Long Self deprecating Poems
Long Self deprecating Poems. Below are the most popular long Self deprecating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Self deprecating poems by poem length and keyword.
Well, it's back to the sillies I go
This serious stuff is hurting my brain
If you notice I'm being serious again
Admonish me, must be totally insane
Must maintain my “silly” status
Or I'll totally fade away from the scene
“D'ya hear bout a guy who walked into a bar”
Sorry! Well you know what I mean
My humour's more of a cerebral nature
Yah right! Who am I trying to kid?
I'm down with all the rest of those guys
An image I could never get rid
Satirical, slapstick or self-deprecating
Puns creeps in now and then
Not what you'd call that high brow stuff
A hit with my P-Soup friends
Well hopefully I've got my point across
Though I might write a “serious” again
But they'll be rare, few and far between
A great big relief for my brain
© Jack Ellison 2013
* Wrote this one a while back *
My distant spirit is dying,
disheartened, disintegrating and self deprecating.
Defenceless, as hope disappears,
emotionally shipwrecked in deep waters,
yet to be discovered.
In the sadness of sentimental sighs,
silence is the sinister sister of separation.
Abandoned in an abode of unfairness,
my heart shimmers creating a crepuscular crescent,
emanating into an emotional eclipse -
in splitting darkness I've become invisible.
I've lost hope in being found
among faded stars and moonless nights.
I'm as transparent as an icicle,
melting in frozen fields of forgotten forever's.
In the deception of dreams,
gradually, the roots of grass begin to decay.
In misty meadows of manifestation,
sanctuary of my subdued supernova soul,
slumbers among rotting massacred moths,
motionless in a crumbling charcoal cocoon.
A slaughtered spirit spawns a suicide of sunshine,
as ebony eyes create Cimmerian shadows of smoke.
I've been taken hostage in a vault of torment,
hoping celestial spheres return soon -
but all I can hear is angels screaming.
I search for those susurration sounds
of homecoming birds of spring,
bringing the clarity of velvet sheen skies,
floating free like dandelions blowing in the wind,
unlocking shackles of sorrow,
easing stubborn tones of reasoning -
but no serenades can be heard.
The season of death is upon us,
so I remain disjointed in discomfort,
displaying dismay at being disowned -
leaving me feeling dizzy in dismal disorientation.
If I weren't afraid I'd still turn the lights on to keep the closet monster on his toes. I'd dangle my feet teasing the gremlin "hiding" under my bed. If I weren't afraid I'd throw off my covers and go investigate that noise down the hall. My feet whispering on the carpet my eyes adjusting to the shadows. If I weren't afraid I'd wear my bravery like a shield. My hand resolutely turning the knob slowly opening the guest bedroom door. This is where my imagination fails me the fear of the unknown freezing my synapses reminding me that I am indeed still afraid. But with no other option and no brave knight to save me. I allow no room for errant thoughts nor do I heed the thousand butterflies that have taken flight in my belly. My blankets are flung to the floor as i march determinedly down the hall. No whispering feet this time the silent approach not at all my style
I forcefully push the demon door and with a very loud bang it crashes into the wall I search desperately for a weapon so that I might stand my ground against this deadly intruder. A movement out of the corner of my eye. A scream begins to build a suffocating bubble in my chest. Sassy. Really. With a mouse in her mouth no less. I want to kiss and throttle her all at the same time. I choose the kiss and a congratulations before heading back to bed. Self deprecating humor causing me to laugh out loud. My crazy b#%&* status cemented for now. For it was not courage or bravery that had me marching into terrors unknown. But my damning curiosity that will one day most definitely get me killed.
They think I’m mean but I’m really just shy
They call me aloof when I’m afraid to say hi
They call me a b*tch cuz I’ll look you in the eye
They think I’m cold but haven’t seen the tears that I cried
They think I’m spoiled but I just hide behind my pride
They don’t see the nervous tension hidden in my stride
They want me to talk with my mouth open wide
But these fine ears have been fed too many lies
I’ve been misunderstood in so many ways
Might have something to do with how I was raised
Ive been yelled at and hit so I’m utterly unfazed
You call it self-deprecating, I call it self-praise
I grew up too fast, my childhood took a dive
I’ve been self-sufficient ever since I was five
The shell that protects me is why I survived
The dark broken pieces are what keeps me alive
My family and friends? Did they run and hide?
I’m the only damn person that stood by my side
And I’ll keep on trucking as a father-less bride
‘Misunderstood’ on my headstone whenever I die
Brain cells that were once bright shiny colourful marbles
Now starting to dull and lose the vibrancy they once had
Some days they still shine but in a different light, in a different way
I have always had a self-deprecating type of humour, believing if we can’t laugh at ourselves then we have no right to laugh at anything
On my first appointment with a consultant regarding my possible early onset Alzheimer’s, I said I don’t think I am losing my marbles but there might be the start of a hole in the bag
My only reason and concern for any type of diagnosis was, if there was to be any progressive downhill road then I wished to try to slow the journey as much as possible Particularly out of concern for the younger part of my family
They are massively into dinosaurs and all Marvel and DC superheroes
They might not fully understand that grandad is being defeated by his own invisible kryptonite
I look and smile at a mug my grandsons bought me
A dinosaur and a heart and the word – Grandadasauros – like a normal grandad but more RAWRSOME
I am not scared of dying but my situation shows and teaches how not to be scared of LIVING either
Part of living is pushing myself out of my comfort zone, which includes
firstly writing words and then sharing them
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
Matthew Scott, Whar Art Thou *****?
Nobody, but yours truly
bore deeply and countersunk
his spontaneity satisfactorily
lightweight corporeal mein kampf,
didst more than baptize or dunk
cuff, which admirably aided to flunk,
(whereat no universal solvent,
could (kant) kelp dissolve barnacles
of sea sonned gunk),
asper thickly congealed
encasing this laughable
antithesis of hullo kit ting hue man
overweening tricky hunk,
which thought to attempt
skidding row bust humor
as a "FAKE" teetering drunk
ken-pro lit tarry hut overgrown punk
(riotously swinging balled fists
way of course), and mine
feeble insubstantial poetic jabs, where
teenage shadow boxer slunk
tis my harmless recourse to peddle
as sway to escape funk
seriously, Aesop hoes,
this personal mockery
wrote for no rhyme nor reason junk
bonded really gluten
free self deprecating
playfulness of course as chipmunk
makes any sense, neither kerplunk
emanating from atop
me notched noggin
swishing with grade A klunk
emasculation par excellence, asper
out thee talking head of this lunk,
whose earlier "talk therapy"
every Monday at 2:00 p.m. with preshrunk
kin shrink finds tarnished psyche resonating
analogous to reverberation while spelunk
king in an echo chamber futilely
questing, searching, rummaging...why I trunk
hated living when merely thirteen
this admission honestly haint no bunk!
We as British people are known around
the world for our own individual traits
Such as we are supposed to be and
thought of as polite
Love ever so saying and apologizing
for anything and everything even if it
isn't actually in fact out fault
People say we even love and don't
mind queuing
Our self deprecating sarcastic sense
of humor
The Crown a Royal wedding like when
Harry met Megan
But there are also a few other traits that
can be added to the list which aren't
that great , such as
How we love espousing our views and
values upon the world at large with such
overbearing righteousness and sincerity
Well that is all well and good if in fact
theoretically it actually worked in practice
and we had managed to solve our own
problems here closer at home first
No 1 has quite ever explained why we
can't don't or are unable to rather try fixing
our own 1st before we go in search of others
And I promise then I will start worrying about
the plight of the snow leopards of Afghanistan
homeless cat's 3rd world debt and adopting
a child or building a school in god knows where
When I have any spare change left after
tripping over and giving to the homeless
on my doorstep or soon to be able to afford
and provide either electricity or food for
my own family
Who made us the arbiter of the world
and best placed to right and solve
all of the world's problems and wrongs
Our day's of Empire are long gone we
are no longer technically a superpower
Maybe it's time to start concentrating on
matter's here closer to home
And try instilling and restoring a bit
or some sense of pride back in all
of our own
Because everyone would benefit from
that and wouldn't only be good but
Great for all of us who reside here in Britain
Matthew Scott Harris, whar art thou *****?
The following admission
honest to dogness haint no bunk
nobody, but yours truly
bore deeply and countersunk
his spontaneity satisfactorily
lightweight corporeal mein kampf,
didst more than baptise or dunk
cuff, which admirably aided to flunk,
(whereat no universal solvent,
could (kant) kelp dissolve barnacles
of sea sonned gunk),
asper thickly congealed
encasing this laughable
antithesis of hullo kit ting hue man
overweening tricky hunk,
which thought to attempt
skidding row bust humor
as a "FAKE" teetering drunk
ken-pro lit tarry overgrown punk
(riotously swinging balled fists
way of course), and mine
feeble insubstantial poetic jabs, where
teenage shadow boxer slunk
tis my harmless recourse to peddle
as sway to escape funk
seriously, Aesop hoes,
this personal mockery
wrote for no rhyme nor reason junk
bonded really gluten
free self deprecating
playfulness of course as chipper munk
makes any sense, neither kerplunk
emanating from atop me notch noggin
swishing with grade A klunk
emasculation par excellence, asper
out thee talking head of this lunk,
whose upcoming "talk therapy"
every other Monday
at 11:00 a.m. with preshrunk
kin shrink finds tarnished psyche resonating
analogous to reverberation while spelunk
king in an echo chamber futilely
questing, searching, rummaging...why I trunk
hated living when merely thirteen
courtesy Anorexia Nervosa
with spindle shank (chicken legs)
to attest as permanent stunted growth.
When fate pulls at my haiku of heartstrings,
I curse the syllables of my poetic musings.
If I do not express my sorrows,
how will petals blossom in my garden?
Upon the midst of bewilderment,
lost without a bosom for a sanctuary.
Life can cause confusion;
seem somewhat an illusion;
when the mind only sees disillusion.
Upon the depths of despair;
placed upon the ledge of melancholy -
legs dangle, eyes stare into random space.
Absent thoughts have no demand,
yet the soul is insistent,
but, all that is seen is darkness;
charcoal horizons with no guiding stars,
with the moon obscured by dull smoke,
jaded eyes simply wonder why.
What has become of me?
I despise the voices controlling my head.
I'm afraid of the images they've created.
Who will save me from this ludicrous lucidity.
Can anyone prevent vicious vines from suffocating me?
Vertigo seduces the mind,
influencing it to leap - but it has no faith.
Below lies an endless void,
a collection of human delusions;
an abyss of crushed expectations.
Heaven's broken arrows rain down,
blood dripping with fragments of broken dreams.
A reminder of another false pledge -
the final episode of a heart's connection.
Flames of hell prepare to scorch me.
Sometimes growth is like a stream,
that has lost itself in an ocean.
No identity, misplaced and alienated,
so it dies a slow death.
A sigh can only become deceased,
when a heart does not beat.
So, why do so many die
when the water of existence is in your hands?
In the marketplace of life,
each merchant will give you a different price.
Some will try to sell you dreams,
others, goods on false pretences.
Be careful, not to give all your emotions
away to the first bidder;
life is an auction -
don't let the auctioneer play with your heart.
Sometimes love is an unpredictable enigma.
I'm tired of living around gambolling gambits,
who's games condemn a soul to suicide.
But, little do they know,
I am a master of self deprecating.
The greatest of all pretenders,
suffering from a poison mistake
that lives with me forever.