Long Redundant Poems
Long Redundant Poems. Below are the most popular long Redundant by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Redundant poems by poem length and keyword.
My bug out bag would include my grandchildren.
It would have to be large, because I have ten.
My cat and dog would go in and my wild raccoons.
They count on me for their food right?
My husband could stay home.
I have had him so long we are redundant.
We can watch eight hours of TV
And laugh at only the same things
And say the same words
For the entire time, and only these words.
I would take a jug of red grapefruit juice,
and a five tires and a large bundle of rope.
Matches for a bon fire.
Wait! I am taking the cat out.
She is ordering the children about again.
Making one cry.
The dog gets to go; she is laid back.
Is that a rat? Who brought that?
Okay. If it has a name,
How can I say no to a pet?
It’s true my timing is always off.
I clutch onto my pains and waste my days away
dressing every word with malice and rage.
I’ve chewed off my tongue in an attempt to soften myself.
When I look in the mirror for too long, I see you staring back at me.
are you proud of me?
I have your eyes
your teeth
your ability to stick around unkind men.
All I’ve ever wanted was to be exactly like you.
Now that just feels so redundant and childish.
Every thought feels heavy.
The gluttonous guilt growing inside of me.
Can you understand the worries I’ve placed across my shoulders?
a self-made sacrificial lamb.
Mother, do you think it’s true?
That daughters are bittersweet reminders of what could have been?
a reflection of an alternative ending
Or a fatal exception
An infinite loop doomed to repeat?
This poetic attempt an abbreviation
how biological insemination
(minus in vitro fertilization)
seeds latent *****sapiens reproduction
possibly since moment of conception,
whereby inchoate progeny
impossible to sustain
fantastic, holistic, terrific... weatherization
against prejudicial germs
that elude uterine infiltration
entering womb thru fallopian tube,
or courtesy external drive
re: environmental perturbation
microscopically initiating
biological emancipation
thank you prick llama chin
please withhold ovation
setting in cellular division motion
begetting August poetic
jejune chain reaction
triggering anonymous
reader to yawn nonstop - definite indication
that yours truly induces excitation
in short shrift inducing
somniferous maximization,
yet for those readers
still awake lemme thank
your much ado about
nothing voluntary solicitation
to decrypt poetic
explanation, explication, exploration...
not asking concordance or agreement (ha)
without being redundant, nor repetitive
with my matted trademark communication
detailing mine opinion
courtesy quasi succinct elaboration
i.e. during the process
of in utero gestation
the embryo/fetus absorbs influences -
sorry no summation
in sight, not even
at anticipated parturition
cuz effects upon psyche of unborn
(unknown even by the twelfth night)
even after birth manifestation
within mind of next generation
heavily impacted courtesy
infernal contribution
despite most commendable
effort at postnatal
efforts to chaperone
son/daughter insulation
against prejudice virtually
impossible mission
(even spectre Tack Cuéllar,
viz ghost of Peter Graves
unable to succeed at extirpation
unfavorable antisemitism, bigotry, cruelty...
I concur religious,
racial, nationality... integration,
could certainly help deescalation
hmm... boot perhaps...
maybe not total elimination...,
yet such salient measure
could help offset blatant
outright, pervasive, queasy...
lifelong societal and personal ramification,
this targeted token
"scapegoat" closes his wordy attestation.
There is a place, quite far from here;
Where bushes hide a lonely bench;
A redundant swing accompanies;
Both sheltered by o'erhanging trees;
Like a whisper in the dark.
At night time we were often there;
Would hear few passers-by go by;
Never knowing our true bent;
Little guessing we were present;
In this realm we came to love.
We'd be entwined in nature's lair;
A starlit night embraced our state;
We laid out dreams, ambitious plans;
Held tight as though time's speeding hand;
Would heave us out into the cold.
As chanceless lovers we would fear;
That bitter-sweet imposing fate;
That hour to come where we should leave;
That sacred covenant of trees;
And thus rejoin the human fold.
In 1878, a gent carrying a cane,
Walked at 6 o’clock, down Ingleburry Lane,
A cobbled street, parading horses and carts,
Where gas lights are placed fifty yards apart.
In 2019, a gent with a phone
Walked down Ingleburry Lane, all alone.
Past the coffee shops and trendy boutiques
In this English town, ever so chic.
And so it was where the Lane met Mill Street,
That these two gentlemen did actually meet,
Crossing over, an anomaly in time,
Through a warped, invisible, pixilated line.
One looked at the other through this time warp illusion,
A look from both of total confusion.
In a flash each was in the other’s place,
In a different year, in an alternate space.
The gent from the past, pocket watch in hand
Tried hard to fathom this alien land
As passers by stared and continually asked
‘Why are you dressed from days gone past?’
And the gent from the future looked all out of sync
With his sneakers, jeans and latte drink
And in his hand a redundant phone
Where he could not call an Uber, to take him home.
Panic ensued as they argued their case
That they shouldn’t be here but in another place
From another time, but it’s hard to persuade
A disbelieving crowd you're trying to evade.
Instinctively both retraced their tracks
To the invisible line, in the hope to go back
And both crossed the line with a nod
and a wink
That a return home was now on the brink.
And so, this strange tale, that on Ingleburry Lane
Two time travelling friends, dress the same
For the appropriate era, so as to mingle with ease
Going about their adventures, however they please.
I look in your eyes
what do I see
A shell of myself
who I used to be
A minuscule fragment
of who I was before
When red carpet
stretched out across my floor
A day and time
opportunities, abundant
Long before I became
hopelessly redundant
I see an array of patches
from my many mistakes
My eyes tell a story
of painful heartaches
A veil across my skin
of wrinkles and cellulite
Shards from the past
when my future was bright
Bags under my eyes
from restless nights
Not dead, but a disgrace
I've become a blight
My once white teeth
Now a yellowish tint
Thanks to years of smoking
to relax and vent
I despise you
for what you reveal to me
You show me ugly
and how it feels to be
Unheeding of the causes
for my bruises and scars
You show only the top layer
worn and charred
You are so vain
with your spotless surface
Come to think of it
you really serve no purpose
You make people conceited
More often, depressed
It doesn't effect you at all
you feel no distress
You hold your head high
As if your invincible
No one dare break you
Superstition or principal
But I can see through
As clear as glass
You have no soul
Just useless mass
You're a thief of identities
Because you haven't, your own
No personality to claim
An ever changing clone
Not a person or a place
Just a thing
With nothing to give
Nothing to bring
There will come a day
You will shatter to pieces
Your frame will fall apart
At the perfectly painted creases
There will be no memorial
They will trash your remains
No one will miss you
A thing without a name
The most difficult part is getting out of bed,
to face another day you will already knowingly dread.
The next hardest thing is not to sit around and do nothing,
or you will find yourself lost in your head where you should not be dwelling.
All your lost loved ones, all your misery,
lost hopes, your failures, life's anxieties,
every single one of your most traumatic tragedies,
are your every thought, every moment constantly.
When you can't take anymore of all this non stop crap in your head,
you must distract yourself from this feeling of wishing you were dead,
but the only thing you can think of to do instead,
is to get off your self loathing ass and go back to bed,
and that getting up and returning to bed becomes a redundant rotation,
that goes on and on never unbroken.
That's not only it's symptoms everyone,
that is also the true definition of chronic depression,
but all is not lost, suicide should never be an option.
There are and always will be a great variable of solutions.
That's the next hardest part, finding those solutions can be very frustrating,
and can drive you to the point of ultimately surrendering.
Just never quit, never stop fighting,
because if you do, you accomplish absolutely nothing,
other than to remain in this dark world known as Depression.
I may not be happy, but I do have my moments of joy occasionally,
and that in itself is worth my fight against chronic depression for me.
Hey, we are all going to die inevitably.
All you chronic depressed suicidal types will all be depression free eternally,
so my question to all of you is, "What's your freaking hurry?"
Everyone meets that destination eventually.
I fight my depression as if it were a worthy adversary,
someone who could have been my friend, but ended up my enemy.
I know it sounds crazy, but it works for me.
Hi, I'm SillyBilly and I'm a miserable SOB.
She wakes up in a padded room
in an asylum on a hill.
A half a mile from civilization,
spirits loom with an ominous chill.
A skilled
professional in a white cape,
draped,
over casual attire.
enters the room.
A well mannered man, smooth
endearing,
compassionate,
or so he seemed to be.
in this chemically induced
dream.
Screams,
trapped in her mind.
the silent kind.
he leans over her mid-section
it is medication time.
Twisting, fighting
to escape her own mind.
Where is that man in the red bow tie?
She lays alone, drugged,
dull,
a lifeless look in her eye.
slightly crying.
Where am I?
Still fighting.
Blurred vision , diminishes.
she walks with a lean.
Headaches, a redundant punishment.
No longer looming in this dream.
To be continued!!!
11/07/09
Name withheld until contest is over
The shepherd's lot will never be an easy one.
From morning till night, his work will never be done.
Helped by a well-trained German dog, he keeps the flock
In good shape, so his physique must be like a rock.
Distinctive of his staff that helps him catch some ewe,
That had fallen in some trouble before it grew.
Always alert for thieves around are abundant,
And wild animals, he cannot act redundant.
Lone shepherds are not many, but I know of one,
He came from God on high and like Him there are none.
He distributes pure graces to all who need them.
Woe to those who ignore Him, your sorrow will stem.
Suburban resident pretense, a bleak uniformity.
I grew up among the repetitious homes,
isolated alienated, I wandered the conformity,
the endless square yards, the dull feckless syndrome.
Repugnant yet intriguing, a redundant singularity,
fabrications of fortified, fraudulent self-deception,
blocks and blocks of suffocating, vapid vanity,
I endured the bland boredom like an endless inquisition.
All history, all memory was recklessly strip-mined away.
Barren of lore, fat men rode loud, smelly power mowers
belching oil over manicured lawns with access to the highways.
Insular castles in the air, the tributes to white flight silently cowered.
Everyone tried to grin with toothpaste commercial smiles.
Everyone tried flaunting success with Chevrolet Bel Air fins
and backyard swimming pools, barbeque pits, or patio tiles.
Success was a charade hiding deep, wounded chagrins.
This was the sterile zeitgeist of a secretive colonization,
where everyone was living in Thoreau’s quiet desperation,
where in desolation and despair, every heart lay resigned,
where perverse platitudes and euphemisms numbed the mind.
This microcosm where all communal convictions were taken,
where the broken edges of confident affiliation never awakened,
where commodified adorations formed the language of thrill,
where a busyness cluttered every weary mind like a noisy drill.
I grew up among the monotony; I was devoured by the beast,
this juncture of moment and place, its pain has never ceased.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Bobby and Sue.
These property lines were the racial entitlement of a few.
Some recast this age as Great America, craving a narcotic,
but ennobling these glib, obdurate neighborhoods is ironic.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Richard and Nicole,
concealed the dejected anguish, searching for a soul.