Long Syndromes Poems
Long Syndromes Poems. Below are the most popular long Syndromes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Syndromes poems by poem length and keyword.
RUSSIA - UKRAINE
Russia invades Ukraine showing power.
No way, but to defend! War to start.
Tanks entering,.bomb blasting in shower.
Other nations are becoming alert.
Who will stay neutral or strength to exert.
Peace of World or piece of land to conquer.
Russia- Ukraine conflict where to anchor!?
When and where to find out the syndromes!
For cease of war will both countries concur?
" COVID" ! NATO - USA fight from home.
03/08/22
NA
' Kyiv' Contest
by Kai Michael Neumann
Your Second Chance 2nd Submission
By Soto Poet
Inspired…
It feels good to me,
To be alive in oneself, to be set in actuality.
Free from worldly expectations and corporational thoughts,
Able to set goals for oneself, let loose from wrought.
Distraught, and set into motion by the world’s needs,
Told how to live one’s life through social media and news feeds.
Agreed fear of change when change is the preset,
To reset, everything our parents raised us to become.
To change us into a social class clone.
Indifferent, numb...
Overcome, Victory!
It lives again, in every man’s heart,
To revive what has been torn apart.
Like water, rushing to bring alive the right,
Insight to be more than staying up on these sleepless nights.
Enslaved to an addiction, with emptiness as chains,
Explained by syndromes, fancy medical conditions.
Convictions no longer ashamed of the change of the reanimation of his title.
Idle regurgitation of all the foul slang and the hate and the pain.
No longer conformed but transformed by his Name.
To be set free, to be…
Me.
Propellent syndromes rotating with energetic drum
the winds of time begin to churn your soul begins to hum;
Through the portal of time you go regressing, progressing
forever moving forwards, you are a tiny little string;
Dangling at the edge of time, waiting for the big rebirth
with the sun, moon and stars hung around your girth,
you slowly decline at the doorway of heaven's nook
and enter mothers womb as she delivers you with shook;
Ferris wheel cries cracking the silence of dusks headdress
the dawn is a blush of bruises but the eyes, oh! the eyes
they are two luminous stars of love, here is no surprise
the old soul has done it again, thundering back in, mortal
as you once were. Immune to taste, sight, and smell,
a propelling syndrome rotating with energetic drum,
the winds of time has brought you back, now hum.
June 7, 2021
Vindication by arguments of choice,
controlled egos justification by voice.
Behaving that provide a power decision,
circumstance to create false vision.
Presumed facts to align justification,
politics and its pathetic sensation.
Inferior reasons crying for an acknowledged act,
attention seeking become an criminal fact.
The names of the desperate decorating every corner,
for the state of justified great job mourner.
The accounted right of just, free from guilt,
the act of the state in the name of God to be killed.
Justification of human rights in wicked hands,
perjuries and its titled legacies in demands.
Fanatic delusion from colorful comic books,
not justified hero syndromes in tragic pain as it looks.
Impossibilities and its boundary limitation,
the human mind in dark consideration.
Responsibilities by conscious action,
are worth more than any justified distraction.
when you're forgotten
memories move too far from you
wishes run through tomorrow's well
widows search the depths for hell
she screams her tangerines
shouting out decimals
ice-cream and scenes of before
watching movies and more
more and more
you hang your head
but I hope you never cry
or realize
what you never had
this is what it feels like
to miss a lie
when you're forgotten
memories move too far from you
living with shadows here and there
hidden by splits in city walls
holding on to me,
myself and no one else
when your secrets expire
I hope you find your peace
more and more
you hang your head
I hope you never cry
or realize
what you never had
this is what it's like
to miss a lie
drive the membranes of your passion
into sparrows singing sane
live within the burrows singing doubt
replaying syndromes next to tones
is it everything you thought it would be
"this reminds me of why i do not think of you"
Time's Birthday
by Odin Roark
How daunting it must be
Choosing a celebratory date
Invention adrift
Save the blue veined appendages
Holding firm the drift of time
Like a floating surreal image
Making its way up 5th Avenue
On Thanksgiving Day
How buoyant Time
Yet arguably ungrounded
Measuring not how life will continue
But only how existence has passed
Each year
Month
Week
Day
Hour
Minute
And second
An ancestral funeral
Survived only by tomorrow's unknown
A system invented to archive
Circuitous syndromes
Man-made phobias
Moment by moment reality
Representing synchronous movement
Rhythmically evaporating into
The ethereal collaborative
The indeterminate character of eternity
The immeasurable
Unfathomable
Moment that is now
No wind-up needed
Still Time insists on benchmarks
Symbolic definitions
The behind and ahead of calendars
Noted by way of bell-ringing
Clock-chiming
Sun rising and setting
Unlike us
Time's validation
Knows not culinary vices
Ice cream and cake
Champagne and caviar
And those other accouterments
Hauled out to attest
Our superior intellect
Noisemakers and confetti
As a child I loved to have mother gently rub my hair,
and head;
eyes closed I would allow her soft hands
to carry me away into an’ other mothers’ arms.
That never happened.
I mean the mother thing, and that other mother
turned out to be mainly just a lipstick smeared cloud.
Now I am bald,
and that other mother, whom I never met,
she who gave hand jobs to the marines;
I might have liked her,
in a weird Oedipus Rex sort of way.
I bet her hands were professionally skillful.
The mother who had no motherly impulse
to rub my head, is also bald and dead.
Sometimes I imagine rubbing her skull, until it sings
like a Tibetan singing bowl.
It sings to me now
of faraway mothers and their loving hands;
hands that like magicians’ doves
brush my invisible hair
somewhere in the never-never.