Long Rejection Poems
Long Rejection Poems. Below are the most popular long Rejection by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rejection poems by poem length and keyword.
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart
That breaks each time her child's emotions crash
Like waves against a rocky cliff?
A heart pitted by the tears shed
When other kids fling arrows of venomous disdain.
Can you glue a heart split open by
Empathy for the offspring who has no date to prom,
Never gets flowers on Valentine's
and who, with all her heart, tries to make sure
Her friends don't suffer the same fate?
How much would it cost to replace a mother's heart
Each time it was broken from the cries of pain
On her children's lips, or the brave face they put on,
When their souls have been crushed
By another's rejection?
For her, is the hope of relationship restored enough
To shock a dying heart into beating hopefully
For one more day?
Can you regenerate a heart run dry
From lack of trust and affection?
Is it sensible that the resentful little creature
Created from our DNA should also hold our fragile,
Crumbly, feta cheese hearts
In their little boisterous and unforgiving hands?
And yet, given the choice, a mother says,
"Pass the glue. Sign me up for a transplant.
Because having children is what built my heart,
What gave it life, why it beats."
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart?
It doesn't matter,
because holding the pieces together
When everything is falling apart
Is what mothers do best.
Until the last beat, the last breath,
The last thought of her children:
The only pieces of her soul
That are left behind when she is gone.
He felt apathy when she
wouldn't encompass him
He had predilection for affection
while she held an air
of unearthiness
thinking herself a cure
making her lack of affection
sear like rejection
Yet her pull upon him was
so great, his resistance so weak
Her beauty was boundless
She walked with the fluidity of
unflurling silk adorned in splendor
Skin smooth as polished marble
He was powerless around her
she stroked his fire when
he least expected it making his
heart swell filling the moment
A glutton for punishment?
Maybe yet he could not let go of
the wonder that she was
My mortality,
I once deemed far away
For I was young and strapping
But winds of time cause thinking to sway
Bringing thoughts to bear of my eternal napping.
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TOM WRIGHT
Brother Larry,
When young, mortality,
Scarcely garners many passing thoughts,
But winds of time metamorphoses our thoughts
From what was, and is, into what will be.
The greatest decision we are called upon to make in life
Is the acceptance or rejection of Jesus.
This determines where our eternal sleep will be.
You did a superb job at Sister Irene’s funeral
A job that we could never have done;
Hence the reason that God gave differing talents.
We pray that everyone in attendance
Has taken a hard look at their life.
We are so proud and thankful
For the young man that you have become,
And feel privileged to call you our nephew.
God Bless you and your family
In all that the Lord leads you to do.
GOLDEN SHOVEL
I never thought that I would BE
The one she chose. I really did NOT
Dream that, when we reached THE
Last remaining waltz, I’d be the FIRST
She’d come to, passing all the others BY.
The one girl in the ballroom WHOM
I’d never dare approach. For me THE
Feeling of rejection’s nothing NEW.
But the feeling of rejection IS
As she approached I TRIED
Not to blush bright red; NOR
Would I stammer “Y.y.yes”. And YET
I did them both. But still THE
Dear girl smiled and I was in her arms at LAST.
And, when we swayed together TO
The strains of Strauss, she LAY
Her head upon my shoulder as THE
Lighting dimmed. And all my OLD
Uncertainties were cast ASIDE
Inspired by “An Essay on Criticism”
By Alexander Pope
There is poetry that runs freely through these veins
Authentic eccentric even society could never change.
For the poetry that runs through these veins
Comes from years of criticism, rejection and pain
Check the poetry in these veins that runs.
Born from carrying the weight placed on
shoulders heavy like boulders as the world
grows colder.
Original Poetree is the name for it is me
I am he whether or not you choose to believe
That it ’s the poetry running through these veins
That has set me free.
Yes indeed none shall impede the energy
Possessed to succeed and become all
I am mean to be phonetically poetically
I indulge in the banquet of prose as the
Poetry continues to runs its course through the
veins inside of me. Call it gluttony call it greed.
This poetry does not ask permission it breaks down doors
From the tip of the pen to the sole of the feet walking along
The poetic path on the floor.
There is poetry that runs through these veins from my
Creative core.
It screams at 3 AM when the world is sleeping. It’s not waiting for applause
or publication, or validation.
in the space between
your listening
and my speaking.
This poetry is alive.
not the kind that sits pretty in coffee shops
waiting to be discovered,
There is poetry that runs through these veins—
not the kind you find pressed between pages
of dusty anthologies,
that pulses with every heartbeat,
that courses through capillaries like lightning through storm clouds.
Anguished pained introvertedness
choked, immobilized, paralyzed...
rigor mortis frozen state held sway
over mine adolescent body as if...
scared to death upon unavoidable
close encounter (perhaps maybe
third time within same number of
days), sans wretched mortified
inevitable orbit, this bodily Earth-
ling on trajectory to intersect app
roach ching young pretty thang
invoking atavistic stir of echoes
invariably prayed for golden glo-
bull opportunity caught unaware
this thunderstruck, lovestruck,
dumbstruck, nerdy kid, suddenly
emotionally blindsided for naked
lunch aflame with unspeakable
embarrassment rendering me to
blush the color of port wine, yet
miserable cowardice overtook me
the stunning aesthetic of female
attraction totally oblivious dweeb
experienced head over heels heart
stopping pang of primal hunger
(game to spill forth endearments)
simply nonplussed, transfixed,
predicated...by beguiling, enticing,
intoxicating...vision before these
brown eyes (despite myopia), who
diverted stone faced countenance
within fleeting second, when risk
into uncomfortable zone (asphyxia
more welcomed at that moment),
when likelihood of rejection out
bid any feeble attempt to muster
even a broken smile, which oft re:
curr ring defeat summoning forth
even a meek utterance rents mine
psyche asunder even to this living
instant, where flashbacks remind
this sensate being, asper the scent
of a young woman countless times
ideal circumstance left to wither on
figurative vine suppressed vitality
stunting psychological branching
developing only withering shoots,
forever atrophied, gnarled, tangled...
constricting functioning, warranting
a machete to clear cut dead growth!
I know a woman
who had lost her love
but had a small version
to cherish and enjoy...
Her life was never easy,
and her heart had never felt safe,
yet she cared,
gave herself to the job
and the only tiny person
she loved and lived for...
Her son grew and
from the nest, he flew,
and she continued
to love and live
for him, despite--
until she was not able to, one day.
Knowing her
gives me strength,
wisdom and
courage, that
despite loss, rejection,
and heartache,
she persevered.
Despite her struggles
and probably, loneliness,
she inspired, created,
lived and gave back.
Knowing her is like
her hug
I never received.
Where’s the Poetry…
by Odin Roark
Where’s the poetry
In out of touch politicians
Finding nothing their derelict conscience
Can address?
Where’s the poetry
In a homeless family
Through no fault of their own
Must endure cold
Hunger
Rejection
Vilification by the ignorant?
And lest we forget
Where’s the poetry
In the sadness of an abandoned pet
Filling alleys
Vacant lots
Fields
Drain ditches
While former owners
Party
Or perhaps just refuse
To maintain the responsibility
Fulfilling their obligation as a pet owner?
Where’s the poetry
In a new year so full of misery
For the underpaid
The discriminated against
Recipients of hatred
Compassion-void observers
Where’s the poetry
In sadness
So dense
There’s no room
For light to reach it
To give a poet images
To exercise some sympathy
Empathy
Perhaps
Even some tangible help?
Words can help heal
If they can be seen
Heard
Read
So I ask you
Where’s the poetry
In a country whose back is turned?
Rejected
Like a blackball
in the ballot box,
I lie silently
since dejected in love,
Not desirous of
breathing fresh air,
Neither wanting
any rock or roll,
Nor counting
on the kicking toll,
Unfortunate having
lost my love,
Passion denied
by destiny,
Dropped me
taking a dead fish,
Casted me away
As spoiled milk,
Send some scents
of the recent past,
That could neutralise
the sarcasm,
Else standing at middle
Of whirlpool,
drowning deep,
Rejection could be
A lethal tool,
Embrace the rejected back
To head and heart !
Written September 11th, 2014
For contest ' Rejection' by Regina Riddle
Awarded 4th place
You can't read a mind, but you can read a face
Just watch over time to see emotions that race
Expressions revealing rejection or jeers.
Enough to chill anyone, confirm paranoid fears.
There's the expression "We will crush you"
And "You just don't get it, but we hate you."
A face that can't hide a nasty plan
What can I do? I'm just one man.
There's the face that says I'm a cloying fool
Then there's tones I never heard in school
There's the tone of dripping contempt
How do I deflect that, even make an attempt?
There's the face rehearsing how he'll beat me to a pulp
I look at it and let out a nervous gulp.
Skeptics say I expect to see, then I fill in
But if half is true, my future is grim.
The are the words too, that sometimes come along
But the interesting aspect is the rest of the song
Maybe it's the brain controlling muscles, controlling eyes
That makes the inner feeling break through the disguise.
This preceded talking, in our evolutionary past
Another way of knowing, that some dismiss too fast.
You can know much about a man, just by the way he laughs
Know with who to hunt the wildebeest, with who to forge your path.