Long Self disgust Poems
Long Self disgust Poems. Below are the most popular long Self disgust by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Self disgust poems by poem length and keyword.
The Failure
When I was bored with sea life
and walked ashore in Santiago
I could find no work except in house of ill repute
throwing out the rebellious and for some reason
became a father confessor to the women, not a good start
No one wanted a book- learned man who had read Nietzsche
so when the money was gone it was back to sea.
any ship would do as long as I was paid so I could leave and
try my luck. I got a job on a Liberia type ship that looks as
it was ready to sink – it did after I left- for some reason
the ship was going to Norway it is a mystery we got there.
After years of self-disgust, I had a heart attack and the state
gave me a sick benefit which was not enough to live on
in Norway so I want to Portugal and stayed, there deep in
the interior and spent my time walking or writing
alternative poetry with little success, which disappointed me
that not being knows, until I realized it didn`t matter
I had found my Shangri La and that in the end is my goal in life.
I am crying tears of loneliness, frustration and contempt
for a life that I know has not been too well spent;
for time here on earth that was wasted and for naught;
for battles that I waged in that never should be fought.
I am crying tears of emptiness, pain and heartfelt sorrow
for the guilt of yesterdays and the hopeless of tomorrows;
for taking away much more than I ever gave away;
for putting off forever those things I could do today.
I am crying tears of destitute, isolation and chagrin
for the ending of a good life that never did begin;
for taking for granted the advantages of my youth;
for letting my ego distort the moral truth.
I should have cried for my fellow man and the injustices I saw,
Instead of seeking my fortune and turning a blind eye to it all;
I should have long ago found causes for which to shed these tears,
Instead of saving them for self-disgust in my autumn years.
Three neighbors litter on our street
buzzing along as I stroll past their gates;
and they jiggle like vicious wasps
while a silent howl drills on my head.
Yeah…all that drama, women of farce,
greeting me coyly with pretentious smiles…
I hear them cussing behind my back
those verbal bacteria infecting my night.
So why not face me , confront your self-disgust
thrown at my now distorted eye-to-eye stare?
Maggots! Low-life drones who thrive
on cheap thrills weaving vile intrigues
just to get some flipped attention…
I close my eyes for a moment to grab
some air, but the noise yells without restraint.
Well, it’s my time to get back ,after I let a blade
of screech hit the asphalt ground.
Under a reddened sky, a fuse explodes,
“Hey, get off my cloud or you all will be squashed!”
SKAT's Get Off Of My Cloud
6/17/2015
I wasn't ready for it when it hit.
Pathetic, self-absorbed, wallowing in grief,
plaiting the threads of self-disgust and wit,
I toyed with tragic sonnets for relief.
The night was hot. The cleft of Guadalin
crammed air, weighed down with jasmine, hard to breathe,
like musk in tall clay jars. I heard a skein
of song. It rose. It swirled. It dipped and writhed.
There, at my window, I was held, transfixed.
It was the ancient song of blood and soil.
That wailing voice was stinging, bitter - but was mixed
with darker tremelos which fizzed and boiled,
then sank again. It almost seemed the shock
of that shrill voice, embodiment of pain,
had stunned guitarist's hand. His rhythmic knock
reminded me of coffins in the rain.
Voluptuous and frightening at one time,
mellifluous and jarring, fresh yet rotten,
the music was both guttural and sublime:
my puerile self-obsession was forgotten!
The dread
He had slept too long hours lost
in a dream of deep dissatisfaction down a well of evil failure.
The depth had a silt of regrets and self- disgust.
Getting back up was slow progress
like an eagle flying in a vacuum.
Reluctant awakening as visiting death.
This time of the year makes him nervous it is called the festive season.
Christmas lunch.
Fake friendship from the nearest table by people who hated one another.
There was the beginning of an argument by a guest in his cups.
He had hoped it would last, truth even when not welcome, is delicious.
Dreaming by the log fire sounds romantic,
but he could only afford two bars on his electric heater.
Sitting in a restaurant eating third rate food was worse.
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
I felt like just another and I knew it,
Hated myself but was forced to go through it.
I knew illness and self-disgust were the forces making me do it,
Leaving me with negative feelings and emotions to prove it.
Constantly wondering why I was making myself do it,
Yet here I was, allowing my person to resuscitate but I blew it.
I TAKE A BREATH
I’d be quickly reassured by my thoughts it’s because I’m a monster,
Edibl-y consumed, I’m an imposter.
Forcing my beat and bruised body to no longer halter,
I will continue to give in to life’s disgusting consumptions faulter.