion
Just the classic sisterhood of overexertion!
As I look back I see a girl
She is at a quinceanera practice
She suffers from leukemia.
Like a bright star from heaven
The sun and water brought life
Then leukemia drained it
It’s sharper than a knife
To see her alive is blissful
Her light sparkles even in illness
The illness is sad but not sinful
As the river runs freely
The mountain does rise
I see with my own eyes
Medicine has helped her recover
Life hasn’t looked so bright before
I’m proud not to see her suffer
We’re all glad that her pain is lower than minor
The rainbow was painted full of light
Like a bright star from heaven
Like the flower that shattered the stone.
Light hearted
In the deep night, when stars fall like tears on the fields of dreams,
My thoughts drift aimlessly, lost in the whirlpool of consciousness,
Somewhere between reality and fantasy, my wounded heart beats.
I knew you, and in knowing you, I felt the pain from the depths.
I thought I had grown and could love you the way you wanted to be loved.
I threw caution to the wind, surrendered without force,
Your manipulations, mere silent storms, shattered my resistance.
I can't help myself, I can't recover, I feel a prisoner of my own being,
But I'm grateful that your wisdom decided enough is enough,
And that some things must be surrendered or left behind.
I know I can't find my tears, but the pain is beyond a century of sufferings,
A thousand years of silence and bitterness hidden in the corners of my heart.
It’s an invisible burden that presses unceasingly, an echo of pain blown by the cold wind,
When your gaze crossed me like a dagger, and the promised love dissolved into shadows.
I remember the nights when I collapsed in thoughts, when every word of yours was a falling star,
But instead of wishes, it brought only ashes to my soul emptied of hope.
You were a flame that burned too close to the skin, leaving scars visible only in dim light,
And now, I learn that love is not always a promise of happiness, but sometimes a lesson of pain.
In these long verses, I wander among memories and regrets,
Trying to find my way back to myself,
A way to forgive myself for loving, for feeling,
And for, in the end, surviving.
The pain of knowing you was my lesson, a melancholic ballad written with blood and unshed tears,
And in this stream of consciousness, I release myself,
Prepared to rise from the ashes of lost love,
Stronger, wiser, and ready to love again, but not today.
I was silently watching the two Mary’s sigh and cry,
When the earthquake hit and I just wanted to cover,
The ground nearly parted and there was no-one to chi,
I hit the deck for stones from the tomb threw over.
Covering my head with my hands and laying tight up,
I was aware of the two Mary’s moving over speedily,
To the tomb stone to take advantage of the windup,
Which just contributed to the terror weighing heavily.
After six minutes it ceased, and peace did administer,
The two of them were straight at the caster right in there,
But I needed another while to recover from the disaster,
So just sat looking firstly at the grass, then over there.
By the time I got them they’d given the body determinedly,
To the gardener who already had lit it and was fanning it,
So I ran as fast as a chicken away from a fox very quickly,
Up the mountain to get my head straight to think about it.
I worked it out that I had to talk with the two Mary’s,
Because I also appreciated what Jesus did when alive,
Since he had cured my cousin from quadriplegic paralysis,
Such that this cousin’s possibility was now to thrive.
So I did decide to accept Mary’s plans of ingenuity,
For the continuation of her son’s work with the poor,
Which would change medical services directivity,
From the rich monopoly over to with anyone to moor.
The two woman’s plans would ignite a movement,
Start a Society, organisation or group to proclaim,
That the way to live was through love’s enrichment,
Not by class prized, but by living everyday in His name.
So we talked, and the two women promised me silence,
About my failure to keep the stone which sealed the tomb,
If I kept silence about them having a stealing licence,
And about their real physical action of removing the womb.
So that was how the resurrection myth took off, started,
That was how it began, it did come from two parties,
From the Roman soldier representing the state above,
And from Jesus’ kin representing the people’s armies.
I don’t think Christianity would’ve occurred without,
The soldier man Roman guard of the tomb believing,
In Jesus plight and in the right of a movement, shout,
About Jesus, through the religion of Christianity aging.
Only during mercurial twilight can one discover,
From tasting the rich and varied fruits of life,
From recollective journaling, record and recover.
From the many battle scars implanted in strife.
Journaling grants a private, swirling pen profiling.
It vents spontaneous moments of mindfulness.
Journaling opens windows to nightmare reconciling.
It instinctively resets resilient laughing playfulness.
The soul is an inner flame of karmic consciousness.
It seeks its purpose in every new reincarnation.
It must assert itself in each timidity and forthrightness.
It changes form and color with every transformation.
The cumulative journal entries embody a repository.
They bind together survival, identity, and self-worth.
They answer buried questions and address latent stories.
They calm the anxious brood, affirming each rebirth.
A diary is a constant companion, a faithful friend.
A diary speaks in forgotten tongues, in any dialect.
This scroll, this twilight dossier speaks without end.
This log records each and every strength and defect.
Only during mercurial twilight can one discover,
From tasting the rich and varied fruits of life,
From recollective journaling, record and recover.
From the many battle scars implanted in strife.
Yesterday, all I wanted was to sing you a song
Is there anything wrong?
Yes, in fact there is
Our relationship biz
Has started to fizz
Could you just let it be?
And release me
So
I can go
To someone else’s show
“Who?” I did ask
Is now wearing your romantic mask?
Someone from the states?
Makes movies that are great
Filled with girls who dance
And prance
Wanting to advance
Heroic leading men
A woman’s honor they defend
She did explain
This downfall due to fame
‘I am now with a King
It could be just a fling,’
“But I want to hold your hand
Biting into my special apple brand”
She went on
About the Yankee Don Juan
Might be running a Hollywood con
‘I will tell you
If you promise not to be a meanie and blue
He busted me out of this jailhouse rock
Seeing me hop in sexy socks
We played blanket bingo on the beach
Before he made his patriotic performing speech’
“Sgt. Pepper,” she said
“Sorry, we are not going to wed’
Thinking back on it now
I remembered how
It all began
She was a fan
Down at the quarry where I was a man
My buddy’s and I sang
She and her friends just hanged
Then in the parking lot
I gave it a shot
Do you love me do?
She thought I was being cool
Having a rubber soul
And on a good roll
Earning gold
Until an image change
Visual not vocal range
I must get back
Recover from this lonely heart social attack
Spread my wings
Do my own thing
“Take that!”
American rat
I am now solo and still a star
Making everyone happy drinking at the bar
.
Do you believe in angels?
And do they patiently wait for prayers to be called to help?
Title:
The Eternal Water Oaks
A lone voice whispers
The invisible Angel smiled at the rows of sorrowful patients
Which lay before it on ward twenty-one of Saint Peter's Hospital
In New Brunswick
New Jersey
As it then looked at just one particular sorry soul, whose body was now broken and bent
For it was why it was summoned by heartfelt prayers
Whispered by his family and wife to be heard
For it to be dutifully sent
The smile it carried wasn't a smile of ill judgement
Or dismay, but of immense hope
To change the sad vibrations at play
For it knew the recently diagnosed patient would find the tenacity and strength to eventually cope
Whether they recover or leave others to grieve
For they all do
It's a silent degree
A line spoken by the Almighty
What all things follow if they truly believe whatever it says
All they or others have to do is call for them and pray
To summon angels from The Great In-Between
The bringers of such priceless white crisp envelopes to soothe the soul
The invisible folk
Who'll follow like betrothed guardian philanthropists
Just huddled together
Sleeping
In the half-shade of the Great In-Between trees
The Eternal Water Oaks
Waiting for psychic calls to spring into action
To fly to those caused by an exothermic reaction
A chemical interaction followed by the evolution of heat
With incredible satisfaction
To find those whom they are called to greet
Into the lonely, caressing arms of the swirling grey mists
Which moved and flowed all around
Like it had a phenomenal supernatural intelligence
Hiding those sleeping
By The Great Grey Oaks
Angels
Hidden
By its holy smoke, which it uses to dutifully cloak
Eternal friends
Who know
Living or dying isn't the end
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
.
I am not a flame that flickers out
I am a sun that collapses inward,
heavy with gravity,
pulling every ounce of myself into silence.
They call it burnout
like it’s a candle stub,
like it’s a thing you recover from with rest and coffee and maybe a nap.
But this—
this is tectonic.
This is my neurons saying enough.
This is language turning into smoke in my throat,
every sound a stone I cannot lift.
Imagine running a marathon every day on a track made of neon lights,
sirens, stares,
unwritten rules you’re expected to know
smile at the right time,
make your body easy,
make your voice normal,
make your difference invisible.
You keep running.
You keep running.
And one day your legs forget how to move.
I used to think burnout meant weakness.
That if I was stronger,
I could carry the world’s noise without dropping it.
But now I see
it is not weakness to stop.
It is survival to shut down.
In burnout, I am raw.
Skin a live wire,
brain a tangled forest where words hide like frightened animals.
I am not gone.
I am conserving.
I am cocooning in silence,
waiting for the world to stop scraping me
like sandpaper.
And when I return,
because I do return,
I will not be the same.
Parts of me shed like snakeskin,
others tougher,
others softer.
Burnout is not failure.
It is the body’s rebellion.
It is truth spoken through collapse.
So if you see me quiet,
see me still,
do not call it laziness.
Do not call it defeat.
Call it what it is
a fire pulling inward,
a sun protecting its core.
Burnout is not the end.
It is the body saying:
enough pretending,
enough performing,
enough.
And maybe
maybe enough
can finally be
Enough