Long Spectator Poems
Long Spectator Poems. Below are the most popular long Spectator by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spectator poems by poem length and keyword.
Everyone has a place they are coming from
Don't goad the horse when it won't run.
I detect sorrow in your eyes
Because there were no alibis.
(chorus)
All the reasons why
You gave it your last try
The only way to forgive yourself
is to take the past off the shelf
It's worthwhile when you pause
Trace the roots, trace the cause
Find a peace under God's sky:
When you know the reasons why.
Our mind is a spectator, but we're also on the stage
We adlib the lines, when we can't find the page.
There's a gap between who we are and who we wish to be.
Who we are is how we deal with that discrepancy.
Some blame others for that gap
Some blame it on fortunes mishap
Some say they meant it all along
Convince themselves there's nothing wrong.
You can replay the movie in your mind
Facing facts can feel unkind
Still, tracing causes breaks the chain,
So you won't show that side again.
All the reasons why,
The thoughts we hide, the truths we deny.
And if your heart can heal again,
It starts with seeing where it’s been.
We’re all just travelers on our own
Kicking ourselves for what we should have known.
At least we have to try.
To find out the reasons why.
You stood by me when I was alone;
But now it’s me who has left you alone..!!
You think this is fair, coz I don’t..;
You my friend deserve better..
Better than I can ever be..!!
All I have done is left your dreams shattered..;
Now you’re in trouble, and who caused it was me..!!
You my friend deserve better..
Better than I can ever be..!!
Every single tear, that falls from your eye..;
I blame it on me..!!
You stood by me when I was alone;
But now it’s me who has left you alone..!!
You think this is fair, coz I don’t..;
You my friend deserve better..
Better than I can ever be..!!
When you were being hurt..;
All I could do was stand and watch..!!
Like a spectator, as if my hands were tied..!!
Who needs this recognition?
When I can’t even take care of my friend..
When she needed me the most..!!
Remembering all that you have done for me..;
I feel so heavy and sick of myself..!!
As, when you were being hurt..;
All I could do was stand and watch..!!
Like a spectator, as if my hands were tied..!!
Even though, you stood by me when I was alone;
But now it’s me who has left you alone..!!
You think this is fair, coz I don’t..;
You my friend deserve better..
Better than I can ever be..!!
My body is here, yet I'm not
My thoughts are lost in a distant thought
To a place that's dark and lonely
Where I'm safe from the world's disarray
A place where I can hide and be free
From the chaos and uncertainty
I watch as a mere spectator
To my own life, a mere spectator
It's a strange feeling, you see
To be aware of the present, yet not really be
Floating through existence, in a state of confusion
A coping mechanism, to avoid any illusion
My heart beats faster, but my mind slows down
Everything seems foreign, like an unfamiliar town
The only thing I know for sure
Is that I'm out of range, I can't endure
I try to make sense of what's happening to me
But it's hard to explain, for others to see
The fog that obscures my vision
Making it feel like a difficult mission
I long to feel connected and alive
But dissociation is a barrier, hard to survive
Trapped within these walls, I view my life
But I struggle to break free from this endless strife
Desperately searching for a way out
But I'm stuck in this cycle, filled with doubt
Feeling alone and lost, I can't escape
This dissociative state, a lingering shape
So here I am, my body is present
But my mind is floating, far and distant
Lost in a world of my own creation
Caught in a never-ending dissociative fixation.
Written by starrynight October 2023
I took a chance and made some calls, cause home
Was on my mind. I knew late 2021 that things there
Wern't going fine. Of the calls i made one was to this
Guy, by the name of richard beks, editor of the spectator
In Hamilton in which he airs his dregs..At first I thought
He was alright, though maybe somewhat confused? He said
He was a jabs-worth? yet to each person their own views
I told him i knew David Noaks a farmer there, chris from the Athens
Eatery, he told me Chris was gone for years, and the changes
He had seen, old Tommy Moores boxing club was also gone
Once i touched upon its fate.. I reflected inside myself back along?
He said he'd view my writes online, and maybe do a feature
What a laugh.' If I'd really knew of what type was this old creature?
We talked some more then I rang off' thinking it would be good
To be read throughout the western districts to inspire thoughts as
Only poetry really could.' A month or two slipped along i made a
Call again He got Bronwyn there to feild my call, she said he was
In a meeting, of which I enquired of when that slot would end? She
Replied that was the question, her manner friendly enough, yet I
Sensed that beks himself was saying you get stuffed' i took the
Hint and closed the call, bewildered to say the least I'd thought from
The first call I had 'the measure of the beast' a few weeks on i did
A check on 'facebook' of all the places, and there i saw a post that
Called for 'beks account to be eras-ed.' It says he'd supported dirty
hume despite the cardinal sins he'd done 'the rotten child abuser'
And old beks had glossed over, the crimes of that scum.? I drew a
Breath of deep releif, I thanked the Lord above..Who keeps my ways
And brightens the days, who is the only author of justice and Love.!
Under the heavy shadow of silence, I sat at the table of sins,
Watching as everything unfolded that I swore I would never become,
A spectator in my own life, a witness to a world unraveling,
Telling myself that as long as my heart remains pure,
It doesn't matter what images enter my eyes, what shadows settle.
At the table of sins, I listened to the echo of heavy words,
Words that wounded my hearing, whispers that dug deep into my being,
An attentive listener, yet deceiver of my own conscience,
Telling myself that as long as I distinguish right from wrong,
It doesn't matter what murmur enters my ears, what dreams shatter.
I laughed and spoke at the table of sins, a distinct participant,
In front of all that my soul rejected, an actor without a mask,
Telling myself that as long as I keep calm and speak few truths,
It doesn't matter where I am, what scene unfolds before me.
Who was I to believe I knew with certainty
The difference between right and wrong, to deceive myself it didn’t matter?
How long did I live believing I was already who I could be,
When only the scenes I lived played in my mind, a theater of shadows?
When I spoke, the words didn't sound like my own,
And my thoughts were tied to everything I had seen, a string of forgotten images,
When I acted, I did things I never thought I could do,
My truths became unclear, full of uncertainty,
I became certain only of maybe and probably, a game of insecurity.
Only I knew how much I had been affected,
But I had to continue pretending I hadn’t become
The things I was surrounded by, a well-kept illusion,
Telling myself that as long as I didn't have to show it,
It didn't matter who I had become, what mask I wore before the world.
Her belly is swollen with our future heir
when the bed sheets become all wet;
It’s off to the hospital to do the Lamaze
that for weeks we have practiced.
Excited fear is in the air
as I carefully help her into the car;
Seatbelt extensions are required
and I know just where they are.
Even at three o’clock in the morning
a maternity ward is wide awake;
Family members that I have called
arrive in the waiting room to wait.
The miracle of birth is a wonderful thing
when you are the spectator, expectant Dad;
The fact that I cannot feel the pain for her
makes me feel awfully bad.
I see the head begin to present
and my knees get wobbly and weak;
Before I faint in the busy room
I look for an empty chair to take a seat.
The piercing cries of our newborn child
produces renewed energy inside of me;
The exhausted smile on my wife’s face,
I am so happy to see.
We have a brand new girl, without a name -
we haven’t decided on one we both do like;
For as long as I live the rest of my life,
I’ll never forget this wonderful night.
In the silence of the night, when cities sleep under the veil of illusion,
People tread the paths of lies with heavy steps,
Embracing the shadows of the day that have slipped onto the pavements,
A theater of the absurd, where everyone is both actor and spectator,
Reflecting in the empty shop windows of an alienated existence.
They look to the sky, but the sky is merely a leaden curtain,
And the stars are extinguished, like dreams lost at dawn.
People wear their masks like suspended souls,
Tied with invisible strings to a system that dances,
To a deaf music, echoing like a memory's whisper.
But deep in every soul smolders a fire,
A desire for truth, to break the invisible chains,
To face the mirror that shows only distorted reflections,
A silent protest of hearts that still believe in light,
Though they are shrouded in the fog of a long-lost reality.
This is the involuntary plan of a fallen humanity,
A map of personal failure, stretched across the horizon,
Where each step is another road to the same destiny,
Yet even in the fall, there is a melancholic beauty,
A swan song of hope that will never die.
In this stream of consciousness, a silent magic is born,
A dance of words whispering freedom,
For in the depths of the soul, truth still breathes,
Waiting to be discovered, to be embraced,
In a world that will be reborn from its own ashes.
Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that,
Like a bubble in the air
Have to be content with only
Being fidgety inside myself.
When the rocks try to stop
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied,
Breaking its head on the rocks,
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.
Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?
Unable to do much about oppressive relations,
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom
endowed by nature, in relations.
But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression,
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.
Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.
the volcanoes are also destined to remain
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.
Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'
A few things represent me:
The color grey for example,
She's a beaute, isn't she?
I've felt drawn to her, especially when my soul had been just that, grey.
It has then gone on to taint my soul, my heart, my mind at every occasion.
It would have been a crime not to paint my destiny in her.
But what else is there?
The familiar scent of rejection?
The agonizing taste of nostalgia?
No?
Maybe the 21 awards I'd trade without a sigh's moment worth?
The glasses that crack due to the heavy weight maintained in my scalp?
The hauntingly mesmerizing words turned sour?
A promise I'm not morose in person?
I've often heard that you'd rather lay eyes on my soul's vessel than hear the cries of the same very soul.
Of course, I've only ever heard it from the third layer that daunts my soul, the very one that hurts at the mention of it.
She's obviously accompanied by Grey;
Like a fairytale in a child's dream, they become inseparable.
But heed her warning.
Stay away from the sharp turn of phrase that she takes, because soon you'll be a spectator to the ever-running show of gut-wrenching twists that is my mind.
This gentleman's sport,
Brings up my youth,
To stadium transport,
Fans and emulators of Babe Ruth.
When I was young,
We sat in the cheap seats.
Big family among.
On metal bleachers, a butt heats.
At our feet,
Peanut shells in piles,
So many we eat,
While the game beguiles.
I watch the balls fly,
Trajectories rather vast,
Oh, look! How High!
While the baserunners move fast.
Dad would talk at games,
Which we did not witness a lot.
He knows the player's names?!
His vocabulary is more than I ever thought.
Injuries occur,
But tis not a bloodsport,
Which is what we prefer,
For spectator comfort.
A moment in time,
We root for players to succeed,
Hit a homer, catch a fly, sublime,
And the other team's score impede.
Some fans want their team to win.
Others enjoy watching the game as a whole.
Whatever the reason,
This game our heart stole.
If the game is long,
Better conversations can be had,
Fans try to get along,
Or don't, and that's bad.
Japan's favorite sport,
Provides America many a powerhouse,
A valuable import,
And welcome addition to the clubhouse.
A sport that makes fans sing,
Stretch, move, and dance,
Up collective tookis bring,
All the more body condition and game experience to enhance.
Let's go to a ball game,
With fans abound,
Expletives exclaim,
Until the winning team is crowned.
On Fireworks Night,
Music and vision astound,
Phosphorus in flight,
Friends and magical experience surround.