Long Supressed Poems
Long Supressed Poems. Below are the most popular long Supressed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supressed poems by poem length and keyword.
A burning flame resides inside me..
It has been suppressed..
Supressed flames of the soul
This burning flame is about to ignite
Ignite the flames that had existed within for so long..
I am truly on fire now..
With all of my being..
Being here..
Being there..
Only the burning flame matters
The fire storm of burning flames within..
So it shall remain
Now until eternity..
A burning flame that resides inside me has spread..
Spread like wildfire..
The veil has been lifted..
My soul has been lifted..
My soul has been set free..
I am free now..
To create..
In a state of becoming..
After all the soul yearns for love..
The soul yearns for experience..
The soul yearns for creating..
The soul yearns for joy..
My soul has been set free..
Liberating it feels..
I shall taste it's deliciousness..
I shall smell it's fragrance..
Intoxication of magnificance..
I shall see it's divine aura..
Divinity of the senses..
"Although I'm familiar with the art of poetry,
no one has inspired my muse
to inscribe my own journal. -
so I placed my soul in her hands." Silent One
I used to be a journal,
daily dips of ink dripped
deep into my dilapidated soul.
Supporting sorrows of the one
who wrote with endeavour,
'letting go,' of the blackness,
infested within her veins.
Endless chapters of vents,
tears, fears and misery,
bleeding from ruptured arteries,
etched upon the fresh fibres
of a canvas of compassion.
In times of fantasy,
I was a field full of her
supressed wildflowers.
In reality, I was her diary
of deep, destructive desires.
Now her pen rests,
with a sharp nib pointing at me.
Like a shield, preventing
her ink to reveal the
truths behind metaphors.
I'm an anthology of her emotions,
wondering how the next chapter
will be written - is there more to confess?
But in her mute melancholy,
I can think of reasons to express,
but many more to remain inkless.
Yet no other 'ink-toxication' can fill this void -
I'LL FOREVER REMAIN WORTHLESS
as what purpose do I have
without her words perpetually
nourishing my empathic existence.
In this slumber, I collect dust,
feeling bare, but in her rejection -
hungering for her verses to soothe.
Inside him he can feel flurries of powerful fury
and curiosity that come and go in a hurry,
bringing to life short lived waves of bravery,
then supressed by depression, owner of mental slavery.
Paired with anxiety he's a panic attack liability,
retracted social skills detach him from society,
to get by he hides his mind in shadows of a cave,
waiting and hoping one day they'll come and save.
Scared but angry with past ways that he's behaved,
people in his life benefitted from attention he gave,
time was spent on selfless actions and never returned,
forgotten through distractions, those bridges burned.
People only ever watch out for their own backs,
a selfish key attribute to survival but a fact.
You can't hate people because of how they act,
suddenly there's a light shining out of the black.
This revelation makes timid a little of his frightened,
only he can save himself with a fight to the end,
be brave in life by turning the unsighted bend,
knowing only on himself can he truly depend.
Sometimes all you can do is hide,
sometimes it's the only way to survive,
sometimes feelings rise up inside,
when they do it's time to fight, keep them alive.
At present a blank page starting fresh like a child
trying to climb back up this bottomless spiral,
a need to learn quickly, he's adapted to the wild,
facing a fairytale comeback to be done in style.
But he's been sat in hiding for oh so long,
and he has been getting decisions wrong,
he knows now that he needs to be strong,
there is no time to waste, no time to mong.
He can't change the fact he didn't act sooner,
but he's not prepared to be depressions prisoner,
freedom a distance even for a strong warrior,
get it wrong now and it's a trip to the coroner.
sometimes
misconstrued
in a fluorescent grove
where malachite petals
marry emerald blades
verbose biting chews
too close to the cheek
among a confetti of bees
amid undulating bumps
of raw superfluous air
interdimensional entities
of spectral occurrence
wave with graphic-less suave
to gurgles, to coos, to hehs
seek noodle communication
to a bouncing mistaken few
using the eyebrow medium
of coincidence
a babbling infrasonic tool
of curious happening
sometimes
misunderstood
exhume, with heed
supressed benevolence
they fly shapelessly
in quartered skies
aloof in mocking flight
frilly, frothy entities
divebombing ghettos
exacting urban sprawl
chance upon neonates
and families out picnicking
feeding babies whose
knowing smiles to air
see, or do they?
– beware
Aeriforms
Depression
There is no one reason, some remain depressed.
One could be, a fear to stand before – undressed,
looking at all their natural beauty – glory repressed.
Never to see, to feel, to know reality- their story supressed.
A dear john letter ?
I have moved on to better !, ?
Winter winds tearing at our relationship.
The fires of those winter storms, burn deep,
scorching the fragile fabric of spring,
of summer, of the decaying hours of autumn.
This, leaving me feeling, as the deserted beaches,
hammered by relentless waves crashing down.
The essence, the face, lost after being touched
by the raging, thrashing waves of spring tides.
Lost, after being caressed, fondled by summer waves.
Lost, after being cleansed by autumns thrashing surf.
Lost, after being ripped to shreds by winters door closing,
on all that once could have been something better.
Moving on
A coarse, I believe, you have always been taking.
It has been a long time, in fact, years in the making.
The earth upon which you / we have walked is shaking.
There is no longer, any good reason for you to be faking
all – that I feel – have been the reasons for this braking.
I do not – for one second – blame you for moving on.
I understand why what you may have had is all gone.
For the light you so desperately sought, never shone
upon the dreams you had of me.
The dreams that I would never see.
For they were of someone I could never be,
in this world of mine, where being free
from all that tears at this fragile heart,
of which I no longer want any part
of, and for many good reasons
of which, in my final seasons,
need not – ever again – want to become a part of my life.
For, at my age, and with all my experiences, strife
would only be the stiletto, a dagger, a keen knife
that cuts deep into the heart and brings nothing but rife
to this old man’s days and nights as he stands
at the threshold of new ways, in new lands
where there may be no foot prints in the sands
as life changes. moves on, is out of one’s hands
B. J. “A ” 2
May 19th 2004
He cried for help using a silent cord
but silent cries always get ignored,
he couldn't remember how life rewards
and from his eyes the tears then poured.
He ran away from life because he became scared
but he ran into the wild and he stands impaired,
with too much time passed since he last cared,
in this isolation he thinks how better he's faired.
He realised the run from people guided him here,
but he now wishes people were somewhere near,
stuck still in this spot on his lonesome chair,
now thinking that unsighted decision was unfair.
Supressed anger created this mental cage
and out of practice his mind won't engage,
without exercise he's to weak to turn the page
and there are no steps leading up to the stage.
They say a man's got to do what a man's got to do,
but what does a man do when he hasn't got a clue?
When there are no thoughts in his brain left to choose,
when he's lost it all and yet there's more to lose.
He's a prisoner to depression and all its dark forces,
cornered with one card and it requires endurance,
survive and get lucky or die of natural causes,
avoid the actions of suicide are of the most importance.
Sometimes all you can do is survive,
and hope for the day of the changed tide,
sometimes all you can do is survive,
it's a certain death if you move so just hide.
The weeks pass by with the outlook bleak,
everyday he weakens, he feels completely beaten,
the adult with special needs that no curriculum can teach,
sinking deeper into his own mind in an act of retreat.
Lonely with only his own thoughts reality's out of reach,
dehydrated, yet he weeps to himself letting tears leak,
each drop releases anguish this reality's no beach,
drops his head in his hands where there's no light to seek.
Continuously sinking into a reluctant isolation,
he wonders why to give a with no reason to care,
thankful for his loneliness because it hides humiliation,
staying in his hiding because no options appear.
Staying still for now thinking it's safe right here
but all the while his thinking clarity disappears,
driven to numbness in a world that knows no fear,
a far distance from pleasure and all is unclear.
An empire built on trade but via horrible ways,
don’t be naive to behaviour towards the native by the far traveled sailors
on a quest for riches to bring home and pitch from the waters farthest reaches,
after invasion forces force a fear showing the strength of the superior now here taking the land for the empire
making outstanding impressions
to scare and inspire
they start with infrastructure
implement systems
teach language
for communications
establishing the colony with buildings of Europe
these unknown unseen structures creating awe as they go up
they bring too knowledge and skills,
far advanced leaving intrigued locals thrills,
bringing industrialisation
from its mother nation forming repair stations for ships
seeing locals trained advancing toward the rich
but the majority not a priority
little profit for them
finding anger which moves them to rebellion
in this otherwise stable creation
but with less the rebellion easily supressed
a signal of who rules unstoppable
cus metal beats sticks
and knowledge known beats stones
white controls your home in your city now grown
with organisational tricks better than your own,
the economy improves in this place now connected with the globe
and though for the native man the British have an offering
there’s not enough to offer him
but white offices appear beyond a dream
painting Britain to be a heavenly scene
both clever and rich
but step out of line and evil hits,
and though they bring more and have an advancing on show
locals want this unwelcomed power to go