Long Servitude Poems
Long Servitude Poems. Below are the most popular long Servitude by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Servitude poems by poem length and keyword.
I reject all your religion,
in favor of myself
Those spewing virtues dogma,
often kill, with little felt
I reject your revelation,
with the truth inside my heart
I surrender your salvation,
from your guilt I live apart
I challenge your commitment,
when the road gets hard and long
The good intentions you now offer,
Hell’s words without a song
I reject all faith in platitudes,
and your threats—both veiled and not
I refuse to live in servitude,
and tied to what we’re not
I will reach inside the goodness,
born to each and every man
I will choose to see the wonder,
of those souls that say “I can”
And as I look beyond tomorrow,
to that place we call today
I will live in thanks for who I am,
—and not to whom you pray
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
In my hand the ink drips,
commotional emotions at large,
patches has failed.
Nails and swords, pierce the hearing ear,
fussed drops of lethal dose,
push me to the edge,
for adrenaline chokes my conscience,
lead tracks,
Perforation of daunted untrampled dark corners of my mind,
diffuse me from this dungeons,
Let the near and afar witness
and preserve my presence
for days have surpassed others unrecorded,
I'm poetic ink,
unleash and infiltrate the soul
for the present to inherit the marks,
Was just an ink, they said,
Lil to their knowledge,
This is a force to be reckoned with,
if today imparts none,
Tommorow might be in vain,
shallow and void,
the ink drips.
Feed the soul for the mind is unguided and clouded by rage, assert the uncertain, pull me closer for the desire is ravenous.
Hand me the cannon, mass distraction at need.
I blow the missiles my presence is not for the immediate
but the wild and beastly,
human essence at awe,
look and listen,
read and understand,
this ink echoes, wisdom
and intellectualism.
breed the inbred.
My crime would not go unpunished,
spilling the ink is my servitude,
don't wanna account for my silence,
for I'm delegated,
to empty this ink before my return,
dust to dust, ash to ashes,
none must pass here before bowing
and acknowledging the spillage,
for I am poetic ink.
#Poetic_Ink
In the depravity of the neglected wasteland
obscure tufts of subdued slender grass
struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny,
the frail faces shaping the artifacts of cruel fate,
flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence,
borrowed from the remains of the sun,
already sunk in the depth of yonder horizon dark.
In the harsh squall of servitude,
uprooted, they stray to nowhere, uncared and soiled.
Under the blue freedom of the open sky
dew drops no longer bejewel the juvenile grass,
tarnished by the dirt of our spiteful times,
the dreams of their dew dry premature.
In the twilight hours walking the last few miles,
I wish to give the last rays of my twilight sun
to the relics of dewdrops so they can glow awhile.
I wish to drip the last drop of empathy from my oasis,
so their innocent smile doesn’t desiccate in desert.
I wish to show the children of a lesser God
the dreams of dew that would never die.
April 12, 2020
The Valley of dead Souls
Jewel encrusted guardians of stone stand before the gates to the abyss of eternity. Above engraved in gilded stone inlaid with silver and gold are the words. Dearth of light and filled with gloom for all that enter seal their doom.
With deaths sweet kiss of nights never-ending silence to comfort them as they walk. Fires burn and give no warmth unto the abysmal souls that travel the path into the void. Pail from life drained drifting through eternity without regret for days long past. These lost souls march on in their misery, no sunrise to inspire the eyes or sunset to charm the soul. Only pain to burden the flesh and dark sorrow to tire the spirit, as the fires of hell light the path.
This is the fate of souls devoid of a moral compass to guide them through life. Their sins guide them to the gates like a moth to a flame in the dark. In the wake of blood filled rivers of despair, innocent children cry tears of anguish upon the waters. Purity defiled by lust and greed feed the gluttony of their desires. Passion and love lost to indifference and hatred by the mindless desire to dominate the destitute and subjugated them to servitude.
All is lost to those that choose to walk this path to oblivion. None shall truly know the futility of wealth and power until they trudge this path of oblivion.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
Fight Back
I brush my tongue every morning,
scrape bile with paste,
and flush the lingering venom
into the bottom of the sink.
I do not want to shrink you with mouth odour.
I suppose you tame your bushy attitude
with Caesar's blade,
in the hands of surgeons
who excise the tumour of ego.
Some from winter come; some from harmattan come,
breaking my marrow,
to use my fat as a sacrificial offering
to their airy gods.
Fight back when the world rolls upon you like Persian wheels.
Fight back when they seek to crush the Spartan in you.
Be pregnant with anger and contempt,
and deliver your wrath upon those
who would skin my pigment
and refurbish it with servitude, subjugation, and destitution.
~ Uche Chidozie Okorie
Greyhound but a vague puzzle piece
Included in this English School.
The cynophilist unearths fur
On the edge of the frame, the hunt
For the breed, the breadth of the pet.
Lace shawl nets cornucopia —
The lady’s pink, white, red petals.
The anthophile’s bountiful vase.
Roses on table, floor, in hand,
Bud’s obscure in her brunette hair.
Moon brightness of the centerfold.
The poet details full length gown,
Square neckline, sash about her waist,
The opalescent pointy shoes,
Her brows, pert lips and curly locks.
The backdrop assimilates to floor.
Blossoming crystal vase sparkles.
Felicity of bride in June.
An English garden brought inside.
Greyhound in artist’s servitude.
9/24/2020
Poem based on English School
Portrait of a woman and her greyhound
May 17 Heart for God Bible Meditations Based on 2Chronicles 25-27
Key Verse – 2Chronicles 25:8 But if thou wilt go, do it; be strong for the battle: God shall make thee fall before the enemy: for God hath power to help, and to cast down.
HEART THAT DEPENDS ON GOD WHO HAS THE POWER TO HELP
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our transformation
While keeping us by His salvation
Letting us dwell in His will’s protection
So that we can praise Him along His name’s great magnification.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our maturity
While strengthening us by His authority
Letting us follow His instruction’s certainty
So that we can obey Him along His leadership’s sovereignty.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our faithfulness
While blessing us by His graciousness
Letting us enjoy His goodness’ bountifulness
So that we can delight in Him along His provisions’ timeliness.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our enablement
While teaching us by His commandment
Letting us learn from His wisdom’s enlightenment
So that we can testify about Him along His Word’s accomplishment.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our servitude
While helping us by His fortitude
Letting us surrender to His compassion’s magnitude
So that we can humble before Him along His loving kindness’ latitude.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our victory
While upholding us by His glory
Letting us understand His jealousy’s fury
So that we can live for Him along His love’s story.
Our heart depends on God Who has the power to help toward our ministry-success
While assisting us by His grace that always blesses
Letting us delight in His truth of counsel’s fortresses
So that we can reach-out to others for Him along His Scriptures’ promises.
May 17, 2026
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Cry of the lonely night is seldom heard
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Facing choice stark in dread of fate’s call
Alone she bemoans of dreams deferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Enduring deep pain her emotions squall
Concealing the blows of bashing incurred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Sensing signs of impending harm, fears befall
As bawl of her laments remains unheard
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Her stone-cold beats in servitude thrall
From passions parched and love interred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Shattered tones of her heartbeats appall
Repelled by futility of the vows conferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
January 19, 2020
HM: Strand choice 10 contest by Brian Strand
They’re made to look identical,
hide all that is unique.
With scarfs and veils and clothes that mask,
their beautiful physique.
In laws of old religion,
no woman was born free.
Sometimes sold by fathers,
a financial commodity.
The more that females cry out,
the tighter the noose gets.
The more they try to break away,
the uglier the threats.
The males which hold the power,
fear they’ll be left alone.
Because they know that deep inside,
the women all have grown.
Grown from ancient customs
which keep them tethered to,
a lifetime lived in servitude,
each day told what to do.
To cook and clean like servants,
their worth to all the men.
Surrender themselves every day,
no matter how or when.
They want to have their freedom,
end old ways of the past.
Each one with their autonomy,
where their word is the last.
So they remove their headscarfs,
march in protest of their plight.
Their numbers keep on growing,
for it’s every woman’s fight.
Is life itself merely a matter of perspective?
Does cogitation dwarf the poet's reflexive?
If only my words could spread across the paper.
Build a punter world faded from a barren taper.
Has tied together details with his utterance.
This ringed world is bathed in such radiance.
There, as it blazed, the finest fury was sown.
The glories of lofty notions must be shown.
His clever mind shows words to shove.
The fading sun's beams, the genesis of love
Spur one's heart to beat with goodness.
The globe's first torn-and-wrung governess
Or daydreams when yield is in full flow.
The width of this real mental orbit grows.
the same as in this busy, boisterous space.
My mind rises, free of servitude in place.
It might happen with each passing year.
My name, my life, and my manner endear.
And amid the dust of a poet's silent rest,
Maintain contact with the wise and best!
Exert one obedient deed in one fading hour.
Or heal a fading face with a genuine flower.
My lines are fortunate despite a tight scope.
for their nimble date, on the apex and slope.
Still, this verse is my finest leisure option.
It follows a sly path across the attraction.
One time only, deny a brood urge to revive.
Chase only a sigh or lull a worry not alive.
From brick and frame to flowery blitheness.
Our walks have bred humility and forgiveness.
While conversing, I softly stroked your face.
He commands us to protect this holy place!
Written: February 04, 2023