Long Stigma Poems
Long Stigma Poems. Below are the most popular long Stigma by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stigma poems by poem length and keyword.
Human history is full of trouble because religion has duped the human race and creates a lot of doubles all over the place. If I could turn the clock back in time, I would not change anything, but I would get what is rightfully mine.
If I could go back in time, I would conquer the mountains and build a shopping center in the middle of the tobacco land; I would expand the livestock and plant a gigantic cane field in the back yard.
I would develop the cotton farm and plant a sunflower field on the Lawn and pump cooking oil out of the belly of the beast and drain the color out of the human race and let it cover the entire street.
The color is full of trouble, and it has cast a sticky pigment on the universe and make us believe that the human body is made up of dirt, the British created this religious narrative with Adam and Eve at the center of the stage and the Prophet Mohammed dominating the Muslim race.
The narrative is so strong that it brainwashes every human being upon the barren land; it started from the babe in the womb, and it came to life in the temple of doom.
The scientist explains it and the religion fanatics’ shout about it but have no evidence to prove it. They continue to live a living lie and cast their breads upon the water until the day they die.
The romans started it and the British perfected it and everyone was brainwashed by it and start to believe it. Thanks to the Americans and the new world that rescued the human race from it.
The British is bound in traditions, they have created much of the history books on the land; the color trouble runs through the pages and create conflict among the human races.
Some people never overcome it, they die and go to the grave with it and a new generation is born with the color trouble spread out all over their face.
The stigma is still around and it has dogged some people in the town, color on food, color on face, color on house, color mingling in the dirt, color running on the street, color disrupting my heart beat, you must mix the two troublesome colors and make they stay together and if you think that it is improper let the different conflicting colors meet and let the Devil prowl around the street.
I would never change my color if you gave me a billion dollars. Let my color run all over the street until you accept my heartbeat.
I forgive the stars sleeping in nothingness,
too afraid to embrace eclipsed spheres…..
In the midst of sweltering gloaming,
I ascend, obscured and tarnished,
like a tainted trinket lost
in the tangerine haze.
For I’ve long been burning
from the coals of stigma~
stamping labels upon troubled torrents,
using malignant metals,
mirroring the fear within lichen eyes,
consumed by ancient
arrows of anguish~
from the era of Hercules and Midas.
But if only they knew, there is
no remedy for the jaded jewels that
refuse to sparkle,
for my purity remains unseen in
growing darkness,
oblivious to the liquid gold
that flickers compassion,
as they see not
beyond their fractured vision.
O distorted colors of the sun,
I’m not your perplexed perspective;
I breathe in hues of humanity,
infused with luminous lavender.
I’m not a Medusa siren luring you
to serpentine rocks;
I swim in chromatic, evanescent streams,
brimming with blissful bioluminescence,
illuminating my way under the midnight sky.
I’m not the suffocating wintry winds
freezing oxygen in your lungs.
While it seems your tongue is silenced
and tied to the twisted strings
of broken instruments,
I ink words of hope and
empathy upon your cynical skin.
I am more than the blind rage
seeping in fury.
I’m not a heartless harpy
screeching into the emptiness~
drenched in despair,
pushing boundaries to
the ends of the earth.
I am Atlas holding the world on
his shoulders,
I am the glistening stars aching
to touch the silver ring around
the jasmine moon.
But life is like a helix fixated
on unconscious bias,
constantly critical of diverse dialects,
watching me struggle to stand
under the weight of pressure,
knees buckling as your assumptions
lacerate me, breaking me down,
burying me in your ruthless riddles.
I feel rumbling dirt beneath
my bleeding feet.
My sarcophagus is rising,
built from your putrid ideals of me.
Losing footing, I refuse to fall into
the seething seas of sorrow.
So remember, I was never
the soulless monster hiding
beneath your ignorant bed.
But I am now the skeletons
etched within the cataclysmic
aftermath of your
shallow misconceptions.
I am not a blank slate to score upon again
Yet there is this gap, this hollow place
That wants a name. I search for it in vain
The alien presence of eyes, and of face
Nothing comes back to memory. We are
Strangers now, and the empty space
Yawns akwardly. Thirty years is too far
For memory to recognize what is it I trace
For family and friends like fluids converged
In a nether space that makes glee brief
I feel the joy familiar as sky and sea merged
But the change in people contests my relief
For man have changed many things, but few
As much as himself - and as if to hide before
Familiar eyes. I remain old in a world new
And hesitance now where once I was very sure.
Time drizzled, drizzled, drizzled and terminus
Came piling up the sands of days for the wind.
Exile was my fickle way of escaping detritus
The sand shy had not yet blown but I was blind
And in the darkness where spins now alone
The white leached of soul calcified by snow wet
As unshed tears, under its stigma do so moan
More than the coming home again, the soft death
Of bonds, and the sense of proprietary loss. Who
Is left to stare in my face blank and expressionless?
And say by angle of shoulder: nothing here for you
I see all my labor like butter in the sun, and I am less
Than all the worth of man because the price of me
Is trickled in the sand. They kept the rules the same
But changed the game, and for lost of this efficacy
I am poured out from the chamber, a pot in shame.
For this I fled the foolish notion fawning in my head?
For this I left the better known of friends? The mills
Of stress do spin there still, the uncertainty of bread
And age from time's trembling vessel nervous spills
The unfriendliness to share because of a narrow dread
That tomorrow stalk alone will not suffice the failing
New. I was tired of my self-imposed exile, the shred
Remains I gathered and came home to true trembling.
There is only one familiar landmark, a true friend, this
Alone give my days orientation to praise. My true pole
Is where such a friendship in the sand storm still exist
The lighthouse in the billowy mist, anchor for the soul.
But I have no root here to hold me firm to one spot
Roots adventitious grows away, and then cold excision
The stem alone left in the miry mud to to swell and rot
Coming out of exile finds coping a harder final decision
Prior to my final Masters Exam, I spent five months
in Uncle's place on study leave and once chanced to meet
my Mr. Perfect and was devastated .
No way , my ardent ardour compelled me
to fall in love :
He was my First Love.
Seeds of love were sown in two souls
to sprout .
Tender sapling of emotive urge started to grow.
Dormant yearnings formed the stem.
Roots of passion pierced the core of heart
in deep dolour.
Romance rippled on shivered nascent leaves.
I never interacted direct to Mr.Perfect
even both standing face to face.
Yet our silent world was magnificent.
Mere exchanges of glance was sufficient to tie
ethereal emotional bond.
Two soft buds in two minds shone in amorous glow.
Dreamy desires danced delight
in wobbling dilemma
thrashing on different shores through swelling urge.
Two surrendered minds being chained in social stigma
are sundered, as none had courage to defy status -quo.
In the last eve of my leave completion ,
we happened to be in a solitary park.
Eagerly I was waiting with full expectation.
He hurried to approach close to me.
I looked straight to his eyes even without blink,
with a feeling that he has overpowered his hesitance.
Eternal Time momentary took pause.
We lost worldly link.
But he couldn't utter a single syllable.
Our love sank in Destined Silence .
I had to be back on next day.
,
You know, it is rather difficult to discuss mental health
The simile of the racing thoughts is a swift flight
Swift, and Intrepid like an Arabian horse,
Sometimes, too hard to decipher, even.
I face the past,
and I talk.
and I keep talking about many, many issues
And you heard me there, silently.
Then, you whispered into my ears, “Un the lib.”
Did you utter the word, “Un the lib?”
Or, was it a call for another scapegoat,
with the name Andalib?
My understanding is getting clouded, and clouded enough.
Vulnerably, and abnormally.
But there is no problem.
Neighborhood concept runs into such difficulties, these days.
They are yawning and dribbling in so many places,
chilling effects...
With the metaphor of a prophetic narration
with so many broken chains, harder to trace even.
Understanding.
It whittles down to an empty bottle of pickles, decisively.
Never tried to forget “Un the lib” though,
Never tried too hard to break free, nonetheless.
Word abandons me along the way, cult of own whims too.
Let us come to the points,
Closer enough to the bullet points,
A poet’s life, bohemian, unpredictable
A very fine line to decipher between irrationality, insanity
Nothing more than this. Just this.
“Hallo, microphone testing, one, two, three, hallo?”
Nothing more than that,
not even a one liner.
Please do return to your beloved dream.
Find your imagination in your beautiful enigmatic lover
You may fetch her, even from the farthest corner of a poem
And, please be sure that you may.
And you may do so, for me
On and on.
Is it too much of a task?
I saw you both, together, already.
Wandering around, streets imprinted you both.
Footsteps.
Muddy constellations.
Guided me through. Meticulous coldness.
May I perceive it
as a stigma?
As a cliché?
As a bubbly snow? Whistleblower?
crawling with the irrationality to linger more?
Perhaps, just so, because,
it never served me enough.
Or are there anything?
To digress with any of these?
Yes, it is better that way
Do return, please do so, earnestly.
And lame excuses are in abundance,
It will find me too, sooner or later, anyhow.
“Un the Lib,”
how far are you there, with your two cents?
You can be proud of your city, home town or your village.
You can be proud of your home county and local heritage.
You can be proud of the school where you were taught.
You can be proud of the local pub, club or restaurant.
You can be proud of your family without taunt.
You can be proud of the journey your ancestors travelled,
and be proud of from where they travelled to get to this place.
You can be proud of these things and wear a smile on your face,
because with these prides there is no prejudice attached,
there is no stigma that sticks, this pride does not disgrace,
but you will find hesitation toward pride in your nation,
because isms and judgement exist in that statement.
Preconceived notions present this pride as different.
Some link national pride and racism without thought,
and with ignorance look down on you as a result.
They select history you were not there for,
and talk as though it was your fault.
Be careful with this pride as to them it is an outward insult,
as to them it says that you think you are better than the rest,
even though your thoughts contain no comparison of who's best
it is simply an inward thought in which no other or thing is caught,
It's not about others it's not a put down,
it's not a comparison, don't turn it around,
it's about you and where you belong,
why is this pride seen as wrong?
Some people have issues and see this an opportunity to dis you,
they group you a race or a type and dismiss you,
but you're only thinking about what makes you and who you are,
ignore these people calling you racist, because racist they are.
They think it acceptable to attack your nation through you,
some historic event in which they and you had nothing to do,
their opinion pure prejudice a warped point of view,
their passive attack not acceptable when they attack just you.
If you are proud to be a man is that an insult toward women,
if you are proud to be a woman is that an insult toward men,
this thought only contains pride in whom you are,
this thought does not include ideas toward whom they are.
So I choose to be proud of all that makes me, me.
My postcode, my accent, my roots and home country,
and if some thoughtlessly link this pride with an ism,
then I care not, as their thought process lives in a prison.
Sweet dreams are fantastic and enchanting,
The golden wings of brightness are quite chanting,
The natural beauty of songbirds is like fairy dust,
In this dream, I broke down with joy and bust.
Oh, dream! The ominous curved shape was not scary,
Chimera! The vampire seemed merry,
Then the classic scary stigma of horror vampire,
Fear of satanic blasphemy grew as a damper.
Oh! I closed my eyes in horror at that terrible sight!
His hypnotic eyes stopped the trembling, awe-inspiring flight!
The Vampiric myth unsolved puzzle may be resolved tonight,
My heart raced as the ego chiseled my family's artistic heights.
There is tranquility and calmness in my head,
Trying to remember how beatific this time is ahead,
I am grateful to God for my golden vision,
which appears to be a wonderful envision.
A mysterious traveler from our odd planet,
At home, into the magical realm of sleep gamut,
In a dream, I filled out a waiver and escaped Vietnam,
And I joined the National Guard, my favorite aplomb.
My favorite subject at school was English Literature,
Dad said math and science were vital, not litterateur,
I focused on calculus and left grammar to my proclivity,
I learned to design technical visuals, not creatively.
We were labeled "baby boomers," but we were war babies,
It ensures the happiness of possible rivals abides,
Living in America exposed me to a touch of pioneer history,
Technology and industry drive us forward through mystery.
The dream ceased without falling for the intelligentsia,
She freed me from lethargy by having me fight inertia,
Without her, I could have abused booze and heroin,
It's simpler to surrender to laziness than to be a heroine.
I rode the conveyor to the consulting to provide luxury,
I wrote finance and tech books to show I hump Riff Poetry,
Now I am in search of mystical sights and cosmic vibes,
When the writing is over, I shall resume painting the jibes.
The most exciting dreams are abruptly interrupted,
When the sun's rays approached, rouse erupted,
Appealing experiences, from a need for sleep,
More people assumed occult esoteric creep.
1ST place contest winner
Written: September 15, 2022
The Mystical Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Regardless of the ever slow and piercing passage of more than two centuries, her sapphire eyes still remain encrusted in my memory, like precious gems on an ancient fallen crown.
Only fractures and scars remain of the come-and-go parades of fabricated love, which served only as the ground to sow the seeds of my own desolation.
Like a hand grasping thorns, is the stigma of knowing the punishment of her absence has not yet ended, and that I again, will not have in this life her guidance, her light and presence.
Images flecked with dust twirl in my mind, to the rhythm of the arrhythmia of my eternally consternated heart.
As if conspiring, time managed to abrogate all its forgiving powers and magical healing, although I admit that the constant remembering of her love, like a refreshing ever flowing brook, has always been the very best of every day in each life, briefly relieving my withered and shattered spirit.
Losing myself in the memory of the thousand details of her Venus like beauty, gives me life, flares up my senses and wafts me through the swirling smoke of hours burnt.
Clinging on passionately and frantically to the memory of the essence of her loving way, I am momentarily able to perceive this empty world, as paradise.
I miss the way her soul breathed, and how every time it gently approached mine, I´d be engulfed by the violet halo of her auric light, taking me to heaven here on earth.
I remember the glory embodied in her poised grin, as she realized how I became bewitched when she described with her mellifluous voice, details of the impossible love she felt for me.
I miss her intriguing yearning for the science of the pneuma, and the amazing knowledge she possessed about the laws that rule the merging of souls. She taught me that love conceived thus, is the only force that governs and transcends the infinite, inheriting the power to enrich life wherever it may be.
I miss her intense urge to make me a better person, despite knowing just how difficult it would be.
An unforgivable mistake from my part, left her without option, forcing her to remove me from the magnificence of her life, leaving me adrift between the jaws of the three mysteries of time, and into the hands of living death.
Hours of Minutes
Hours of minutes rush by
as my focus turns time
into a bullet shooting the mind
holding onto what I can clutching
the unknown till
I have only myself and what I am unsure of.
I try to figure out the reason of life but life dosent answer.
The silence is loud enough for questions to be understood by those who
ask if you heard anything.
The echo of straight travel is independent
keeping its sound one solo gleaming adventure at a time
assuring that you get one chance in history.
My options are limitless as hours of minutes clock
I can talk if you’ll listen my thoughts spill like paint brightening your day filling
your path with the spectrum of radiant hope I emit, now
appreciating the finer things in life.
Trust is built
then destroyed
upon wreckless impact
breaking solid gold relationships like needles injecting sin like traits upon its
victims….revenge is born as hours of minutes bleed
I live to see the day when change is physical,
and I am the product of new order governed by either man…will destroy its self mad from
disease and money….or nature….
will hatch its own shell and feel the energy that she has so graciously
coated us with over the years,
soak into her essence.
Let life be reborn as hours of minutes evolve.
I listen to the stars from the underground where I yell at the panic of man to calm this
blade of chaos cutting killing those who are armed with natures weapons cuffed from the
ability to use them wisely.
Hours of minutes lock my thoughts into a stream of insanity travelling to radical change
from knowledge of the questions once asked
now answered
fills my mind with the extasy of peace and passion to progress
go to bed universal child as hours of minutes sleep.
The stigma that we have selfishly gifted history and our mothers with
will burn our accomplishments for the good is easily overlooked
where the harsh actions are radiant.
sky night miracle bright man made destruction coats holy like beams of natural light
which at once we gripped as our sword of triumph to defeat the wicked ways of the
unknown.
As hours of minutes pass we find ourselves.
Form:
You ask me now to sum the beauty in sun's eyes
And make of love the distinction that love despise
And all figures come only to my praise of the gift
God gave to Adam, when he unreplenished, adrift
Midst loneliness and impotence, found sleep blessed
To wake and find his rib enclothed with loveliness
Would you call the virgin mother frigid, cold
Who felt God's heat and furnished men his gold
Zeus too often imitate and did not once procreate
Beyond the fiction of the mind. All flesh fornicate
That cannot yield like Mary did to quiver and moan
To bear the first command to all; all pleasures groan.
The stigma then maligns my rib and cuts my breast
For only truth is beauty in all her virgin comeliness
Undemured, undefiled, stained by circumstance, and pure
The heart aches for beauty and found in Eve no cure
Just Mary Magdala, my passion's patient bride
Goddess of the penitent, queen of desire's tide
That like the moon brings sweet glow upon my bed
She copulates with the sun, and trees that naked shed
Themselves, like arthritic Simons, pay in rich spice
To luxuriate in the pleasures of her passion and vice.
What then her breached external form a little stained
The rich stream of heaven kept not disdained.
Measure this then against rebellious Eve, who crave
Man's pleasure but disdained to concieve; the rave
Of her autonomy to be as god, and provoked the earth
To crown an Astarte, Anat, Venus, Aphrodite as worth
To which some like Delilah or Helen made men bow
And worship in wine drenched mud the grovelling sow
Think of it, I never thought my mother panted or sweat
To shed a seed, for her purity repudiated such a threat
That I was concieved by the pleasure that first the pain
Mother is too chaste, and stainlesss all mothers remain
The mind rare permits sister or daughter expansion of gene
And yet unweb the stigma projected unto the queen
And where the stigma sits their lolls the brooding heart
Aflamed, the loins deep ocean longing to break apart
The solid rock that love strike to feed the egg athirst
The tongue languishing to bulge night's breast in verse
The hand to strip the curtain from the flesh, the skin
To meet as one, joy in joy, and love in love enmeshed.